The Project Gutenberg eBook, Bill Bruce on Forest Patrol, by Henry Harley Arnold This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Bill Bruce on Forest Patrol Author: Henry Harley Arnold Release Date: February 28, 2015 [eBook #48377] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BILL BRUCE ON FOREST PATROL*** E-text prepared by Roger Frank Bill worked his way backward toward the tail group. BILL BRUCE ON FOREST PATROL By MAJOR HENRY H. ARNOLD AIR CORPS Author of “Bill Bruce and the Pioneer Aviators,” “Bill Bruce, the Flying Cadet,” “Bill Bruce Becomes an Ace,” “Bill Bruce on Border Patrol,” “Bill Bruce in the Trans-continental Race,” etc. airplane A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers—New York Printed in U. S. A. THE AVIATOR SERIES ADVENTURES OF A YOUNG AIRPLANE PILOT FOR BOYS 12 TO 16 YEARS By MAJOR HENRY H. ARNOLD AIR CORPS Bill Bruce and the Pioneer Aviators Bill Bruce, the Flying Cadet Bill Bruce Becomes an Ace Bill Bruce on Border Patrol Bill Bruce on Forest Patrol Bill Bruce in the Trans-continental Race Copyright, 1928 By A. L. BURT COMPANY BILL BRUCE ON FOREST PATROL Made in U. S. A. CONTENTS I A VACATION IN THE WOODS II THE FORESTRY SERVICE III WOOD LORE IV DRAFTED TO FIGHT A FOREST FIRE V A FOREST FIRE VI BACK TO ARMY DUTIES VII WORKING WITH THE ARTILLERY VIII NARROW ESCAPES IX AN UNEXPECTED DUTY X CLOUDS ON THE SISKIYOUS XI INTO THE SMOKE PALL XII A FOREST PATROL BASE XIII THE AERIAL FIRE PATROL XIV DOWN IN THE TIMBER XV ON FOOT MILES FROM ANYWHERE XVI A LOOKOUT STATION IN THE MOUNTAINS XVII BACK AT EUGENE XVIII THE WEATHER CHANGES XIX FISHES LARGE AND SMALL XX MORE ABOUT FISH XXI THE EUGENE AIRDROME XXII TRAPPED IN MIDAIR XXIII A NEW OUTBREAK OF FIRES XXIV HUNTING A FIREBUG XXV THE END OF THE FIRE SEASON CHAPTER I—A VACATION IN THE WOODS “Wake up, Bill, there’s a big fish on your line.” “I should worry,” replied Bill as he lay on his back on the bank of the McKenzie River. “Let him do the worrying. I am having a marvelous time just lying here thinking how wonderful it is to be here in the Oregon woods. Perhaps in a day or two I will get sufficiently accustomed to the big outdoors, the gigantic trees and the wildlife to get enthusiastic over a fish. In the meantime, let him bite.” Bill Bruce and Bob Finch were officers in the United States Army Air Service. They had been boyhood friends in Flower City, Long Island. At the outbreak of the World War they had enlisted as Flying Cadets and had been sent to the Ground School at the University of California, at Berkeley. They had both finished the ground work and then completed their flying training at the aviation field near Lake Charles, Louisiana. A West Indian hurricane broke the monotony and routine of their training at the flying school and Bill was sent as a test pilot at an airplane factory. Bob had been sent to the aviation field at Mineola. Bill’s new duties required that he test out the latest type airplanes produced for the squadrons in France. It was here that he ran afoul of the dastardly work of a German sympathizer. While Bill had been at Berkeley, another cadet by the name of Andre had become rabidly jealous of Bill. Andre had tried to discredit Bill and make out that Bill had cheated in an examination. Andre was fired. While at the airplane factory Bill had several narrow escapes, when airplanes which he was testing were found to be maliciously damaged. Andre was the culprit. He was caught, convicted, and was being taken to the penitentiary, but escaped. Later Bill was sent to France, presumably with plans of the latest type airplane being produced, the Le Pere. While on board the ship, as Adjutant, he made frequent inspections to insure that the regulations concerning lights on deck were being carried out. On several instances he escaped being assaulted on the dark decks by a very narrow margin. His cabin was searched and it was quite evident that someone was endeavoring to secure the plans. Finally, as the ship was nearing the coast of Ireland, Bill saw someone flashing lights from the deck. He tried to catch the miscreant, but was not successful on account of the darkness. The next day the ship was torpedoed. As the small boats were floating around, the sub came to the surface and took someone from one of the boats aboard. It was Andre. The Germans then tried to find Bill Bruce, but were prevented by the timely arrival of the U. S. destroyers. Bill served at the front in the 94th Pursuit Squadron with Freddie Rickenbacker. He shot down his first plane, however, before joining up with the squadron. He was shot down between the lines in No-Man’s-Land and had several thrilling escapes during combats in the air, but came out of the war with a wound, several decorations and the title of “Ace.” Following the war, Bill served on the United States-Mexican border with the Ninth Squadron. The work of the squadron required that they make frequent aerial patrols to prevent the smuggling of liquor, dope and aliens into the United States. Here again they ran afoul of Andre, who was masquerading under the name of Andrajo. Andre had organized a large gang of cut-throats for the one and only purpose of smuggling. The squadron helped the border officials materially in uncovering this work. They were assigned the part of the border extending from San Diego, California, to Yuma, Arizona. Captain Lowell Smith was commanding the squadron and Bill Bruce was his senior flight commander. The pilots had been able to catch an airplane in the act of transporting dope, had broken up Andre’s attempt to make a forcible entry into the United States with four hundred Chinese, and thus had broken up the gang of renegades. In the Fall, Bill had entered the trans-continental airplane race from San Francisco to New York and return. Bill met Andre again before and during the race. Andre sneaked across the line at El Centro and removed all the safety wires and cotter keys from the controls of Bill’s plane. For a while it looked as if Bill would not be able to get to San Francisco in time to participate, but he arrived the evening before the start. Once in the race, Bill thought