Lest we tire of monotony, Nature gives us a change of colour for each of
the flowering seasons. Flowers of every hue may be found through the
different months. Pink for May, red for June, blue and pink for July,
and during August royal robes of gold and purple clothe the hills and
valleys.
The last week of August brought to Summit Lake a pageantry of colour
that the Coast region is denied owing to the persistent rains that
retard the ripening of the leaf. The deciduous trees were already
withdrawing their life-giving fluid from the leaves to store it in their
roots until spring. The willow, vine maple, birch and alder along the
creeks and lake-shore held touches of autumnal colouring; while on the
hills the yellowed leaves of the cottonwood were brilliant in their
setting of sober dark green conifers.
A gaudy red were the vine maples, but there was a leafy beauty greater
than theirs. The flowering dogwood blazed from every nook and cranny.
The ripening of the dogwood gives to its leaves a flame that burns with
a fierce glow; a glow that further ripening deepens until its crimson
flush becomes the loveliest hue of the British Columbia woods.
The fireweed, or willow herb, that in July gives to the open spaces a
gorgeous tint of bluey pink, were now loosing a flock of seeds to float
away like tiny parachutes. Each small bit of fluff held a minute germ of
life that would build a plant as large as its parent when, dropped by
the friendly wind, it reaches a fertile spot. The stately cottonwood
were sending out a life-fluff as tiny as that from the smaller plants.
Thistles, cat-tails and asters hurried to join the silken clouds until
the air was misty with these germ balloons, seeking their winter’s rest.
The red elderberry and its magenta neighbour, the thimble berry, with
its truculent Scotch cap, gave to the woods a material flame.
A curious timidity had come over the birds; not only were they quiet,
but they were no longer to be found in their usual haunts. In some
retired spot they were moulting. While the weather was at its best, and
food was the most plentiful, they were dressing themselves in a new set
of feathers for their long flight to the south. The tops of the tall
pines were filled with sweet twitterings, of flutterings out and in,
wing trails and quick short flights. A flock of waxwings had gathered
for the migration. They would not leave for some time yet, but the
change had come. Birds from the north had arrived, creeping south by
easy stages, taking plenty of time in their journey—the freest
creatures that live, staying or going as they feel inclined.
Wild berries, dead ripe, hung on lush drooping branches.
A soft “prut-prut-kwit-kwit” came from the leader of a covey of willow
grouse that were feeding on the tiny fruit of a crab-apple tree. The
call was answered by a shyer note from one of the young birds, who
probably was being taught the scale.
The summer had been one of exceptional dryness. For weeks there had been
no rain, and a blazing hot sun had poured its fiery rays from a
cloudless sky. The heavy mountain dews could not penetrate the close
standing timber, and the carpet of needles and moss became dry as
tinder. A pall of smoke, from fires raging on the Coast, hung over lake
and mountain.
For Wilkinson and his men these were anxious days. They covered the
section between the mill and Squamish twice a day; scanning the
hillsides and valleys, ever watchful, ever on the alert; pleading and
exhorting the settlers and loggers to greater vigilance, and all the
while praying fervently for rain.
Donald had posted a notice that any employee found smoking in the woods
would be immediately dismissed. Logging creates a vast amount of débris,
or “slash,” as it is known to the men of the woods. With the assistance
of the Forestry men, Donald’s crew had piled enormous heaps of slash on
the hillside, awaiting a favourable opportunity to burn. These menacing
piles of brush, extending along the main road for a quarter of a mile,
were a constant source of danger. Every precaution, therefore, was
taken. The spaces between the mounds of brush were raked clean, the road
was patrolled day and night, and pails filled with water were placed at
regular intervals. Special notices stating the great danger of fire, and
warning not to smoke in this area, were posted conspicuously on tree and
stump.
The mill at Cheakamus had closed. Sparks from the donkey engines had
threatened the extinction of both plant and timber.
Donald with Wilkinson stood surveying the piles of dangerous waste. “If
a fire starts and we can get to it at once, we will be all O.K.” said
Wilkinson, “but if it ever gets away from us here,” pointing down the
road, “no human agency can stop it.”
They made the rounds of the patrol to satisfy themselves that the
watchmen were attending to their duties. Leaving the main road, they
scrambled through the tangled masses of tree-tops to ascertain how far
distant the slash had been removed from the standing timber. Suddenly a
tiny wisp of smoke was seen to drift from behind a fir tree at the edge
of the clearing. Without comment, both men broke into a run.
Aroused by the crashing footsteps, a young man, who had been lying
stretched lazily on the soft moss, came quickly to his feet, a cigarette
held in his fingers. His companion, also smoking, lay with his back
against the bole of a tree a few feet distant. Fishing-rods, creeks,
landing-nets and the remains of a lunch lay scattered on the ground.
