Hot Load

“Here’s where you stand,” Robbie’s Grandfathers voice was tight. “Now pay attention.” Robbie had heard about hot loading smudge pots since he was young. Never thought he’d ever actually do it. He reveled in the flickering glow of the heaters, their muffled ‘puk-a-puk-a’ sound, and their sweet/acrid stink. He loved to hear a hundred pots all puttering at once, and their soft orange glow lighting the rows of trees in the darkness. But hot loading—pouring fuel directly into the burning tanks—scared him.

At thirteen years old it was Robbie’s second year on the crew. They’d gotten the call from Grandad that tonight’s freeze would be deep and long. His parents hadn’t heard the KFI fruit frost service report at 8 pm because they were at the Christmas Eve service at church. By the time Grandad caught them, it was 9 pm and already down to 36 degrees. His father and Robbie didn’t bother going to bed. By ten the wind machine fired up and they were lighting.

By four in the morning it was still only 24 degrees and Robbie been up all night. No napping because thermometers needed to be monitored, smudge pots tended constantly. He had just gotten back from his rounds recording temperatures from the raised boxes on the west side of the grove. The crew was warming briefly at a campfire when Grandad walked up with a thermos of hot coffee. As they drank, he told them they’d burned so much they were going to have to hot load. The freeze would last into the morning. Robbie wondered what he would end up doing during the hot load operation. His grandfather signaled him to join them.

By five am they’d loaded the 200 gallon slide-on tank on the back of the 1 ton pick-up with half gasoline, half fuel oil. One gravity fed hose on each side led to gas station type nozzles. Three of the crew walked on each side of the truck as it slowly moved up and down between trees, moving slowly enough that it didn’t have to stop. The first person would open the lower damper, exposing the burning fuel. The second would thrust the gas pump nozzle into the damper, squeeze the handle open, and fill the smudge pot while it was already fiercely burning. Letting the handle close when the pot was filled kept the fire from running back up the hose.

The third person would follow, closing the lid and adjusting the air intake to keep it burning at the correct flame height. Too much draft, and the pot would blow a 5 foot pillar of fire out the top and sometimes melting the stack. Too little, and the fire would go out, sending a cloud of smokey fumes out that could then ignite and explode. If you miss the hole when you hot loaded, the entire pot would erupt in fire.

After an hour it was Robbie’s turn on nozzle. The first pot terrified him, but he managed it. The next 10 not so much. After thirty or forty, there had only been a few mistakes, small fires easily put out, and he was keeping up with the crew. They smiled white teeth through blackened faces. He began to see it a choreographed dance, the smudge pots beckoning. Christmas dinner could wait. He was part of the crew, a rowdy hot-loader, a bringer of fire.