that he was entirely out of Andre’s reach, but on the return trip Bill’s plane was completely burned at Buffalo. Andre had again shown his hand. Bill secured authority to fly another plane, and after many difficulties and much hard flying won the race in spite of the fact that he landed at the finish with a dead engine. It had been a most spectacular and uncertain race from start to finish. Bill had won it by inches. After the race the Ninth Squadron was relieved from border duty and sent to San Francisco for duty. Here they established a new airdrome along the shores of the bay almost within hailing distance of the Golden Gate. During the Winter and Spring, the pilots had been kept very busy with routine flying. It was now June and Bill Bruce and Bob Finch had taken a few days’ leave to get away from military routine. They had driven to Oregon by automobile and were spending their time fishing along the McKenzie River. “A fine young fisherman you are,” said Bob as he ran over and grabbed Bill’s rod. “Did you come up here to fish or to day-dream?” “Both,” answered Bill as he watched Bob struggle with the fish. It was very evident that it was an unusually large fish, for it was putting up a hard fight. The rod bent almost double when the fish made a run for freedom. Bob was forced to let out more line to keep the fish from breaking the leader or snapping the rod. Bill was entirely satisfied to watch Bob’s endeavor to land the fish. The stream was in general clear of snags and rocks, but there was one large tree trunk with several branches in the water toward which the fish always headed. To make matters more complicated, the banks of the river were lined with small bushes. “I should say that it was a large fish,” said Bill after Bob had vainly tried for several minutes to bring it in. “It will get away from you yet.” “Why don’t you come here and take your own rod then?” asked Bob. “You are getting along very well. I wouldn’t think of depriving you of the pleasure of landing the first trout,” said Bill as he stood up and walked over to the place where Bob was working with the rod. “Get the net,” called Bob. “I am getting it in close enough for you to catch him.” The bank had a drop of about five feet. Bill took the net and stood looking for a place to get down to the water’s edge without getting his feet wet. He walked a short distance upstream and then slowly worked his way down to the water. “You poor boob,” said Bob. “How can you get the fish way over there? There are a dozen bushes between us.” “Swing your rod around this way,” called Bill. “Come closer, I am not fishing with a telegraph pole.” “Give me time,” said Bill. “This bank is slippery and I am liable to get wet.” “Hurry up,” answered Bob. “I can’t keep working this fish forever.” Once more the fish gave a violent pull on the line and Bob had to give it more line. Then he had the job of gradually reeling in the line as fast as he could while the fish darted around in large circles in the water. Once it made straight for the old tree trunk and both young aviators were sure that the line would get afoul of one of the branches, but by careful manipulation Bob managed to get the fish back into open water. Bill meanwhile worked his way along the bank toward Bob. The point where the line entered the water came closer and closer to the shore. Bill reached out with his net, but could not quite stretch far enough. “Bring it in a bit,” called Bill. “Your rod is almost bent double now,” replied Bob. “Do you want me to break it?” “Well, you’re the fisherman of this crowd,” said Bill. “It was you who suggested a vacation in the Oregon woods. I admit that I don’t know how to use this net. What do you do with it, immerse it gently in the water under the fish or make a wild swoop with it and scoop up the fish?” “How do I know?” replied Bob. “I never saw one before.” “I would rather have a shotgun and then I would be sure of getting the fish,” said Bill. “Don’t slow up on bringing him in while you are talking, for now that you have him this far, we ought to have fried trout for lunch.” Bill stood on a stone near the bottom of the bank. There was just room enough for one of his feet. The other was dangling over the water. He was holding on to a small bush with one hand and leaning out over the water with the net in his other. Bob gradually worked the fish in closer to the shore. “Bring him in closer. Reel in on your line,” called Bill. “I can’t stand down here forever.” “I am trying to,” replied Bob. “There he is; catch him.” The fish was now in close enough to be seen. It was a large fellow and must have weighed about two or three pounds. For a while Bill could do nothing but watch it as it worked its way back and forth against the taut line. “Well, do something,” called Bob. Bill then gave a violent swing with his net. As it hit the water with a splash, Bill lost his balance and fell prone into the water. For a while, line, net, fish and Bill were all tangled up in one small space. Bob did not know what to do. If he slackened up on the line, the fish would escape. If he didn’t, Bill would probably break the line. “Get out of there, you will make me lose the fish,” yelled Bob. The water was not deep and Bill came up after the splash in a kneeling position. He blew the water out of his mouth and nose and looked around. It was at that moment that Bob had called to him. “You don’t think that I am here because I am enjoying it, do you?” he replied. Then it was that Bob realized that the tension on his line had ceased. The fish was gone. Evidently the splashing around in the water had been enough to slacken the line and the fish had taken advantage of the opportunity to make its getaway. “Well, the fish is gone,” said Bob. “You are a fine help. Come on out of the water.” “What’s going on here?” called a deep voice from the bank. Bob looked around to see who had asked the question. He saw a tall, lithe, dark-complexioned man in a grayish- green uniform. