Martin Goldberg has been fighting fires all over California for more than half his life. Last week, he and his crew were at the Caldor Fire outside of Tahoe.as members of his firefighting crew cut and dragged away flammable pine branches and shrubbery while small fires smoldered along a forest highway near South Lake Tahoe, California, Martin Goldberg’s eyes began to water.
It was because he had started talking about his daughters, and his worry that his job is impacting their lives. It was because this is the second time his family had to flee their home from a raging wildfire while he stayed behind. And it was because, no matter what he does, he can’t stop their fear or protect them from devastation— and it breaks his heart.
Working in these conditions, when you’re sleep-deprived and running on adrenaline, it’s hard not to think about dying — how it would happen, if you’d be alone or if one of your colleagues might witness it or find you, and what that would do to them, to your loved ones, your kids. In 2013, Goldberg was leading a handcrew team, a crew that fights fires by building a line using tools, on a wildfire near Yarnell, Arizona, when his radio started crackling with frantic requests for help.
Being exposed to that level of devastation, trauma, danger, human suffering, and fatigue nearly year-round has been bringing many wildland firefighters to their breaking points. And although their macho, staunchly independent, “bury the feelings” culture is slowly shifting and softening, firefighters’ mental and emotional distress is still extremely difficult for many to talk about because it feels like a weakness, like they’re failing at their job.