When Bill Bruce went up into the clouds and disappeared from the view
of the other pilots in his Flight, for a moment the men in the planes
following were stupefied. It took some time for them to realize why
this seemingly unnecessary dangerous maneuver had been performed. Then
they came to a point where they saw the mouth of the tunnel and they
could visualize what was ahead. They had no time to question the
motives or judgment of their leader, for the tunnel was in their
immediate front and other planes were thundering in their rear. They
had no choice but to follow Bill Bruce. If they tried to turn, they
would run the chance of colliding with the following planes. So each
pilot in turn zoomed his plane into the clouds.
The Siskiyou Mountains run almost east and west, separating the Shasta
Valley from the Medford Valley. Their crest conforms for that short
distance, almost exactly with the boundary between Oregon and
California. The railroad winds and twists in all manner of bends as it
makes its roundabout way to the crest of the range. To one flying
above the tracks, the curves seem unusually abrupt, but there is no
other route for the tracks to follow in crossing the mountains. The
only alternative is an exceedingly long tunnel through the base of the
mountains. The expense of such a tunnel would be prohibitive on
account of its great length, while the tunnel now used through the
crest is really a very short one.
The railroad passes between two peaks. On one side is Pilot Knob, a
trifle over six thousand feet high and exactly on the border between
the two states. This peak received its name from the old pioneers who
used it as a landmark to guide them over the Oregon-California trail.
It stands well above the surrounding mountains and has a peculiar
shape which makes it unmistakable after once having been seen. On the
other side of the tracks is Ashland Peak, seven thousand feet high.
Bill Bruce saw from his map that these two peaks were somewhere
nearby, but their exact location he did not know on account of the
clouds. In order for him to get down into the Medford Valley safely,
he must pass between these two almost prohibitive obstacles. The sides
of all the mountains in that area are covered with large rocks, which
are interspersed with scattered trees. Such was the country over which
Bill Bruce was leading his Flight through the clouds.
As long as he continued in the direction which he was traveling when
he entered the clouds, he would be all right. However, if he deviated
from that course the slightest, he would surely crash into the sides
of the mountains. Such was the most hazardous situation into which
Bill had led his Flight. Bill had gone into the clouds blindly, but
once in them he realized the many obstacles into which he had
unintentionally led his Flight. He himself might make it through with
little trouble, but could the other members of his Flight also do it?
Bill came out into the Medford Valley and breathed a sigh of relief.
As far as he was concerned, he had passed through the dangerous zone
safely, but the others were still in the clouds. He wondered if he
should start flying in a circle and wait for the other planes; but
such a maneuver was unnecessary, as he had no more made his entrance
into the valley than the first two of the following planes came into
view. They were flying with the same distance and interval between as
when they had entered the clouds. They were followed almost
immediately by the other two and the Flight was soon in formation
again, headed toward their destination.
The clouds broke ahead of them and they had glimpses of clear sky.
They passed over Ashland and Medford, the two largest towns in the
valley, and saw the extensive orchards covering the valley. Ahead Bill
saw another range of mountains barring his way to the north, but he
did not anticipate any difficulties in crossing them. His planes were
now light on account of the gasoline that they had used in coming from
San Francisco, and they had a clear sky ahead.
Bill led the Flight on a direct compass course for Eugene. If
everything went along smoothly he would make it, but if he encountered
head winds, some of the planes might run out of gas before they
arrived. The pilots climbed steadily to cross the mountains ahead,
while the railroad disappeared to the west and entered the Rogue River
Valley at Gold Hill. When he reached an altitude of seven thousand
feet, Bill made an inspection of the country ahead.
There was nothing but mountain peaks as far as the eye could reach.
The sides of the mountains were covered with timber, and that timber
made a never-to-be-forgotten impression on Bill. It spread over the
undulating ground like a rich, velvety, green rug. Clearings were few
and far between. The streams and rivers wound their way through the
valleys, making the rolling green covering even more beautiful. It was
hard to believe that the trees over which he was flying were two or
three hundred feet high.
Here and there the smooth surface of the timber was broken by small
clearings. Each of these marked the place where some hardy homesteader
had settled in the woods and was making a home for himself and perhaps
his family. For the most part they were along stream beds where they
could get water. Some of the clearings had evidently been worked for
longer periods than others, for they were much larger. The houses and
barns which had been erected appeared quite diminutive on account of
the large trees standing near by.
Then other open spaces in the velvety green stood out to greet his
eye. These were also in many cases the work of man, but from such far
different causes. Large white snags stood like gaunt tombstones
marking the glory of once mighty trees. These snags could have
resulted from only one thing—forest fires. Where the fires were of
recent occurrence, the ground was still burned black, but in the older
fire areas the second growth timber had made its appearance and the
ground was covered by the small trees with which nature hoped to
restore the forests to their former grandeur.
Then, again, there were areas where man had left entirely different
marks resulting from his activities. The second growth timber had
covered the bare places, but there were no snags present. These were
places where the land had been cut over for lumber. In some cases the
sawmills were still operating and Bill could see the smoke coming from
the stacks of the boilers. He could make out the tracks of the narrow
gauge which hauled the large logs to the mill and the donkey engines
working some distance from the mill, furnishing the power by which the
logs were snaked to the narrow gauge tracks or to the slides.
When slides were used to send the timber down the mountain sides, they
showed up in a distinct, straight brown streak through the timber.