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, with the crown coming to a peak, and had a badge on his shirt. “We’re fishing, and Bill fell into the water,” said Bob. In the meantime Bill scrambled up the bank. “I am the District Forester. My name’s Cecil. Have you a fishing license? Have you a campfire permit?” “What I should have had was a bathing permit,” remarked Bill as he started to wring the water out of his clothes. CHAPTER II—THE FORESTRY SERVICE “I am Lieutenant Finch, and this is Lieutenant Bruce. We both are members of the Army Air Service,” said Bob when Bill had ceased speaking. “We have fishing licenses, but no campfire permits. We just arrived here this morning and haven’t had occasion to light a fire so far.” “Babes in the woods,” remarked Cecil. “It is obvious that this is your first visit in a National Forest. No one is permitted to light a fire for any purpose in a National Forest during the forest fire season without a campfire permit. It is fortunate that I ran into you when I did, otherwise you might have been picked up by one of my rangers and then it would have cost you something as a fine. First I will fix up the permits, and then I will tell you something about these forests.” Cecil then made out campfire permits for each of the two young aviators. He then gave them a large size “Help prevent fires” slogan to put on the windshield of their car. “Let’s sit down,” said Cecil. “You are both officials of the United States Government and, as such, should know something about our forestry service and what it does,” he continued after they had seated themselves on a log overlooking the river. “As you look at these giant trees around you, they probably don’t mean much to you. That Douglas fir over there is close to two hundred years old. Some of those pines close by are just as old. You can see that the lowest branches are over a hundred feet above the ground. The tops of those trees are over three hundred feet above us. An entire forest of those trees can be destroyed in a few hours through the carelessness of a man who is enjoying a vacation in the woods.” “I never knew that trees grew so large,” said Bill. “I have seen the giant Redwood trees in California, but I thought that they were freaks of nature—that they were abnormal in timber life.” “These trees are not as large in diameter as the California Redwoods, but there are a great many more of them,” replied Cecil. “We have mile after mile of trees as large and larger than these in Oregon and Washington. In order to protect these trees, the government has set aside certain forest preserves which are called National Forests. There are 152 National Forests in the United States. Each of these National Forests has a supervisor in charge. He has under him wardens, rangers and lookouts. These men all work to detect and suppress fires.” “That is a large organization,” said Bill. “Why are so many men needed?” “The forests in the United States cover a large area,” replied Cecil. “About twenty-nine per cent of the land area of the United States is covered with timber. This timber is valued at six billion dollars. Think of that. The Forestry Service has as its duty the protection of that government property.” “I never knew that there was so much timber in this country,” said Bob. “We saw quite a lot as we drove up here, but six billion dollars’ worth is way beyond my comprehension.” “There is a vast amount of timber here in the Northwest,” said Cecil. “In fact about one fourth of all the timber in the United States is located in Oregon and Washington. In spite of the fact that this timber is worth money, most of the fires in the forests are caused by the carelessness of man.” “You don’t mean that they deliberately set the woods on fire, do you?” asked Bill. “They don’t mean to, but the results are the same,” replied Cecil. “A camper forgets to put out his fire, he throws away a cigarette butt without extinguishing it, or he lights a cigar or pipe and throws the match down on the ground and the spark ignites the surrounding dried leaves. Then a fire is started in the woods. That is the reason for the campfire permits. It gives us a check on the people who come into the forests. We also have a chance to warn them about the dangers of forest fires and caution them as to the means that they should adopt to eliminate any chances of fires.” “That’s very interesting,” said Bill Bruce. “Heretofore all that these woods have meant to me was just so many trees. Now I see the whole timbered area in a different light. Can you tell us how you go about locating a fire and what you do to put it out?” “We have established lookouts on the highest peaks,” said Cecil. “Each of these lookouts has a map. As soon as he observes a column of smoke in the forest, he takes a sight on the fire and notes its bearing. The adjacent lookout does the same thing. As a result we have an intersection of two lines which gives the location of the fire. In the case of a small one, the local warden will gather together a few men and go and put it out. In the case of a large one, the forest supervisor mobilizes as many men as he can from the surrounding country and they try and localize it. In this way it burns itself out.” “What do you mean by a small fire and a large one?” asked Bill. “A small one is usually caught as soon as it starts,” replied Cecil. “A large one may cover thousands of acres and take hundreds of lives. The Hinckley fire in Minnesota burned over 160,000 acres, destroyed property valued at twenty-five million dollars and took the lives of four hundred and eighteen people. That was an unusually large fire. The Idaho fire covered larger acreage, but did not take as many lives. That fire burned over two million acres and burned eighty-five people to death. Recently we have managed to get the fires under control before they get anywhere near that large.” “What per cent of fires are caused by carelessness?” asked Bob. “About eighty-five per cent of the 28,000 forest fires occurring each year are due to human carelessness,” explained Cecil. “Each year we hope that the number will be smaller, but the automobiles are bringing more campers into the woods all the time. We are trying to educate our visitors up to the point where they will consider the trees