Check Your Assumptions at the Door, Please
The story is told by Norman MacLean in his posthumously published book Young Men and Fire. On the fifth of August in 1949, fifteen young Forest Service smokejumpers landed at a fire in remote Mann Gulch, Montana. It was supposed to be a “ten o’clock fire” — a fire that would be out by ten o’clock on the morning after the élite squad arrived. It wasn’t. Within an hour, thirteen of them were dead or fatally burned.
They didn’t die because the fire was too hot or too difficult to contain. They didn’t die because of a lack of leadership or a lack of courage. They didn’t die because they were lazy or stupid or unwilling to help each other. They died because they had been trained to deal with fires in one way and one way only, and couldn’t stop thinking of firefighting that way — not even to save their own lives.
This was a grass fire, a fire that burns hotter and faster than the forest fires to which the smokejumpers were accustomed. Suddenly cut off from their escape route, the men had only one option: to outrun a fire moving at seven miles an hour up a 76 percent incline, carrying gear they had been trained never to drop, in heat they had never before experienced.
One person didn’t die and wasn’t burned. His name was Wag Dodge, and he was the crew foreman.
He didn’t die for one reason: he discarded what he thought he “knew” about fighting fires, and he thought of something new. He dropped his heavy gear and set fire to the grass directly in front of him. The new fire spread rapidly uphill and he stepped into the burned area — now a safe zone. He called to the others to join him. They didn’t — and most of them died because of it. (Building an “escape fire” such as the one Wag Dodge improvised at Mann Gulch has now become part of the repertoire of all smokejumpers.)
One of the pieces of equipment keeping the men from running fast enough, the piece they had been trained never to drop, was a combination axe and pick called a Pulaski.
A Pulaski is very useful in a forest fire and completely useless in a grass fire; but it didn’t occur to anyone to drop their Pulaskis in their race against death.
For those of you who thought I’d never get around to writing, breathe a sigh of relief: there is a point to all of this. All of us carry our own Pulaskis; all of us “know” the right way to write, to market our work. But most of us learned to write in a world that doesn’t exist anymore: we had to have, because the world is changing so rapidly. We were trained on forest fires and we’re dealing with grass fires here.
Is it really a good idea to keep carrying a Pulaski?
We “know” certain things about writing just as the smokejumpers “knew” how to deal with fire. We have training. We have experience. Some of us even consider ourselves among the élite in our own niches. But new technology is changing the Internet and the world so rapidly that sometimes it only takes a few months for what we “know” to become obsolete. And then what do we do? What will it take for us to drop our Pulaskis?
History is filled with examples of a better technology vanquishing a less-evolved one. But part of using any new technology is realizing that the old values don’t hold: that assumptions we made based on our experience with one technology do not necessarily translate into the new one. Along with Wag Dodge, we have to think of something new.
Do you have any Pulaskis you can drop… now? You’ll be beyond the elements of style!
Posted in About Writing, Doing the Right Thing, Frustration, Technology, The Cutting Edge, The Writing Life on August 20th, 2007