We wake up before the sunrise, Throw our packs across our backs, Sixteen miles of misery Just to find another stack. Chainsaws screaming through the timber, Chingadera in the dirt, By the time we see the fireline, Everything already hurts. We don't need a fancy airplane, We don't need a parachute, Give us boots and give us saws, We'll find a way right through. We're the ones who hike the ridges, We're the ones who dig the line, We're the ones who keep on working When the fire refuses to decline. **We're hotshots— We don't fall out of the sky. We just walk into the fire And wonder why. We eat smoke for breakfast, Sweat gasoline by noon, And if there's still a mountain standing, We'll probably climb that one too.** Then here come the smokejumpers, With their sunglasses and their grin, Talking like they personally Invented dropping in. They've got parachutes and swagger, And a story for each scar, "Yeah, we landed in the middle of hell." "Congratulations, boys. We hiked here." **Oh, the jumpers think they're heroes, And the hotshots think they're tough. The jumpers say, "We came from heaven." The shots say, "That ain't far enough." One comes falling from the heavens, One comes crawling up the hill— But when the fire starts getting ugly, Everybody earns the same damn bill.** The jumper's got his fire boots, His chute packed nice and tight, He'll tell you how he flew through smoke Like some airborne knight. Meanwhile we're down in drainage, With the ash inside our eyes, Wondering if the Forest Service Has forgotten we exist. They say, "You guys are crazy." We say, "Yeah, we know." They say, "We jump out of airplanes." We say, "That's cute. We walk." **Hotshot life ain't glamorous. There's no glory in the heat. It's long days, little sleep, And blisters underneath your feet. You learn the names of every tool, Every ridge and every tree, And you learn that sixteen hours Is apparently "overtime-free."** But here's the thing about the fireline That neither side can hide: When that column starts building And the wind begins to turn, When the crown fire starts exploding And the black begins to burn, The jumper grabs his shelter, The hotshot grabs his crew, And suddenly that cocky little argument Doesn't matter like it used to. Because fire doesn't care Who jumped or who walked. It doesn't care whose crew boss Talked the loudest on the clock. It doesn't care about your title, Your reputation, or your fame. It just asks one simple question: **"Can you do the job when I call your name?"** So raise a beer for the smokejumpers, Let them brag about the sky. Let them tell us all about the time They nearly learned to fly. We'll listen with a grin And let them have their little throne. Then tomorrow morning, We'll be hiking back in— **on our own.** Because we're hotshots. We're ground beneath the fire. We're sweat beneath the smoke. We're tired men with tired feet Who somehow never broke. And when the mountain starts to burn And the whole horizon glows, The jumpers might fall from heaven— **but the hotshots climb from below.**