their property as citizens of the United States and will guard against their destruction just as if they were privately owned. You probably have noticed the signs posted up everywhere cautioning people to use every care to prevent fires.” “Can you always extinguish a fire with man power?” asked Bill. “It is sometimes very hard in the case of some of the larger fires,” replied Cecil. “At times when we are about to throw up our hands in despair, a providential rain will save the day. Then, on the other hand, we may have a bad thunder storm and find as many as twenty or thirty new fires burning where trees have been struck by lightning.” Cecil took out a pipe and lighted it. After he had the tobacco burning, Bill noticed that before throwing the match away, he broke it into two pieces. “Why did you break that match?” asked Bill. “I noticed that it was no longer burning, and yet you seemed to be particularly careful to break it before throwing it to the ground.” “All real woodsmen use that means of being sure that they are not dropping a spark when they think that the match is entirely extinguished. There is no doubt of the match being out by the time that you have broken it in half. That’s another thing, during certain extra dry seasons, we do not allow any smoking at all in the forests. I have bored you enough with this shop talk. May I join you in a little fishing?” “By all means,” said Bill. “We don’t know much about it. In fact, do not know the kind of fish that we are trying to catch other than they are trout.” “You are liable to catch steelhead, rainbow, locklaven or brook trout in the river here,” said Cecil. “What kind of flies are you using?” “We aren’t using flies, we were using worms,” replied Bob. “That’s no way to go trout fishing,” said Cecil. “It is not sporting. Give the fish a chance. You can get your limit with flies, so why use worms?” “We didn’t catch any with worms,” replied Bill. “I thought that we were going to, when I fell into the river, but the big one that we had hooked broke away. We have some flies, but we did not know which to use.” “That’s a rather hard question to decide,” remarked Cecil. “Trout are particular creatures. One can never tell at what they will strike. Some days they will strike at flies similar to those you see flying over the water. That is, if white flies are flying low over the water, use an artificial white fly. However, that rule doesn’t always hold good. I have been fishing when there were millions of live white flies all over the water and the trout would not even rise for the one on my line, but when I put a dark one on, I caught all kinds of fish.” Cecil walked back to the trail along the river and secured his rod and line from his car. Bill and Bob watched him carefully as he put on the reel, wet his leaders in the water and then threaded his line along the rod. “I think that I will try a dark fly,” he said, as he attached a leader to the line. Both of the aviators were astonished when Cecil cast his line out onto the river. The line went out with his casts at gradually increasing distances until it was dropping his fly a good sixty feet from the shore. The fly landed on the water without the semblance of a splash. In fact, it alighted on the water very similar to the live flies which occasionally dropped to the water’s surface. It rested for a moment and then Cecil brought it back with a slight movement of the arm and cast to another place. Bill was too much interested to do anything but stand and watch. Bob, on the other hand, watched for a few moments and then went some distance down the river and tried to emulate Cecil’s graceful casting. “One of the most important things to remember when fishing for trout, is to stay out of sight,” said Cecil. “Trout are wary creatures and can see you long before you can see them.” There was a splash in the water near his fly and Cecil started to play the fish. He did it entirely different from the way that Bob had. He allowed the fish a certain amount of run, but consistently brought it closer into shore and then finally threw it onto the bank with a slight flip of his arm. “Not so bad for a start,” said Cecil, as he unhooked the fish and held it up for Bill to see. “A three-quarter pound rainbow. A few more of these and we will have enough for lunch.” “It looks easy enough when you do it,” remarked Bill. “I think that I will try my luck.” “You can never learn by watching someone else,” said Cecil. “I will go upstream a little way,” said Bill. “You will have lunch with us, won’t you?” “Thanks very much,” replied Cecil. “I’ll meet you here at twelve o’clock. Watch out for the steelheads. You will need a net if you get a real large one on your hook.” Bill walked a distance upstream and started to fish. He picked out a place on the bank where the bushes were low and sufficiently open for him to try casting. At first he had nothing but grief. His line became tangled in the bushes and overhanging branches from the trees. It kept him busy for quite some time disentangling his line. Once it was so badly tangled that he had to cut off part of it. Finally he managed to get it out on the water, but it landed with a splash and then only a short distance from the river bank. The more he tried, the worse it seemed, and then he managed to make a good cast. His fly landed thirty feet or more out in the water. It had no sooner struck the water than a small trout grabbed the hook. Bill had a real thrill as he reeled the fish in. He brought it in so that he could see it swimming around in the water. Then evidently he became over- anixous, for he tried to throw it out on the bank, but instead jerked the fish loose and it was gone. Later when he looked at his watch and saw that it was time to return, he had four small trout in his creel. He wound up his line as he walked back to the automobile. Long before he arrived he saw the smoke from a fire. Cecil was already starting lunch. “How many did you get?” asked Cecil. “Four,” replied Bill. “How many did you get?” “The limit,” said Cecil. “Some of them are fair-sized fish. Some of them not so large, but just the right size for