There are three certainties in wildland fire.
The assignment will get extended.
Someone will destroy a gas-station bathroom.
And eventually, somebody is going to ask:
"WHO THE FUCK TOOK MY PULASKI?"
Nobody knows.
Nobody ever knows.
You could have twelve firefighters standing in a perfect circle around the missing Pulaski and somehow every single one of them was last seen not touching it.
It's one of the great mysteries of the American West.
Bigfoot.
The Lost Dutchman's Mine.
And where the fuck your Pulaski went during mop-up.
Our story begins somewhere deep in the black.
The crew has been mopping up for approximately six years.
Everyone's dirty.
Everyone's hungry.
Nobody has said anything meaningful in at least forty-five minutes.
Then the silence breaks.
"Anybody seen my Pulaski?"
Nothing.
Ten people continue scraping dirt like they suddenly have very important shit to do.
The sawyer looks at the swamper.
The swamper looks at the EMT.
The EMT looks at the rookie.
And everybody looks at the rookie.
The rookie immediately realizes he's somehow become the prime suspect in a crime he didn't know had occurred.
"I didn't take it."
Nobody accused him.
Which somehow makes this worse.
The Pulaski owner begins retracing his steps.
He checks beside the engine.
Nothing.
Checks the stump.
Nothing.
Checks where everyone dropped their packs.
Nothing.
Then he asks the question again, only louder.
"SERIOUSLY. WHO GRABBED MY FUCKING PULASKI?"
Still nothing.
At this point, several crew members are carrying Pulaskis.
None of these are his Pulaski.
This is important.
To civilians, every Pulaski looks exactly the same.
Wood handle.
Metal head.
Dirt.
Pulaski.
But after enough time on a crew, firefighters develop the ability to identify their specific Pulaski with the same emotional certainty that parents identify their children.
"That's not mine."
Brother.
It is a piece of wood with metal attached to it.
But no.
Apparently his has a slightly darker handle, three pieces of orange tape, a chip near the bottom, and "just feels right."
We are now searching for Excalibur.
Naturally, attention returns to the rookie.
"Where's yours?"
The rookie proudly holds up a Pulaski.
Silence.
The owner stares at it.
The rookie looks at the Pulaski.
Then back at the owner.
Then back at the Pulaski.
You can physically watch the rookie's confidence leaving his body.
"…this one?"
The crew gathers.
Orange tape.
Dark handle.
Small chip near the bottom.
Ladies and gentlemen.
We have recovered the weapon.
The owner grabs it.
"That's mine."
The rookie looks genuinely devastated.
"But I've been using this all day."
Which raises an important question.
Where the fuck is the rookie's Pulaski?
We now have a second missing tool.
This is no longer petty theft.
We're looking at organized crime.
Everyone starts checking their tools.
One guy realizes he's holding somebody else's McLeod.
Another firefighter discovers two tools next to his pack despite remembering carrying only one.
Someone finds a mystery shovel.
Nobody claims it.
For approximately five minutes, the entire crew descends into a bizarre wildland-fire version of a swinger party.
"Whose is this?"
"Not mine."
"Try Tyler."
"Tyler's got mine."
"No, I've got Jake's."
"Then who has yours?"
"I thought you did."
"I have a Rhino."
"That's my Rhino."
"THEN WHOSE FUCKING MCLEOD IS THIS?"
Nobody knows.
We have completely lost accountability.
Not of personnel.
Of landscaping equipment.
Twenty-seven minutes into the investigation, the rookie's Pulaski is discovered.
It is leaning against a tree.
Approximately eleven feet from where everyone has been standing.
Nobody speaks.
The rookie walks over and picks it up.
The crew boss looks at him.
Looks at the Pulaski.
Looks back at him.
"You done?"
"Yes."
"Good."
And just like that, the largest multi-agency tool investigation since the invention of the combi is over.
No arrests were made.
No report was filed.
Lessons were allegedly learned.
The crew starts hiking back toward the buggy.
Everyone is exhausted.
The original Pulaski owner has his beloved tool over his shoulder.
Order has been restored.
Justice has prevailed.
Then, somewhere toward the back of the crew, a voice calls out:
"Yo."
Everyone keeps walking.
"Seriously."
Nobody turns around.
A pause.
Then:
"WHO THE FUCK TOOK MY WATER BOTTLE?"
And somewhere in the distance…
a raven laughs.
Tools disappear. Crews investigate. Rookies get blamed. It's tradition.