Peter m leschak biography channel

by Peter M. Leschak

Peter M. Leschak is an author and wildland firefighter with the Minnesota DNR Division of Forestry, and chief of the Town of French Fire Department and EMS in Side Lake, Minn.

I awoke two hours before dawn. Didn't know why. Perhaps the cat jumped off the bed, or maybe a birch tree cracked in the subzero weather outside.

Ghosts of the Fireground : Echoes of the Great Peshtigo Fire ...: And, of course, everything had been changed in midflight. If you are doing helitech ph , that is, working with helicopters, or if you are with an engine crew using fire engines that would be fairly familiar to city dwellers, or whether you're on a hand crew, which I do quite often, it's a person crew, and you go into the fire, hike in or flown in via helicopter with hand tools, shovels, an axe-like tool called a Pulaski ph , and basically dig. I mean, it gave me a lot of stories to tell, and it filled up my brain in a way that I really enjoyed. And he's sort of going on, and then all of a sudden, he's, like, "Whoa.

I squinted at the red numerals of the digital clock on the dresser: a.m. The bed is beneath a west-facing second-floor window, and I lethargically craned my neck to look out at the stars.

The sky was writhing with pulsating sheets of light. I hoisted up on an elbow and pressed my face to the cold glass. The aurora was tinged with pale green and faint rose, and this tempestuous display was the first of the new year.

I slumped back into the pillow and sighed.

Peter m leschak biography channel 7 Later, fingers cramping, I'll address and stamp the envelopes, to be mailed in late October. They -- you know, you could have convulsions or things like that, and I just thought it was -- it was too daunting. The book is now out in paperback. My left foot is on a tire, the right hanging out over the farmland of southeast Oklahoma, 3, feet below.

I hadn't gone to bed until after midnight. I could feel the seduction of weariness at the back of my head. It would be so easy and congenial to snuggle into the warm folds of the goose down comforter and slip back into dreams. I heard a whistle of wind in the cedar shakes and felt a sharp draft brush my forehead. A wind chill factor of 55 degrees below zero was forecast for the overnight.

I lay still for a moment then looked out again. Castor and Pollux, the bright twins in the constellation of Gemini, were poised just above the tree line, twinkling through the auroral blaze, and I understood that with such dynamic loveliness manifest in the sky, I would not cling to my safe cocoon.

I sighed again and rolled out of bed.

I reached for the bedside lamp, but reconsidered. My eyes were fully dark-adapted, and electric light would shatter their sensitivity.

Peter m leschak biography channel youtube Then, battling the big ones. It's all material. The "This is ridiculous" happened long before the "I can't go on with my life. As Leschak wrote in Ghosts of the Fireground: "Wildlife firefighting is a path to pain and not to a fat stock portfolio.

No sense doing that if I was venturing out to gaze at the night sky. I dressed in the dark, then slowly groped my way downstairs and bumped into the kitchen stove. I found a flashlight, and shielding the beam to preserve my vision, I checked the outdoor digital thermometer. It read degrees below. I fumbled into boots and parka at the back door, and heard Max rise from his rug and shake sleep from his head.

"So," I said to the darkness, "even dogs aren't smart enough to stay inside on a January night."

His tail thumped against my leg.

Peter m leschak biography channel Leschak writes. Since white settlement, we have upped that to every 2, years. Emily Colas is a single mother of two living in Ann Arbor, Michigan. We're entertainers as well as reporters and teachers, and if we wish to reach others, we must be willing to offer a piece of ourselves.

He was already at the door.

"OK, buddy. You asked for it."

The frigid wind was a smack in the face. I flipped up the parka hood and walked out to the plowed area in front of the garage. Max trotted off down the driveway — to pee, I supposed.

The curtains and rays of the northern lights painted the entire sky.

In summer I would've stretched out on the picnic table, but it was stowed for the season. I lay in the driveway, face up to the wild show.

The rim of my circle of vision was framed by treetops — a mix of stark, naked aspen limbs and snow-laden spires of fir. The Big Dipper and the bright star Arcturus highlighted the field, and I stared at the throbbing heart of the aurora.

All the leaping rays and sheets focused to a seething cauldron at the zenith, like a luminous wound in the heavens. The tempo was quick, furious, and mesmerizing.

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Ghosts of the Fireground: Echoes of the Great Peshtigo Fire ...

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I lay there for several minutes — the goose down forgotten — inspirited by that shimmering breath of the northern world.

Suddenly a black form obscured the sky. Max shoved his wet nose into my face.

"OK, OK." I realized my back was cold. I rose to my feet and Max bolted for the door of the cabin.

"No," I said.

"Lake!" He hesitated for a moment, but he knows that I know that he knows that command, and he sprinted down the trail to Secret Lake. Humans must be humored. I wanted to view the display from the expanse of the ice, and I tailed him down to the shore.

The wind was brutal out in the open, and I protected my face with a glove.

The horizons were wide and the aurora cast a vibrating dome over all, filtering the constellations. The sky was stage for a celestial dance of light. Magnificent. But the cold was a merciless lash.

Peter m leschak biography channel 6 View our Privacy Policy. Beyond the forest canopy the rays looked like the snapping flames of a crown fire. So instead of dealing with that sort of intimacy, I sort of spun off on the worries. I mean, there were other things that happened.

After a minute or so I turned back into the woods. Beyond the forest canopy the rays looked like the snapping flames of a crown fire.

Max pushed past me and rushed back up to the cabin. He was waiting by the door when I arrived, a freezing front paw raised in the air. He beat me through the door. I laughed.

"I know, Max, I know.

But we have to seize these moments."

He was curled on the rug next to the woodstove and ignored me.

Never mind. I knew I was right.

Peter M. Leschak's books include "Letters from Side Lake" and "Ghosts of the Fireground." This piece is excerpted from his latest, "In the Captain's House."