eating. Have you ever built a fire in the woods according to the approved method, which eliminates all possibility of starting a forest fire?” “No, I never have,” replied Bill. “You should know how,” said Cecil. “You are going to stay here in the woods for a while and it may save you a lot of trouble. I will show you now.” CHAPTER III—WOOD LORE “Here comes Bob,” said Bill Bruce as they walked toward the campfire. “I wonder if he had any more luck than I did.” “How many did you get, Finch?” asked Cecil when Bob joined them. “I managed to catch seven, but you should have seen the big fellow which broke away just as I was about to land him,” replied Bob. “That’s the usual fisherman’s story,” said Cecil. “You already have acquired one of the prime requisites of a regular fisherman. The largest fish always gets away. Let’s see what you caught.” “That’s a fine rainbow,” he continued, as Bob pulled the fish, one at a time, from his creel. “That one is a salmon trout. When we eat it for lunch you will see that it is different from the others in that it has salmon-colored meat. You caught a variety: rainbow, salmon, brook and locklaven. Where were you fishing?” “I must have walked five miles down the river,” said Bob. “I followed up several streams for short distances, but I never seemed to catch more than one fish in any one place.” “That’s natural,” said Cecil. “I imagine that you were not very careful about showing yourself over the edge of the bank. You probably were seen by the fish before or as soon as they saw your fly.” “Mr. Cecil is going to show us how to build a safe and sane campfire,” said Bill. “That’s a good idea,” said Bob. “If we are going to be in the woods as long as we have planned, we ought to know how to build a fire that will not start a forest fire.” “I am glad to see that you have brought a shovel and axe with you,” remarked Cecil. “You can never tell when you will need one or both in the woods. Some Forest Supervisors require all campers to be equipped with shovels and axes before they are allowed to enter a National Forest.” “Campfires are mighty easy things to start, but unless they are built properly, you can never tell when they are completely extinguished. The bed of pine needles, dried leaves and partially decayed wood in all forests burn very easily, and it is extremely hard to be certain that the fire has not worked its way under the surface. Many times people have left their campfires believing that they were completely extinguished when the entire area was honeycombed with sparks beneath the surface. The campers left their fire thinking that they had done their duty in regard to the rules and regulations concerning forest fires. Shortly after they had gone, the sparks would burn through to the surface and trouble would start for the fire-fighters. Such occurrences are not confined to tenderfeet alone, for some men with years of hunting and camping experience have been guilty of the same neglect. “In building a campfire, the first thing that should be done is to dig up and clear away all the inflammable material in the vicinity of the bed of the fire. If possible, the fire should be laid on hard soil or rocks. Then a narrow trench toward the wind will furnish a draft. If you notice, I have not much wood on that fire. A lot of wood is not necessary for a hot flame. A small amount placed properly and renewed as required will give a concentrated heat. Never allow the flame to blaze higher than is needed for the cooking. When you have finished and are leaving the vicinity, if only for a couple of hours, be sure that the fire is out. You cannot put a fire out in the woods by throwing dirt on it. Go to the nearest stream and get enough water to thoroughly quench all signs of fire. The water must sink down below the surface in soil like this and extinguish any sparks which may have worked under the surface.” “I see that you have your trout all ready for the pan,” said Bill. “I think that I will clean mine.” “Do you know how to do it as a woodsman does?” asked Cecil. “I never cleaned one in my life,” replied Bill. “I’ll show you how,” said Cecil. “It is the easiest way and also takes much less time. Bring your fish down to the river.” “There are lots of ways to clean a trout,” remarked Cecil when they reached the water’s edge. “From the forester’s point of view, there is only one right way. Take the fish in your hand with its belly up. Cut a slit across just in back of its gills. Then all that you have to do is to put your finger into the slit, grab a hold of the center of the belly with the finger and your thumb and give a slight pull toward the tail. The trout is cleaned. Three movements are all that are necessary.” “It looks quite easy the way that you do it,” said Bill. “Now I’ll try it.” Neither Bill nor Bob could do it anywhere as smoothly as Cecil when they first tried it, but they became more expert as they practiced. Soon they lost their awkwardness and took but a few seconds for each fish. “Now you have the idea,” said Cecil. “It’s a good thing to remember, for it takes but a couple of seconds for each trout. However, don’t try it on fish of a coarser type, for it will not work.” “We have a steak that we brought with us,” said Bill when they returned to the fire. “It probably will not keep much longer. We will have to cook it, too. Bob, you had better get another pan ready.” “Why not swing the steak?” asked Cecil. “What do you mean, ‘swing a steak’?” asked Bill. “Is that a way to fix it so that it will keep?” “No, that’s a way to cook it,” said Cecil. “It always seems to taste better after being cooked that way. I don’t know whether it is imagination or whether the fragrance of the burning wood really does permeate into the meat. Have you a griddle? If you have, we will try it.” “I’ll get the griddle,” said Bill. Cecil took the griddle and suspended it by three wires so that it hung in a horizontal position. He then attached the wires to a tripod made from some saplings. By the time that he had finished, the trout had been fried and were placed along side the fire to keep warm. Cecil took the tripod and placed it over