Editor’s Note: This story references mental health crises. For the suicide and Crisis Lifeline, dial 988.
On a Thursday morning earlier this summer, Jake Andersen didn’t go into the office. Up most of the previous night, he spent a few hours on his back porch trying to decompress. Clutching a cup of coffee and petting his 150-pound Swiss mountain dog named “Tug Boat,” Andersen donned his stress like the uniform draped over his shoulders each day; he’s used to the weight.
As the chief of the Aspen Fire Protection District, Andersen is used to crises. Wildland fires often top the list of his day-to-day concerns. But this summer, he’s also supporting staff through significant mental health challenges.
The night before, Andersen left a party early. Three wildland firefighters had recently died outside of Grand Junction in a burnover incident. Andersen had been working long hours to support his staff and the fallen firefighters’ families, participating in the honor watch, where firefighters stay with the deceased until they’ve been buried. He needed a minute.
“For whatever reason, it got to me a little bit last night,” he said. “I didn't want to influence or impact my friends and my family with my sorrow and sadness.”
But then, the phone rang. A local firefighter was in a crisis, so Andersen went back on the clock.
“I just feel really lucky and blessed that I could be there in that moment, and that it didn't turn out worse,” he said.
A survey from 2021 found wildland firefighters reported symptoms of depression, generalized anxiety disorder, PTSD, suicidal ideation, smokeless tobacco and heavy alcohol use at rates 2-10 times higher than the general public.
Aspen Fire is not immune to the trend. As incidents overlap, Andersen soldiers on.
“Have you seen Finding Nemo?” he asked, watching a group of kids playing across the street. “You know Dory? “You know, ‘Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.’”
To Andersen, firefighting is a call to service that comes with overwhelming sacrifice. But when he began volunteering as a firefighter at 17, it wasn’t for such honorable reasons. Growing up in New Castle, he described himself as a punk.
“My real reason was to do cool stuff and impress girls,” Andersen said, laughing. “There was nothing more noble than that.”
The gig launched him into a full-time career. In nearly thirty years, he has worked for seven local and federal agencies stationed in Colorado and Arizona, eventually landing a job with Aspen Fire in 2021. He was second-in-command until longtime Fire Chief Rick Balentine retired last year.
Since taking the helm, Andersen has made it his mission to fundamentally change how Aspen fights fires. Five years ago, his staff secured private investments to install AI-powered cameras, which can spot wildfires early and alert firefighters before they grow out of control. This year, he invested in new firefighting drones as well.
“I want to be a part of the solution,” he said, thinking about last month’s fatalities. “I don't ever want another firefighter to die on a mountain, right? If a machine can do this, that's actually better.”
Aspen Fire has secured private donations from local donors to buy these tools, allowing the agency to invest in new technology without spending taxpayer dollars. He hopes these financial resources, largely unique to Aspen, will allow his team to set an example for other communities in the Mountain West.
“We are not going to engineer our way out of this problem doing it the way we've always done it,” he said.
Despite these new ventures, the next few months will test Andersen and his team’s endurance as they try to protect homes and families. Colorado saw record-low snowpack and record-high temperatures this winter, making the state more susceptible to wildfires.
Ashley Dwight, a crisis clinician at the Aspen Hope Center, is a former firefighter and often works with first responders. She encourages firefighters to limit their exposure to trauma whenever feasible. But fire chiefs, she said, can’t always follow that advice. They’re expected on all of the big calls.
“For Jake, probably the hardest thing in the world is to take a pause and disengage and trust that things will be okay,” she said. “He does hold so much of that responsibility.”
Dwight gushes about the fire chief’s humility and empathy. Two of his administrative staffers also emphasized his deep desire to serve the community at all costs, sometimes to his own detriment.
Daniel Palmer, a battalion chief at Aspen Fire, said he questioned if Andersen’s pace was sustainable during his mentor’s first year in the top job.
“He had a tremendous amount of workload on him, and at times, we would wish that he was more present,” Palmer said. But since Andersen has reorganized the department to limit his direct reports, “he's able to focus more on balancing his time with the department’s needs.”
Andy Fisher, deputy chief of Aspen Fire, said Andersen disseminated a video message to staff this year telling them that this season was going to be demanding, both because of the unprecedented fire threat and because they’d be working hard on fire mitigation and resiliency projects.
Fisher said the team is stretched, but firefighting comes in seasons, and he hopes things will calm down soon.
“This is our Christmas right now,” Fisher said. “We're slamming. We're going 1,000 miles an hour, and in two months, the leaves are going to turn. There's going to be snow on the ground. The wildfire discussion will be on hold in terms of the immediate threat.”
Fisher said Andersen has another gear — he can take on a lot of stress and responsibility. Even so, Fisher still worries about him.
“I certainly don't envy his position,” Fisher said. “He's got a lot on his shoulders, and how long is this sustainable? I don't know.”
The job is rewarding, but Andersen has also seen a lot of tragedy. When a firefighter can’t save someone in time or witnesses a family who has lost everything, he said that trauma lingers, changing them in perpetuity. He could never imagine paying someone enough for that devotion.
“In the heart of it, every firefighter is a volunteer,” Andersen said. “There is no pay and benefits package that I could give anybody that would force them to risk not going home to their family to show up for someone else's.”
In late July, Andersen got word that a fourth firefighter from the Grand Junction burnover incident, Nathan Matthews, had died from his injuries. It was a gut punch after Andersen had just started to feel like a human again.
To cope with this kind of tragic news, Andersen said he spends time with family and friends, but also takes some time alone with Tug Boat. He writes down his feelings and gives himself room to feel it — to let it out.
Then, as always, he goes back to work.
Editing support for this story was provided by New York University’s American Journalism Online master’s program.
