Lonnie Click, fire chief for Benton County, Washington, has a phone number for BNSF Railway. Once a month during fire season, one of them calls the other. They're coordinating about the fire train.

The fire train is two tank cars full of water, a pump car, and a caboose that serves as a command center, based in Pasco. BNSF has another one somewhere else in Washington. When fires threaten the railroad's tracks or when the railroad's operations spark fires in Click's jurisdiction—which is arid rangeland, mostly brush and grass, with steep rocky bluffs where the Yakima River cuts through basalt—the fire train becomes what Click calls "an extra tool in the toolbox."

Click maintains careful language when discussing his working relationship with a freight railroad that moves five million carloads annually across 32,500 miles of track. He doesn't mention that BNSF trains run through his county creating fire risk in his jurisdiction, that when fires start he's the one coordinating response, and that he has no idea who's actually making the decisions on their end about when to slow down or shut down or deploy resources.

But that's the phone number.

The railroad won't tell you who decides when to slow the trains. BNSF's dispatchers work in Fort Worth and Kansas City, making decisions about train movements across thousands of miles of western track. When ambient temperatures exceed 90 degrees for several consecutive days, or when temperatures swing 40 degrees or more, someone in one of those control centers issues heat restrictions. Freight trains must slow at least 10 miles per hour below normal speed limits, between 1 p.m. and 9 p.m., every day, all summer.

Steel expands in heat. Continuous welded rail buckles when temperature differentials get too large. Someone is weighing the cost of slowing thousands of freight cars against the risk of track failure.

You don't get their name. You get protocols.

In September 2022, two major wildfires disrupted rail traffic along BNSF and Union Pacific main lines in Washington and Oregon. Union Pacific halted operations near Oakridge so firefighters could set backburns. BNSF deployed fire trains to the Yakima River Canyon and along the Columbia River—Click's territory. When Northern California wildfires threatened Union Pacific's infrastructure in 2021, the railroad's bridge maintenance manager said they'd had "more than 16 fires so far this year" in subdivisions most people have never heard of. The Dry Canyon Bridge north of Redding was closed after the Lava Fire swept through. Union Pacific deployed water trains to spray down bridges and apply thermo gel to protect structures.

More than 16 fires. So far that year. In subdivisions most people have never heard of.

The Federal Railroad Administration documented 123 rail accidents and incidents caused by severe weather from early 2021 through early 2024—hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires, flooding, mudslides, summer heat. The agency issued a safety advisory making clear that railroads need to "proactively plan" as severe weather becomes more frequent.

Proactively plan. That's the monthly phone call. Click planning for fires that haven't started yet, maintaining a relationship with a corporation that won't tell him who's making the decisions that affect his county, because when the call comes—and it will come—they need to coordinate quickly.

The railroads are spending $23 billion annually hardening their networks against climate disasters. BNSF announced $3.8 billion in capital expenditures for 2025. Real money, real infrastructure transformation.

But none of it tells you what it's like to be the county fire chief who needs to coordinate with the railroad because their operations create fire risk. None of it tells you what it's like to be the dispatcher in Fort Worth making daily decisions about train speeds based on heat forecasts for track you've never seen. None of it tells you what it's like to be the track inspector whose schedule changes due to extreme weather, out there in whatever conditions are prevailing—temperature extremes, excessive heat, environmental discomforts—checking for signs of stress in steel.

Those people exist. They're managing the transformation in real time. Their names don't appear in trade publications. The Federal Railroad Administration just started a pilot program allowing BNSF dispatchers to confidentially report close calls, which tells you how much these workers talk publicly about their jobs. When BNSF consolidated some chief dispatcher positions this year, we got one corporate spokesman quote and nothing from the dispatchers themselves.

The system is transforming through their labor. They remain invisible while corporate spokesmen issue statements about climate resilience.

Click has the phone number. Once a month during fire season, he uses it. Sometimes they call him first. The fire train is an extra tool in the toolbox.

The toolbox keeps getting bigger because the fires keep getting worse. Click will keep making that monthly call. The dispatchers in Fort Worth will keep slowing the trains on hot days. The track inspectors will keep adjusting their schedules. The railroad will keep spending billions while keeping the actual decision-makers anonymous.

Somewhere in Fort Worth, someone is writing the new playbook for how freight moves through a burning West. Someone is making daily calls about heat restrictions for track in Benton County, deciding when to deploy the fire train, when to halt operations, when the risk is too high.

Click doesn't know their names. He has their phone number. Once a month during fire season, he makes the call.