the fire. The steak was placed in the griddle and gently swung back and forth just above the tops of the flames. “Get a stick, Bruce,” said Cecil. “You can swing this while I do something else. As soon as the bottom starts to get brown, turn the steak. That will keep the juice in the meat. It begins to look as if we are going to have a real meal. I am sorry that some of my Oregon friends did not happen along with a venison mince pie. If we had one of them, we would be sitting on the top of the world.” “It is nothing more than mince pie made out of venison instead of regular meat,” he continued when he saw the surprised expression written on the faces of the young aviators. “These Oregon people make them during the Fall and Winter. If you ever get a chance, be sure and taste one.” In the meantime, Cecil was busy arranging the plates, knives, forks and spoons on an improvised table on the top of an old tree trunk. Smaller logs were brought up for chairs. So it was that Bill and Bob ate their first meal in the woods. Trout, baked potatoes, bread, butter, jam, coffee and, best of all, the steak. It was as Cecil had said, “Better than when cooked in the ordinary manner.” It seemed to have absorbed some of the pungent aroma of the burning wood. Overhead the sun was masked by a roof formed by the thickly matted trees. The smell of the timber land permeated the air, a smell which one can only find in the forest. It seemed as if they were in the wilderness, where they were the pioneers blazing the trail for others to follow. To Cecil it may have been an old story, but to Bill and Bob it was the thrill that only comes with a new and enjoyable experience. “It seems a shame that civilized people should be responsible for the destruction of such a place as this,” said Bill after a while. “It’s all so beautiful, so entirely different from what we are accustomed to. I’ll bet that the Indians never burned the forests intentionally.” “I am not so sure about that,” commented Cecil. “According to the best advices which we have, the Indians in some instances used to burn out the woods so that they would not be bothered by the underbrush when they were hunting. Once they started a fire, they never tried to put it out. It always burned until it reached a natural barrier and then burned itself out. However, ordinarily the Indians were very much afraid of a forest fire, as it destroyed their villages. So it seems that they liked to have the fires under certain conditions, but they wanted to apply the torch themselves.” “There must have been some mighty bad fires in those days,” said Bob. “The lightning has always been responsible for many bad fires as far back as we have any records,” said Cecil. “Then, again, the early pioneers were not as careful as they might have been. There is one case on record where a young fellow was returning home after calling on a young lady who lived several miles away on another clearing. It was almost dark when he started home. He was either afraid to go home in the dark or was uncertain as to the proper trail to take. In any event, he set a match to a long burr of a sugar pine. That made a very good torch and served its purpose exceptionally well. However, when the first one burned so low that it was about to scorch his fingers, he lighted another one and threw the partly consumed one down alongside the trail. He continued this all the way home, and as a result there were many small fires, about equally spaced, burning through the forest. “That young fellow was quite proud of his achievement. He had found a new means of illuminating the trail at night, but the early settlers were not so pleased with his accomplishment. There were not many of these pioneers in the locality and they had a mighty hard time in putting out those fires. The pine needles along the trail burned fast and furious for quite a while.” “How can you tell the age of a tree?” asked Bill. “That can’t be done until the tree is cut down,” said Cecil. “Each year during the life of a tree a complete coating of fibre is formed around the trunk of a tree underneath the bark. These coatings take the form of rings and are called ‘Annual Rings.’ They are formed in regular sequence around the center. By counting the rings the age of the tree is determined.” “Why go to all that trouble?” asked Bob. “If there is one ring for each year and the rings are all the same size, why not measure the diameter of the tree and divide by the distance between the rings?” “It would be much simpler if we could do it that way, but unfortunately the distance is not the same in any two different kinds of trees, or even in the same tree,” replied Cecil. “There are many things that affect the growth of trees. For instance, if a young tree is crowded for light and room, the rings will be very close together. Then if the surrounding trees dies or are cut down and the crowded condition relieved, the young tree will grow much faster and the distance between two rings may be the same as that between seven or eight rings during the period of slow growth. Two trees growing side by side, although they may be of the same species, may have entirely differently spaced annual rings.” “How large do trees get?” asked Bill. “That depends upon the species,” replied Cecil. “One of the giant trees in the Sequoia National Park was undermined by a creek a short time ago and fell. That, as you know, was a Redwood. They made a cross section of that tree seventy feet above the base and it measured eleven feet in diameter. The tree was 280 feet tall and had a base diameter of twenty-one feet. The annual rings showed it to be 1,932 years old. Of course those trees are the oldest living things in the world. “Other species do not get so large in the trunk but grow higher. You yourself remarked about that flagpole at San Francisco. That tree must have been over five hundred feet tall when it was standing here in these woods, and yet its trunk probably did not measure over fifteen feet in diameter. You can see some of the large Douglas fir and pines over there. They have not such large trunks but their tops are well up in the air. The