I鈥檝e never seen a wall of fire like the one on the ridge in front of me, and听our strike team of five brush trucks is driving right toward it. I鈥檓 in the truck at the front of the line, and my lieutenant tells me to grab听the nozzle from the hose reel and climb on top of our vehicle. I put听water on the fire as we slowly drive forward, with just a wet bandana wrapped around my mouth to protect my lungs from the thick smoke.

Just over the fire line, I see another wall of fire barreling toward us. There isn鈥檛 much time to react, so I climb down and rush to the roadside as the two fronts merge into one. A wave of fire crests over my head and around me on all sides. The wind howls and pushes the water back at me. I choke on the thick smoke and heat, my eyes burning with black tears. My hose stream can鈥檛 compete; I鈥檓 nearly engulfed by fire. Just as I feel it overcoming me, it burns its fuel of sagebrush and grass and dampens just enough for me to beat it into submission. We fight all night.

The next day we gather at a viewpoint above the Grand Coulee Dam, in central Washington on the Columbia River, just below the plateau where the fire had been the night before. The two other Seattle-based firefighters and I wait for the rest of our strike team, comprised of听firefighters from all across Washington State. We laugh about how close to death we were last night, trying to shake off the stress. 鈥淵ou鈥檝e got real grit,鈥� my officer says warmly, a stark change from his usual gruff demeanor. 鈥淚 want you to know that if anything comes up while we鈥檙e out here, we鈥檝e got your back.鈥�

He鈥檚 referring to the fact that I鈥檓 openly gay. My whole department knows back home, and I鈥檝e been wondering how this would come up while we鈥檙e out here. 鈥淵eah, we have your back, Lance,鈥� the other firefighter says. I assume he鈥檚 referring to if there鈥檚 a fight. When I was in the Navy in the late 2000s,听this would happen occasionally鈥攕ome random guy would take offense to my sexuality and threaten violence. Their spoken support is profound to me and makes me feel like I鈥檓 part of a team out here. In places like this, you can鈥檛 afford to be on your own.听

The rest of the strike team makes it to the overlook. A brash young firefighter takes a serious turn to tell a story about how some locals near Colville, Washington, pulled automatic rifles on a group of firefighters and forced them off their land. The story reminds me of my own time near Colville.

Deep in the Colville National Forest, not too far from the Washington-Canada border, my team and I fought the 听in August 2016. We鈥檇 been covered in soot and dirt for days. I鈥檇 been put in charge of the pump at the local creek, to fill up the water tenders as needed.听As I sat by the creek and scribbled some poetry into my notebook, two local men stopped by to chat. They asked me where I was from, and when I told them Seattle, their tone became oppositional. 鈥淭hose damn liberals and their big government,鈥� one said.

It was clear: I had to tread carefully. I was alone, my crew miles away, and even though I had a radio and could call for help, it wouldn鈥檛 have come for a long while. It felt like I was across enemy lines听by myself. I looked for a point of connection, and when they brought up the topic of guns, I told them that I had been a gunner in the Navy. This appeased them; they shared their respect for our armed forces.

Back at the dam, the brash young guy says those men who pulled the rifles on the firefighters are now in prison. I wonder: If I had been open and honest about who I was to those two guys in Colville, would they have run me off with rifles? For some of us, a potential danger of the outdoors is simply听being open about who we are.

Since I was a kid, I鈥檝e wanted to go off into the unknown and explore. And I wanted to find people to model myself after.听But I couldn鈥檛听find any openly gay guys I could look up to.听Without someone charting the way, I began to think,听Were the great outdoors a place for me? Would I be safe being a visibly out adventurer?听

When I was in the Navy during 鈥淒on鈥檛 Ask, Don鈥檛 Tell,鈥� the only stories I heard about other openly gay people were cautionary tales about the dangers of being open, the price听of being truthful. When I began my firefighting career, it was much the same: the only stories听I could find about openly gay people in this field were stories to beware of, inferring how being open could cost you your career. When I started backpacking and climbing, I was happy not to hear so much about the dangers of being gay, but I still couldn鈥檛 find any openly gay climbers to learn from.

While I鈥檝e always wanted mentors and role models, I鈥檝e had to do without them. I鈥檝e had to be creative and hopeful in my adventuring, always on the lookout for others like me, always eager to share what I鈥檝e learned. Together we鈥檙e mapping out what听adventurous lives like ours can look like.

It鈥檚 a scorching 90 degrees, there鈥檚 no wind, and the sun鈥檚 glare off the snow is intense. It鈥檚 mid-July 2018 and I鈥檓 with my friend in the , in a marmot kingdom, which turns out to be a hazard. They chew on gear that we don鈥檛 keep an eye on. As we sit around the creek, filtering water for our midnight attempt of Glacier Peak, my tentmate makes a comment from out of nowhere: 鈥淚 can鈥檛 believe you never told me that you鈥檙e gay.鈥� There is real emotion in his voice, but I can鈥檛 place if it鈥檚 anger or hurt.