“Don’t you know better than to smoke here?” blazed Wilkinson.
The fisherman brazenly replaced the cigarette between his lips.
Wilkinson’s arm shot forward like a flash to pluck the offending weed
from the mouth of the astonished youth. “I wish we had a law to prevent
smoking in the woods. I would take great pleasure in arresting you,” he
growled savagely as he pinched the fire from the cigarette and ground it
under his heel.
Unnoticed by the Forest Ranger, the second man removed his cigarette
furtively and with a flirt of his hand threw it behind him as he rose to
his feet.
“You are too damned officious! You have no authority to prevent us
smoking,” he said angrily, as with clenched fists he advanced
belligerently.
Wilkinson was near the breaking point. The weeks of worry, the long
hours of arduous toil, and the lack of sleep had frayed his nerves.
“Damn you!” he flared, “if it’s a fight you want——” He broke off
suddenly, his eyes wide and staring. “My God! look!” he shouted. A flare
of flame shot from the spot where the cigarette had fallen. A breeze
rustled through the trees to fan the flame to a drumming roar as a pile
of slash caught fire. The Red Terror was loosed.
“The alarm!” cried Wilkinson.
“Fire!” shouted Donald as he stumbled to the road.
“Fire!” repeated the nearest patrolman.
“Fire!” rang the cry down the line until the call reached the mill, and
every whistle was loosed in a screaming bedlam of sound to blanch the
cheeks of these hardy men, who knew the awful terror of this
devastating, devouring, fiery scourge that blasts the wilderness with
smoke and ashes and takes its toll of both man and beast. Men dropped
their tools and ran to answer the call.
The trapper’s dugout shot swiftly across the lake.
Connie lay reading in the shade of her cabin. She came to her feet at
the whistle’s first call for help. A moment later, seated astride her
cayuse, she was galloping down the hill.
Every man, regardless of position, answers the call to fight fire. When
a forest fire is raging the forest ranger is an absolute sovereign. He
can call the lawyer from his desk or the labourer from the ditch, but
seldom does he need to exercise this power, as every good citizen is
willing to help stay the deadly scourge. Meanwhile the fire was leaping
from heap to heap of the powder-like slash to cross the road and sweep
up the hill with incredible speed. With a throbbing roar it hissed to
the tree-tops and rushed up the mountain. Stifling smoke enveloped the
fire-fighters. Showers of burning bark pelted them from above.
“To the mill!” Wilkinson shouted; “we can do nothing here.”
The men at the mill filed silently to their stations, and the big hoses
poured torrents of water on roof and wall. Big jets curved up the hill
to drench the dry, hot earth.
In short, quick sentences Wilkinson outlined his plans.
“We will try to stop it on the north at the river, on the south with
fire-breaks, and at the track on the east by back-firing. On the west we
have to let the fire take its course until it burns itself out on the
cliff above.” His voice rose in sharp command as he sent the men to
their posts. Donald with twenty men under him was set to work digging a
fire-break on the south side. A “fire-break” is made by spading up the
leaf-mould and humus down to the mineral soil and raking all inflammable
material back from each side.
The fire was advancing rapidly and the heat was terrific. Choking and
gasping in the stinging resinous smoke, the men strove in frenzy of
haste to complete the fire-break before the flames should reach them.
A deer with a fawn at her heels came bounding in terror through the
screen of smoke. Grouse and song-birds made a common escape from a
common enemy feared by all. Rabbits, wild-eyed, scuttled in fear;
squirrels and chipmunks joined in the hurried flight. Many of these
smaller birds and animals would be flanked and lost.
Connie, proud that she could be of assistance, dashed back and forth
carrying messages for Wilkinson to the different fronts.
From up the mountain-side came a drumming roar and the rending crash of
trees as the fire undermined their roots. Sparks from burning tree-tops
crossed the fire-break and started other fires. To combat these, water
had to be carried up the steep hillside in pails. Andy was among those
delegated to this arduous task. For hours he staggered from stream to
hill and back again with a brimming pail in either hand. Scorched by sun
and fire, the perspiration streaming down his face and stinging his
eyes, the little hero stuck gamely to his task.
“I ’ired on this ’ere job as a cook,” he grumbled, “not as a blinkin’
water-spout. Strike me pink, if the water I’ve carried to-day was
sprinkled in ’ell the devil’d be out of a job. Oh, well,” he added
resignedly as he filled his pails and turned to again ascend the hill,
“as Methusalem said, ‘Every little bit ’elps!’ These two buckets myke
exactly four million, two ’undred and six gallons that I’ve carried this
d’y.” At this instant his foot caught in a root to send him sprawling on
his face rolling down the mossy hillside, the pails clattering after. He
lay where he had fallen, flat on his back, with arms outstretched.
