A Personal Tragedy

I am the widow of Eric Marsh, superintendent of the Granite Mountain Interagency Hotshot Crew. Eric was one of 19 Granite Mountain Hotshots who lost their lives battling the Yarnell Hill Fire on June 30, 2013.

June 30 was a Sunday, a normal Sunday for me in the summer. I woke up alone in my house, drank coffee, fed our horses and dogs, and went to the health food store. Later I went to my favorite coffee shop and sat down outside with a cup of coffee.

The monsoon storms were in full swing, the wind wreaking havoc in the outside seating area. The twinkly lights that were strung between the trees were swinging wildly, leaves were scattering across the cement, and the baristas were rushing around, trying to close the large umbrellas that were only meant to provide shade. Rain was dropping in chaotic patterns, caught by the wind. I had no way of knowing until later that the same storm that was causing delightful havoc at the coffee house was causing the winds to shift dramatically in Yarnell, ultimately causing the Granite Mountain Hotshots to become trapped and burned over by fire.

I drove home, unaware that anything was out of the ordinary. I thought Eric would be home the next day because the crew was near the end of their rotation and the fire had been quite small. I went in the house, unpacked groceries and then went back outside to walk a horse around our property. This particular horse was named Honey, and she was a big paint horse that was staying in our barn until her hooves felt better. After I put Honey into her stall and walked back into my house, my cell phone rang. It was my friend Christie and she was panicked. I couldn't understand her. She worked in dispatch and she kept asking me if I had heard from Eric.                 

“The crew is missing, Crew 7 is missing!” She almost yelled into the phone, trying hard to communicate.                   

“What? I don't understand. Who?” I responded.

Crew 7 was the old name for the crew, but since they had achieved their Type 1 status, they had been known as Granite Mountain Hotshots. I hadn't heard “Crew 7” in such a long time that I didn't connect what she was trying to tell me.

“Granite Mountain and Eric are missing, no one can find them,” she said.

“They're missing? How can that be possible?”

“Have you heard from Eric?” she replied.

“Not since this morning. Let me call him.”

We hung up the phone, Christie promising to call me back when she got any information. I called Eric, but he didn't pick up. I tried again. I left a message, “Eric, call me as soon as you get this message. Call me!”

I called my mom. I was panicking. She told me not to worry until I found out more information. Christie called back, “The crew is missing and there has been a burn over,” she told me.

By now I was on my front porch. I threw my phone into the gravel and screamed as loud as I could. I fell onto the ground, not knowing what to do. I looked up and saw my neighbor running toward me from her home about a quarter-mile away. Thank God she was coming. I really needed help. I needed to find out where to go, who knew something. I needed to find my keys, change my clothes and pack an overnight bag for Eric.

As soon as my neighbor reached me, she started calling anyone she knew who would know something. She called Duane Steinbrink, Eric's former chief of the Wildland Division. He and his wife were on their way to my house to pick me up. I went inside and changed my clothes, I packed a bag for Eric, and grabbed his cowboy boots and his hat. Then I walked my neighbor out to the barn and showed her how to feed our horses and dogs. I wasn't sure if I would be home or not to feed in the morning. I didn't know where Eric was. If there had been a burn over, surely Eric wasn't burned because he was usually ahead of the crew, scouting. Why wasn't he calling me?

When Duane and his wife Marvel pulled into the driveway, I crawled into the backseat with Marvel and put my head on her lap. She stroked my hair as Duane drove, first toward Prescott High School, then toward the middle school. He was on the phone the entire drive, calling people, looking for information. He kept looking into the backseat, saying, “It doesn't look good.” He said it at least five times as we drove. I lay there, my tears pooling on Marvel's leg.

It was at Prescott Middle School where I found out that my husband had been burned over and killed and that 19 men were dead, with one survivor. It was there that this new reality began to take hold of my life. The reality where just that morning Eric and the crew were alive, they were happy, they were heading to a normal fire close to home, they would be home soon. That reality was over and a new reality was taking hold. The new reality where Eric was dead, and a bunch of men I adored were dead, too. The reality where Eric, Jesse, Clayton, Turby, Travy and Bob were no longer in the world. Men I knew, men I loved through Eric, men who had been a mainstay in my life through Eric for years, all gone. Their wives were now widows, and their children would grow up not knowing them.

I tried to go to all the funerals that took place in Prescott, but I could not. The emotional toll of burying all these men was devastating. Seeing the families, the crewmembers from years gone by, all the honor guard and firefighters from around the country, engines and American flags everywhere, all gathered to honor our 19. It was at once beautiful and heartbreaking, breathtaking and soul-crushing.

I wanted to die too, but I could not. There was too much to do, too many people who loved me gathering around me all the time. I was completely crushed. I once laid on top of Eric's grave, I wanted to feel him there. It felt like the wrong place to be, I slid over and laid on the side of his grave, my hand where I thought his head might be.