The clay springs renegades: when the Rodeo-Chediski fire threatened to destroy clay springs, Arizona, the town's heroic residents battled nature and bureaucracy to save their homes. (Cultural Currents).

Clay Springs is a small Arizona community with dirt streets, a general store, and, according to the July 14th Arizona Republic, a volunteer fire department that "comes second only to the local Mormon church as the glue that holds the community together."

On June 18th, the huge Rodeo-hediski fire (the largest in state history) ignited. It would eventually burn over 460,000 acres of forest land and destroy more than 450 homes. On June 20th, as the fire approached Clay Springs, federal fire officials deemed the situation so dangerous, and destruction of the town so certain, that they ordered residents to abandon heir efforts to save homes and other structures.

The order immediately sparked a bitter dispute between the feds and individuals anxious to try to save their homes. According to Republic reporter Tom Zoellner, "Several heated arguments and near-fistfights with federal officials failed to change their minds." More than two dozen local members of the Pinedale-Clay Springs Volunteer Fire Department disobeyed federal fire commanders by circumventing Department of Public Safety roadblocks and fighting the flames with bulldozers, chainsaws, and hoses.

That night, a frustrated federal operations chief briefed his colleagues about the perplexing political problem, saying (as quoted by Zoellner) that "the people in Clay Springs are fighting the fire in T-shirts and tennis shoes. We're trying to rein them in. They're trying to run a dozer line up there. They're running chainsaws in the dark without headlamps."

That latter offense presumably violated an OSHA regulation or some other federal safety stricture.

Freelance Firefighting 

John Lovingwood was among those who slipped past the police barricade. Though not a firefighter, he was deputized on the spot, used equipment borrowed from his employer, and worked through the night to construct firebreaks. "They told us to leave and let our homes burn," he told the Republic. "We told them we were going to stay and fight."

The "Clay Springs Renegades," as the initial contingent of 26 volunteer firefighters became known, plowed a few miles of "unauthorized firebreaks through National Forest land, deputizing anybody in town who knew how to use heavy equipment." By the time the fire was contained, "only three houses had been lost in Clay Springs. Nobody was injured."

For many observers, Zoellner noted, the incident was not merely a firefight, but "a classic rural Western story.... The successful wildcat effort seemed to highlight the strength and ingenuity of the American commoner against the forces of nature and bureaucracy." It "emerged out of an Arizona frontier culture that prizes local initiative and has long viewed federal land management policies with suspicion."

The frustrated feds were less than enthused about this challenge to their authority. Roy Hall, operations chief for the Southwest Incident Management Team (the federal task force assigned to fight the fire), declared, "In an emergency situation, it can't be a democracy. Somebody's got to be in charge. And true heroism comes through standing together. This little community tried to maintain its identity to a fault, to a detriment."

Needless to say, residents of the "little community" disagreed. Construction equipment operator Coman Garvin, one of two Fire Department captains, emerged as unofficial leader of the "renegades" during the crisis. He told the Republic, "I'm sure we did everything against their rules, but our homes are safe." Though his formal firefighting education consisted of a threeday community college course, he (with assistance from neighbors) helped plow a 50-foot swath through the trees with a borrowed bulldozer. "He worked through the night," Zoellner reported, "fueled by adrenaline and Coca-Cola." (Garvin emphasized to THE NEW AMERICAN that he actually consumed Dr. Pepper, not Coke.)

Since the firebreak he helped to create is on national forest property, Garvin initially speculated that some sort of action might be taken against him. He insisted, however, that he was morally (if not legally) justified in doing what he could to help save the homes of his neighbors, as well as his own. "I'm going to take full responsibility for anything that was done," he told the Republic. "If I get thrown in jail, I'm still going to think I did the right thing." He told THE NEW AMERICAN, "I learned a lot from this fire. I think our town's a little more prepared if we ever have to go through it again. We know that [federal] forestry is not going to help us, so we know that we've go to get out there and do something about it." He also praised the efforts of numerous Good Samaritans from surrounding communities who "did what they could to help us while the fire was going. We had grocery stores donate food, fast-food restaurants bring us food, gas stations furnish fuel, neighbors take in those who were evacua ted. It was really neat how everything went together."

Sid Howard, chief of the volunteer fire department, also made no apologies, despite claims by federal officials that the "rebels" had engaged in dangerous, irresponsible "freelancing," meaning that they fought the fire outside a command structure that had decided, in their case, not to fight it. "I can do whatever I have to [to] protect my fire district," he insisted. "That's what the laws of the state of Arizona say."

Both Flames and Feds Put Out

Once the smoke cleared (both literally and figuratively), federal officials decided not to file any charges against the feisty volunteers. Any action, they announced, would have to be instigated by local authorities. And Navajo County sheriff's office Commander Larry Dunagan told the Republic that no charges would be pressed for running the roadblock, since "even if they snuck back in, the violation of the law is a moot point as long as they were assisting the fire department."

So the "Clay Springs Renegades" (and their "accomplices") appear to be home free, in homes where most can rejoice after fighting both the fire and the feds.