average is well over three hundred feet. Take the Juniper, for instance; it is rare that we find one over ten feet in diameter. The foresters in Nevada made quite a news item out of one they found up in the mountains at the head of Broncho Creek. It was located at an altitude of about eight thousand feet and was a monster of its kind. For its diameter near the base was fifteen feet. It is rarely ever that we find a black walnut over fifty inches in diameter when fifty years old. An inch a year is a rapid growth for that tree. “Well, boys, this is all very pleasant, but I must be moving along,” he continued. “It looks as if this is going to be a bad summer for fires. The woods, as you can see, are well dried out, for we have not had any rain for several weeks. If fires start, they will be mighty hard to put out. As you may judge, I am a regular bug on this forest fire business. I like the woods and am always working to protect it. Nothing would suit me better than to be able to continue with you on your fishing trip, where I could really enjoy the woods, but I have to get up to the Supervisor’s headquarters in the Cascade Forest. They had a bad fire there yesterday and it may be burning now. I may see you on the way back. Much obliged for the lunch. Don’t forget to put out your fire.” “We are much obliged to you for starting us out right,” said Bill as Cecil walked over to his car. “I hope that you can stop over with us. Good-bye.” The boys cleaned up after their meal and sat for a while loafing under the trees. “Where will we spend the night?” asked Bob. “Let’s go up the river a little farther,” said Bill. They poured water on their fire and were packing their equipment in the car when Bill stopped working. He had caught the smell of burning wood. There was no smoke coming from his campfire, but the odor was unmistakable. “Bob, there’s a fire somewhere around here. I can smell it.” CHAPTER IV—DRAFTED TO FIGHT A FOREST FIRE “There’s no fire, Bill,” said Bob. “You smell the smoke from our fire. When we put it out, it smoked terribly and the odor is all around us.” “No, Bob, our fire has been out too long. There’s a fire somewhere near here sure as shooting. I can’t see the smoke, but I can surely smell it.” “Well, what shall we do about it?” asked Bob. “There’s nothing that we can do for the present,” answered Bill. “Let’s pack up and get going. We ought to pick out some place above here on the river where we can make a good camp for the night.” They packed their equipment in their car and started up the road. The river was beautiful with the large trees on both sides. The sun was still high in the sky and here and there, where the road came out into the open, it seemed as if they had emerged from a tunnel. Everything was so much brighter. There was practically no wind and they came to long reaches where the river ran along for a considerable distance without a ripple. At other places the river ran over rapids and the splashing, bubbling water presented a decided contrast to the placid surface of the other parts of the river. As they continued, the river became narrower, the valley in which they were traveling more confined, the sides of the mountains steeper and the vegetation thicker. They were gradually ascending into the mountains. Here and there they obtained a view through the trees of the country ahead or behind. The mountain sides were thickly covered with trees, which formed a beautiful green covering that followed the contour of the ridges and valleys. Once in a while they saw an area which had been burned over at some previous time. The snags, tall, gaunt, white skeletons of what had been magnificent trees, were scattered through the second growth timber. Nature was trying to remove all traces of the fire with the small trees, but the snags stood there as grim reminders of the forest’s former grandeur. Here and there a pioneer had taken out a homestead and had cleared the ground in the immediate vicinity of his crude buildings. Usually some attempt had been made to cultivate part of the cleared area, but there were always a few sections still covered with the stumps of trees which had been cut. A couple of horses, several cows and some pigs roamed through the clearing as the nucleus of future herds of live stock. Bill marveled at the bravery of the men bringing their families to such a wild section of the country. They came out on an open space where the river made a sharp curve. The road had been built on top of a steep cliff. Ahead of them was a narrow cut in the mountains through which the river flowed. Beyond the cut Bill saw what he thought to be a cloud of smoke. It seemed to be as thick and dense as a rain cloud. Bob stopped the car when Bill pointed at it. “There must be a whopping big fire ahead of us,” said Bill. “I guess that Cecil must have arrived there right in the thick of it.” “You must have an awful good nose, if you could smell that from where we were, five miles down the river,” said Bob. “It’s a fire all right, and looks as if it were a big one.” “Let’s go on up and see it,” suggested Bill. “It must be an awful but fascinating thing to see.” “All right, we are on our way,” said Bob, as he started the car again. As they drove farther along the road the cleared spaces became less frequent. The timber closed over the road and shut out the rays of the sun almost completely. There was no doubt now as to the presence of the smell of burning wood in the atmosphere. Finally they reached a point where they were under the smoke. The sun was almost entirely obliterated from view. It was just like traveling on a cloudy day. Prior to their reaching the smoke cloud, the sun had reflected itself from the bright leaves of the trees, but now there was just a red glow which marked the position of the sun. “We must be getting close to it now,” said Bob after a while. “The smoke is so thick that one could cut it with a knife.” “It’s probably farther off than we think,” replied Bill. “The wind is blowing from the East and bringing the smoke toward us. “I think that we had better stop here,” said Bob. “I don’t want to lose this car, and