Bill saw one of these slides operating later an and was astonished at
the speed at which the enormous logs thundered down the track. The
logs passed with express train speed and the friction with the track
was so great that many of them were smoldering from the heat when they
reached the bottom.
Here and there Bill saw what he thought was the smoke of a forest
fire. There was no mistaking a fire when it was large, but there were
other columns of smoke ascending which Bill could not identify. They
might be coming from other sawmills or they might be small fires.
Off to the right stood Mount McLoughlin, thrusting its head well above
any of its neighbors. Later on, during the patrol, many times Bill was
to welcome the sight of that peak. It was ninety-five hundred feet
high and its top was almost always covered with a snow cap.
Suddenly Bill became aware of the fact that he could not see very far
ahead. There did not seem to be any clouds in the sky, but the
visibility became extremely limited. Gradually the haze grew thicker
around them. It had the distinct odor of burning timber. The Flight
had entered the dense smoke pall which covers the Northwest section of
our country during the forest fire season. It has not the appearance
of clouds, but is just as impenetrable to the eye. Clouds vary in
color from white, through gray to black. At times they have a
distinctive greenish tinge which always is indicative of hail being
present. The smoke pall has a dirty, grayish brown color which tends
toward a golden hue when the sun shines on it.
By this time Bill had led his Flight quite some distance from the
railroad. He had not seen any possible landing fields since leaving
the Medford Valley. The smoke pall had taken away some of his
self-confidence. He wanted to get back closer to civilization. Bill
changed his course so that he would soon meet the railroad again.
The Flight had now been in the air for over three hours. The tanks
held gasoline for a trifle over four hours. Bill knew that they would
soon have to land for gasoline. He looked to his left for the
railroad, but could see no signs of the usual open country which
bordered the tracks. As the country beneath them was wild and thickly
wooded, Bill headed the Flight still farther toward the west to reach
those tracks.
The smoke pall did not have a definite lower surface as clouds have,
but gradually changed into a haze and thinned out close to the ground.
Bill was gradually losing altitude and suddenly, through the haze, he
saw a small town. He flew towards it and then circled around to pick
up the landing field. He studied his map and knew from the
configuration of the town, the river flowing by, that he had reached
Roseburg. Another circle and he saw the landing field. Bill gave the
signal for breaking formation and landed.
A gasoline tank truck was waiting for the planes when they taxied to
the end of the field. Apparently they were expected, but how did
anyone know that they were going to land there, when Bill himself did
not know it? Bill set out to satisfy his curiosity.
“How did you know that we were going to land here?” he asked the
driver of the truck.
“Captain Smith told me that you would probably get in some time about
three o’clock,” replied the driver.
“What time did Captain Smith come through?” asked Bill.
“It must have been around eleven o’clock. It was before lunch anyhow.
They all went into town for lunch and left here about one-thirty.”
“The lucky dogs,” said Bill. “We haven’t had any lunch so far, and
from all indications we will not get any. Fill us up as soon as you
can, for I want to make Eugene this afternoon.”
In a short time the pilots and mechanics were busily engaged in
filling the tanks in the planes. Some pumped gasoline into the tanks,
while others put in oil. The water in the radiators was checked,
inspections made of the various parts of the planes and everything
possible done to insure a safe trip into Eugene.
“How long a hop to get in?” asked Bob Finch.
“Just sixty miles,” replied Bill. “We ought to make it in forty
minutes easily. There’s nothing to the trip now, for we can follow the
railroad if we have to.”
“I surely was surprised when you went into the clouds back there,”
said Bob. “I was following right on your tail and looked around to see
how close the other planes were. When I again looked to see your
plane, it was gone. Then I saw that tunnel and I didn’t know what had
become of you. I soon figured it out that you had hopped the ridge. I
had no idea how high that range was when I went into those clouds, but
I hoped for the best.”
“I couldn’t very well turn around,” said Bill. “There wasn’t room
enough. I had no other choice.”
“The planes are all serviced,” said Batten, who had just walked along
the line of planes.
“We will take off in ten minutes. Same formation,” replied Bill.
They followed the tracks for the greater part of the trip to Eugene.
The country was fairly open along the railroad, with many small towns
at intervals. Streams and creeks ran down from the timbered hills and
crossed the tracks to join large rivers which emptied into the
Pacific. The farther north they flew, the more dense became the smoke.
Appearances would indicate that the Governor was right when he said
that there was danger of the whole timbered area burning.
Bill saw the Willamette Valley open up ahead just as he reached
Cottage Grove. It was the first real open country that he had seen
since leaving the Medford Valley. The other valleys had been so narrow
that they looked entirely too small to amount to much from the
airman’s point of view, but Willamette was wide and had numerous
farms, orchards and open spaces. It was a real valley, but after their
flight from San Francisco to Roseburg the pilots knew that such
wide-open spaces would seldom be found in the Northwest woods.
Almost immediately after losing sight of Cottage Grove, Bill saw
several railroads converging and knew that Eugene was not far off. A
little later he jumped his plane over a small ridge and the city lay
almost at his feet. He saw the airdrome with the other Squadron ships
and led his formation low toward the flying field. He made a circle of
the town and then gave the signal for landing.
The planes came down to the ground, the pilots and mechanics jumped
out of the cockpits and the planes were lined up with those from the
other Flight. The Squadron was united again. It was ready for the
strenuous work of aerial forest patrol.