Tiny town mourns a hero firefighter
Mariposa lines up as native son passes by for last time
MARIPOSA — Braden Varney was coming home, but not in the way anyone expected.
His body was going to be carried through his hometown in the back of a white SUV. Its destination: the Stanislaus County Coroner’s Office.
The Varney family has lived in Mariposa for decades, longer than anyone could remember, although no one could say exactly how long.
Everyone knows everyone in the 2,173-person community. It’s a truism, they admit, but an accurate one. Here, in the seat of Mariposa County, Varney was a large man, both in size and reputation, and in death, he grew bigger still.
The heavy-equipment operator died Saturday after his bulldozer rolled down a steep ravine in a remote stretch of countryside near El Portal. The 36-year-old married father of two had been creating a firebreak for Sierra National Forest crews to fight the Ferguson Fire, which had burned 13,082 acres as of Tuesday night. His body remained in the gully for two days, as flames moved past, until crews could safely extricate it from the mesh of metal Monday morning.
That afternoon, hundreds of the townspeople gathered in Mariposa where highways 49 and 140 converge, narrowing into a two-lane road that bisects downtown. Here is where the procession carrying Varney’s body would pass.
For a moment, Varney would return to the town that raised him.
It was 3 p.m., and the sun blazed overhead.
No one left. They wanted to honor Varney — the mild-man-
nered son of Gordie, the man with the big smile, the 10-year veteran of the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection — who died protecting Jerseydale, a tiny town tucked in the rugged foothills of the Sierra Nevada, from the Ferguson Fire.
They waited. A beige Subaru with Oregon plates and folding chairs strapped to the roof drove past. Still no procession. Still no Varney.
Diane Pfutzner, 71, leaned against a storefront, cowering into the shade. Those poor kids, she told her husband, Jim. Fiveyear-old Malhea and 3-year-old Nolan without a father. A wife, Jessica, without a husband. She couldn’t imagine it.
“So my sister’s husband, his aunt was Braden’s grandma,” Pfutzner said. “I don’t even know what you would call that.”
That was Mariposa. The Pfutzners bought their house from a Realtor who was the flower girl at their wedding. And last year, when they moved back to Mariposa from North Carolina — Jim had left in 1963 — someone stopped him in the street and said, “Hey, are you Jimmy?”
Of course they knew Varney. Everyone did.
It was 3:30 p.m., and a Mariposa County sheriff ’s vehicle passed by, speakers blaring. “It’s gonna be about 15 to 20 more minutes, folks,” he said. Still no procession. Still no Varney. It was a half-hour delayed.
Scott Eastwood, 30, rolled and unrolled an American flag in his hands. “America, love it or leave it,” it read. Last month — was it really already a month ago? — he had sold Varney some powder-coated brackets for a gazebo he was building.
Their young daughters danced together in the Butterfly Ballet Dance Studio recital in June, too. The theme was Aladdin, and the girls had worn Jasmine-inspired costumes that glittered under the stage lights.
Huh, Eastwood thought. He wouldn’t be seeing Varney at those kinds of things anymore — just his daughter, a daughter without a father. He couldn’t quite picture it.
“It’s pretty tough to actually think about,” Eastwood said. “How is a 5-year-old going to comprehend that? We could barely comprehend it. We all found out around 8:45 a.m. Saturday. We listen to the scanners, and word gets out quickly when it’s one of our own.”
It was 3:45 p.m., and a tan Winnebago barreled down the street, dust billowing in its wake. Still no procession. Still no Varney.
Caroline Briese, 35, answered a call from her husband, the community’s undersheriff. Soon, he said. Ethan, their 9year-old son, slouched on the ground, knees pulled to his chin, because sometimes 9year-olds can’t understand what they’re waiting for.
Briese attended Mariposa High School with Varney. She graduated in 2000, Varney in 2001. He was unforgettable, always willing to lend a hand. One time, when one of Varney’s kids was sick, a neighbor loaned him a bottle of Pedialyte. So Varney, who owned a grading company specializing in “anything dirt,” graded their driveway for free.
He and his dad, Gordie, a Cal Fire heavy equipment operator who died of colon cancer in 2012, did that kind of thing together. They didn’t take credit for it, but their neighbors always knew who was responsible when their driveway was mysteriously plowed or a pitted lot was cleared.
“I don’t think I can even describe what I’m feeling,” Briese said. “Heartbroken. It’s just, his wife. His sister ... ”
“And his kids,” Ethan interjected.
“They’re adorable,” Briese said.
It was 4 p.m., and a white truck towing a trailer idled through town. Still no procession. Still no Varney.
Charles Phillips, 53, kept thinking about how Varney made moving dirt look like art. Or how, in high school, the baseball coach wouldn’t let Varney bat. He was left-handed and sent the balls flying into a nearby housing development. The coach got sick of losing them and having to buy more.
“He was the closest thing to a choirboy this town had,” Phillips, a photographer, said. “Even when he was little. I guess he was never little, though, because he was ... the world’s biggest gentle giant, and I’m not saying that just because he died.”
It was 4:30 p.m., and a man in a beat-up sedan drove by. He was shirtless and smoking a cigarette. Still no procession. Still no Varney.
When was the last time Varney came in for new shoes? Jessica Swager, 32, couldn’t remember. Last year, sometime. He wore size 16, and he always bought his work boots at the Fremont House. Swager had to special-order the size.
Recently, they had seen each other at the grocery store. He smiled at her, like he always did.
“Everybody knows their whole family,” Swager said. She was wearing a black dress for the occasion, and it was hot. “The Varneys are just super nice. The first ones to help you. He did a lot for the community.”
One time, the Sweetwater Christian Camp needed 2.6 miles of forest road graded to federal requirements. They couldn’t afford it, so the Varneys — Braden and Gordie — did it at a fraction of the cost.
A half-dozen tourists leaving a nearby restaurant broke Swager’s reverie.
“What is this?” they asked. Their panting husky pulled at the leash.
“It’s a memorial service for a small-town hero,” Swager said, explaining how Varney had lived and how he had died.
“Oh, wow, that’s terrible,” they said, pausing, and then getting into their car.
It was 4:40 p.m., and the blinking hazard lights of more than a dozen fire rigs, Cal Fire trucks and police cars appeared in the distance.
Hannah Benson, 8, held a picture of an American flag colored with crayon. She wore purple sparkly gel shoes, not unlike the kind Varney’s daughter likes to wear.
“This is just what we do here,” her dad, Brent Benson, said.
At 4:43 p.m., the procession passed. A tough man driving a tough truck was white-knuckling the steering wheel, crying. A woman with pink-tipped hair stared vacantly from a passenger seat. A few firefighters trained their eyes on the distance.
In three minutes, Varney was gone, and in his quiet passing, Mariposa was still.