McCall

Let's recap a bit. When you marry a wildland firefighter, you quickly realize your life doesn’t follow a traditional script. Summers aren’t for vacations; they’re for watching smoke columns from a distance, tracking fire activity online, and counting the days since your last phone call. Dinners are for one and attending events solo is the norm. But in the chaos, you learn. You grow. You adapt.

1. Independence Isn’t Optional — It’s Essential

When your partner is on a two-week roll, hundreds of miles away with no cell service, everyday life doesn’t pause. The bills still need to be paid. Appliances still break. And it’s all on you.

At first, that independence can feel overwhelming. You might feel isolated or even resentful. But with time, you realize: you’re stronger than you ever thought. You start to take pride in what you can handle on your own, even when it’s not easy.

2. Time Together Is a Treasure

Fire season teaches you that time is precious. You stop taking the little things for granted — morning coffee, shared meals, even just having someone on the other side of the bed.

You become more present, more intentional. You learn to stop scrolling and start soaking in the moments. Every visit, every laugh, every hug feels like gold.

3. You Learn to Speak Without Words

Communication during fire season is sporadic at best. Sometimes it’s a quick text, sometimes it’s radio silence for days. And when they do call, it might be for 30 seconds before the signal drops.

So you learn to say “I love you” in new ways: through postcards, shared photo albums, or just showing up every day and keeping the home fires burning.

4. The Fear Never Really Leaves — But It Teaches You Trust

There’s a part of your mind that always worries. What if the fire shifts? What if they’re on the line too long? What if the call never comes?

And still… you learn to trust. In their training. In their team. In their instinct. You hold your breath, say a prayer, and keep going. You don’t stop worrying — but you stop letting it steal your peace.

5. Coming Home Is Its Own Kind of Work

People often think the hardest part is when they’re gone. But reintegration can be just as tough.

They come home exhausted — mentally, physically, emotionally. You’ve been holding it all down solo. The rhythm you had shifts again. It’s a recalibration, every time.

The key? Grace. For them and for yourself. Talk openly. Reconnect slowly. Don’t expect things to “snap back.” You’re both different people after every season, and that’s okay.

Final Thoughts: A Love Forged in Fire

This life isn’t for the faint of heart, but it’s full of pride, purpose, and a love that runs deep. It teaches you to cherish what matters, to lean into the hard, and to stand strong even when the flames are high.

To every fellow fire spouse out there — I see you. I honor your strength. And I hope you remember: you are just as brave as the one out there on the line.

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Two and a half hours up a winding canyon road from Boise lies a little slice of Idaho heaven: McCall. It’s one of those places that feels like a secret—wrapped around a lake, hugged by towering pines, and crowned with snow-capped peaks. Oh, and did I mention the snow? Because there’s a lot of it.

If you're in the wildfire world, you start to notice a pattern. Bases tend to be tucked away in the most remote places. Gorgeous? Absolutely. But that also means housing can be tough to find, and you're often far from the comforts of civilization.

When we first landed in McCall, we lived out of an Airbnb for a month, crossing our fingers for something more permanent. Somehow, the stars aligned (or maybe we just got really lucky), and we landed a six-month rental. That first 2016 fire season was a total whirlwind. Josh was knee-deep in training and getting acquainted with his new crew, learning to rappel out of helicopters into wildfires while I was embracing the solo summer life, riding my bike all over town, checking out small breweries, digging into local food, and getting to know the vibe of our new mountain town.

Sure, I missed Josh when he was gone or unreachable, but there was also something kind of amazing about having the TV all to myself, letting the dogs take over our big bed, and getting used to the stillness. My best friend Kat, who had helped me move the year before, even flew out to visit and explore our new turf. And Josh, never one to miss a chance for an epic surprise, rented us an ATV for a day of adventure.

What followed? Pure chaos, in the best way.

“YOU’RE GOOD, JUST KEEP GOING!”

There we were, hurtling (well, sort of) down the highway in a growling, off-road ATV that was never really meant to touch pavement. I was gripping the oh-shit handle with one hand and frantically motioning forward with the other, yelling directions over the roar of the engine. Rocks clinked against the frame as Kat, white-knuckling the steering wheel, shouted back with a panicked, “Oooookaaaaay!!!”

The posted speed limit was 65 mph. We were lucky if our metal beast cracked 45 on a good stretch.

We had no business being on that road but how did we even get there?

Our day started out innocently enough. We’d rented the ATV in a neighboring town, planning to hit the trails and chase some epic views. But the guy at the rental place was about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine. No map, no tips, just “Good luck!”. So we winged it.

Eventually, we found ourselves on a skinny, overgrown trail that seemed promising until we started hearing gunshots echoing from the woods. That was our sign to make a quick U-turn (cue the full Austin Powers maneuver), and head back the way we came.

We were unfamiliar with the area, following a blurry screenshot of a map on my phone. That brilliant plan? It led us straight onto the interstate—the one major road connecting Boise to McCall. Full of speeding cars, blind curves, and absolutely zero space for a slow-moving ATV.

At one point, Kat asked me to check for cars behind us. I turned around to see a full line stacked up, waiting to pass. “Yes! There’s LOTS of cars!!” I shouted.

Finally, a gap opened in oncoming traffic, and cars began zooming past us, shaking our little ATV violently with every pass. Kat screamed. I laughed so hard I nearly peed the seat. We must’ve looked completely ridiculous, two girls on an off-roader trying to survive US-55 like it was a Mario Kart course. We were still 7 miles south of where we needed to be. No other option but to hold on tight.

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I felt I was navigating life as a wildland firefighter's spouse pretty well so far. I had grown accustomed to the nights alone, attending events solo, figuring out how to fix things around the house and mowing the lawn in the summers. My depression and anxiety was under control with medication and therapy. Sure, I had my moments, but for the most part I was swimming along pretty evenly.

Looking back, that first summer in McCall felt like a dream. It was packed with the chaos of moving and starting new jobs, but it also felt like the beginning of a new, exciting chapter for us. We were excited at the prospect of laying some solid roots for a while.

By November, fire season wrapped up as we bought a house just outside of town; an adorable red a-frame with natural wood interior. Just three days after moving in, life handed us the next adventure: we found out I was pregnant.