We鈥檇 become fast friends the year before, climbing the steep chimney of Mount听Shuksan. We both had competing, hearty laughs. He was from the Midwest and didn鈥檛 grow up with access to grand mountain vistas like those of my childhood in the Pacific Northwest. But our greatest connection came from our mutual wonder of the mountain ranges we traversed. We would sit together with mouths agape, singing their praises.

His jokes often crossed听the line听of political correctness; he got in trouble during our mountaineering course for a comment听that equated female climbers with sewing circles. His political leanings seemed听very different from mine, so I steered clear of any conversation involving them, including my personal life. Even though we had climbed a handful of mountains together, we hadn鈥檛 had 鈥渢he talk.鈥� Over the winter, he had learned through social media that I鈥檓 gay.

As we sit around the creek with a looming Glacier Peak behind us, I do my best to minimize the importance of his revelation, saying, 鈥淣ow you know.鈥� My laugh isn鈥檛 the usual hearty heave, it鈥檚听more timid, but it gets the job done, and we change the subject. However,听over the course of the next day, he brings it up again and again, dropping the topic into casual conversation and doing his best to get me to open up about it.

Finally, I can鈥檛 deflect anymore, so on the summit of Glacier Peak, in a sea of Cascade mountaintops, I tell him I had a terrible breakup last year and didn鈥檛 want to talk about it. It wasn鈥檛 that I was hiding anything from him. 鈥淏ut you鈥檙e my tent partner. I just thought that I should know the guy I鈥檓 sleeping next to is gay,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 mean, you鈥檙e my first gay friend. Actually, you鈥檙e the first gay guy I鈥檝e ever met.鈥� I realize that coming out to someone isn鈥檛 just a process for myself鈥攊t鈥檚 a process for who I come out to as well.

To manage the dangers of being openly gay in the outdoors, we look for signals from the people we adventure with. A gay slur or an off-color joke can be a sign that the ground isn鈥檛 stable beneath our feet听and that we should tread carefully in such a person鈥檚 presence. While my tentmate听proved to be open-minded and we became even closer after that conversation, I still look for those signs with new acquaintances.

There are other times where coming out isn鈥檛 a conversation you have, it鈥檚 simply being outside with the one you love.

My boyfriend and I take our first backpacking trip together, at听North Cascade National Park鈥檚 Fourth of July Pass,听on Fourth of July weekend 2018. On our hike, we run into a man who is openly carrying a holstered听nine-millimeter听gun听on his right hip. I strike up a conversation, and his nervous energy is palpable as he explains he鈥檚 from the East Coast and his weapon听is to protect him from the bears and wolves he鈥檚 heard roam these parts.

When we make it to the ridge, we find the most secluded site we can and set up camp. The bugs are in full force on this 84-degree day, so we take reprieve under the netted fortress of my tent. The northeast face of Johannesburg Mountain feels like it鈥檚 right next to us听as we make out.

A man walks up to our campsite and appears shaken to have witnessed two men kissing. He stumbles over his words: 鈥淲here is the stream?鈥� Is he angry? I can鈥檛 see his face through the tent, but I can see his legs, and I feel a flush of concern as I remember the man with the gun. I quickly canvas his hips and feel relieved鈥攊t鈥檚 not the same man, and he has no gun.

For openly gay people outside, there鈥檚 always that unknown part of the equation. What happens when something rare is made visible?

Being openly gay in the great outdoors has at times made me feel more like a foreign tourist in our American wilderness than a citizen. And a few times it鈥檚 felt dangerous.

But it also makes me feel that spirit of adventure: I get the chance do something that might not have been done before听or simply become one visible representation of nature鈥檚 vivid diversity. For so long I wanted to see an openly gay man who fights wildfires, stands on the听top of mythic peaks, and treks through forests听so that I鈥檇 believe I could do the same. Now, I鈥檝e seen that man鈥擨鈥檝e become him. And I鈥檝e learned that when we see the wild ranges of our earth as our own, we care more about them and desire to protect them.

And if I weren鈥檛 comfortable being openly gay in the great outdoors, then the most beautiful day of my life would never have happened. After a bluebird day snowboarding in the French Alps in December, my boyfriend told me there was something he wanted to show me. He took me down a steep trail and over a bridge with views of Mont Blanc, into a grove of larches, where a scene of lanterns and lighted听letters听spelled out 鈥媡he name our favorite song, 鈥淭his Is It,鈥� by Scotty McCreery. He asked me, 鈥淲ill you live a great story with me?鈥�

I joined him on one knee as photographers and families with laughing children at a nearby playground looked on. There, under an Alpine听sunset, my fianc茅 and I kissed and shared the most incredible moment of our lives in the place we love the most鈥攏ature.

The post 国产吃瓜黑料s of an Openly Gay Outdoorsman appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.