if we get too close the fire may burn it up before we can get it out.” “We will probably run into the fire-fighters long before we get within the danger zone,” said Bill. “With Cecil present, they probably have certainly gathered a large bunch of men together to fight the fire.” “We will go along a little farther and see what develops,” replied Bob. The road wound through the trees and followed the curve of the river so that they could not see very far ahead. The visibility was further restricted by the high bushes which bordered the road and the river. They were driving slowly along a particularly narrow curving section of the road, when Bob saw another car coming around a bend just a short distance ahead. Bob slammed on his brakes. It looked as if there was going to be a collision, for the other car was approaching very rapidly. There was no room to pass, for the river was close on one side and the other side was marked by large trees. Bill and Bob could do nothing as their car had already stopped, but the other was still moving forward. Bill at first thought of jumping out, but he saw that the other car was slowing up and decided to stick with Bob. The other car came to a stop just as the bumpers hit. Neither Bill nor Bob had looked at the occupants of the car, as they were too busy trying to make up their minds just how hard the two cars were going to hit. Consequently they were watching the car rather than the occupants. When they did look up, they saw Cecil at the wheel. “Wait a minute,” said Bob. “I’ll back up and you can pass.” “All right,” said Cecil. “That was rather close. This road is not very wide and it is far from straight. I am sorry that I did not see you sooner, but I was thinking about other things.” Bob found it rather difficult to back his car along the winding road, but he finally reached a point where there was room enough for the cars to pass. Cecil stopped his car as he came abreast. “Where’s the fire?” asked Bill. “It’s about four miles up the road,” replied Cecil. “It’s burning down the west slope of the next ridge.” “We thought that we would go up and see it,” said Bill. “I am afraid that you will do more than that,” interjected Cecil. “You will have to go up and join the fire-fighting crew.” “We don’t know much about fighting fires,” said Bob. “But we will do what we can.” “You will never learn any younger,” said Cecil. “Then, again, it is one of the accepted laws of the Northwest woods that anyone can be drafted to fight forest fires. We need all of the help that we can get on this one, as it has the earmarks of developing into a rip-snorter. Continue on this road for another three miles and then you will come to Sam Crouch’s clearing. Turn there and leave your car at his place. Then take your shovel and axe and follow a trail that runs almost due east from his place. Out on the trail about a mile you will see the first of the fire-fighters. Report to the forest warden, Earl Simmons. He will give you something to do and tell you how to do it. I am on my way back to Portland. It seems that several fires have broken out in other parts of this district. I have to get back on the job. I am sorry that I will not be able to go fishing with you again on this trip. Good luck to you.” Cecil had gone almost before he had finished speaking. Bill and Bob watched the car disappear around a turn in the road and then all was quiet for a moment. “There goes our fishing trip,” said Bob. “I had hopes of finding a nice place somewhere along here where we could fish for a couple of hours and then make camp for the night.” “We thought that we were getting away from the constraining requirements of Army life, but we have apparently run into another service which has just as rigid demands,” announced Bill. “I guess that our fishing trip will be postponed for a while. Let’s go and see what it’s all about.” Once more they started up the river road. The next three miles were covered very slowly as the road was not very wide and the curves were almost continuous. For a while they were afraid that they would not know Sam Crouch’s place when they came to it, but they were soon disabused of the idea, for they did not come to any clearing. They were passing through almost virgin woods. Bob watched the speedometer with a view of checking up on the distance. It showed that they had traveled three miles, but there was not a sign of a clearing. Bob stopped the car. “Here’s the three miles, but where’s the clearing?” he said. “Shove along a little farther,” suggested Bill. “Perhaps your ideas of three miles from your speedometer and Cecil’s idea are not synchronized.” “I don’t want to run right into that fire,” replied Bob. “The road may lead right through it. We are so close now that I think that I hear the flames crackling. Can you hear them?” “I not only hear them, but also imagine that I can see them,” replied Bill. “The fire is not far off, but drive around that next bend.” They turned the next bend and came out at the clearing. Bob drove into the cut-over area and stopped his car near the house. “It’s the right place, all right,” said Bill. “I saw the name ‘S. Crouch’ on the mail box by the road.” There was not a soul around the house. The chickens and live stock, the growing vegetables in the garden and the farm implements in the yard indicated that the owner could not be far away, but he was nowhere in the immediate vicinity. “Is anyone home?” called Bill at the top of his voice. There was no answer. “I guess that it is up to us to find that trail leading east from here without assistance,” said Bill. “There is no doubt about our being near the fire now, is there?” “You get the shovel and I’ll get the axe,” said Bob. “Let’s see if we can find the trail.” “There appear to be a flock of trails leading out of here,” said Bill as they walked along. “We are going toward the fire, and I hope that we are on the right one.” The trail wound around as it mounted the ridge. It was just wide enough for one man, so that Bill walked in front and Bob followed. The smoke became much denser, the crackling of the burning wood much stronger, and it seemed as...