“There,” he soliloquized, “_that_ was the wisp of straw that broke the
elephant’s back. To ’ell with the fire. Let the blighter burn.”
Wilkinson came wearily down the hill. His face was blackened and
blistered, his hat gone, and his shirt a network from holes burned
through the cloth by flying sparks. He sprawled on all fours by the
stream, drank sparingly, then plunged his face in the cooling waters.
“’Ello, Wilkie!” shouted Andy, “’ow would you like to ’ave a cold bottle
of beer?”
Wilkinson seized a stone threateningly and glared at his tormentor. “Men
have been killed for less,” he growled huskily.
“I s’y, Wilkie,” grinned Andy, “these Forestry jobs are a snap. Do you
’ave the nerve to collect a salary?”
The district ranger was too tired for speech. His swollen face puckered
in a smile and he passed on up the hill, and Andy came stiffly to his
feet and resumed his never-ending task.
Connie brought reports that the fire was being held on the north and
east. The fire-break on the south held, but spot-fires were kept in
check only by the almost superhuman efforts of the fire-fighters.
Forest fires reach the peak of their intensity while the sun is hottest.
With darkness the wind subsides, and, especially in the mountains the
heavy dews are a never-failing help.
The sun, showing blood-red through the smoke, now sank behind the hills
and a blessed coolness filled the air. The fire smouldered along the
fire-breaks, but the dreaded sparks were not flying. The trembling roar
diminished to a steady crackling where fallen trees were being steadily
consumed.
The fire-fighters, their shoulders drooping, and wavering from sheer
weakness, plodded down the hill for well-earned food and rest.
“You’ll have to be at it again at daylight,” said Wilkinson grimly. They
nodded a tired assent. Wilkinson and Donald with twelve men patrolled
the fire area throughout the night.
The next morning broke sullenly in a dull haze. As the first streaks of
light heralded the coming of the new day, the fire-fighters again took
up their posts. Men from the other mill arrived, and another day of
battle with the fire demon was begun. An attempt was made to check it on
the west front, high up the mountain-side, where the fire had crept
through in the night to a small level plateau. At ten o’clock the wind
came suddenly, and with it the fire broke through on the south-west
corner with a deafening roar and rushed through a stand of dead trees
with ever-increasing speed.
Donald shouted a quick cry of warning to the men who were in danger of
being cut off by this break. They came on the double quick, just in
time, as a lurid wall of flame shot up the hill over the path they had
traversed.
“Are the men all out?” questioned Donald.
“Andy isn’t here!” said one of the men excitedly.
Donald seized the speaker’s arm. “Was Andy with you?”
The man nodded.
Donald’s face set in grim lines. Whirling quickly, he ran straight
toward the line of fire. With a bound Connie was on her horse and after
him at a swift trot. As he neared the screen of smoke, Pegasus changed
his gait to that of a mad runaway, and with the small rider lying prone
on his bare back disappeared from view.
At this spot the fire had spent its fury in the first mad rush, but a
heavy smoke welled up from the charred ground. Terror possessed the
horse, but the calm voice of his mistress urged him on. Crimson embers
showered about her. Scorching heat fanned her face as if the doors of a
blast furnace had been opened. A blazing branch fell with a rushing
sound, barely missing the horse’s head. Sharp reports from the tree-tops
made the plucky cayuse shy in a panic of fear.
Filled with apprehension, the crowd of fire-fighters stared with tense
anxiety into the drifting smoke. Then a glad cheer burst from them as
horse and rider emerged: Andy clinging to Connie’s stirrup, and Donald
swaying drunkenly in the rear. Ready hands held water to Andy’s parched
lips and bathed his hot face as he lay panting on the ground. He sat up
with an effort and looked about him. “Where’s Connie?” he asked. But
Connie had stolen quietly from the scene.
By mid-afternoon the main body of the fire was apparently under control,
but the persistent spot-fires kept the entire crew engaged. A huge
cottonwood, standing just within the fire-breaks, was the chief
offender. Sparks from its lofty blazing top were floated by the breeze
to land on the dry ground, starting innumerable fires.
“That tree will have to come down or we will be fighting spot-fires
indefinitely,” said Wilkinson.
Silence fell. Everyone of those lumber-jacks knew the danger attached to
the falling of a rotten, blazing tree. In sound timber the skilled
“faller” can cut the scarf and drive the falling-wedge to lay the tree
within six inches of the desired spot. With a hollow tree the task is
much more difficult, as in the soft, decayed pulp the wedge may not
provide sufficient leverage to swing the enormous weight, and the tree
may crash from any angle.
Men working at the butt of a burning tree, too, are exposed to the fall
of branches. Even a small bough, hurtling from the dizzy height of
lordly cottonwood or fir, will break a man’s limbs.
Wilkinson picked up a falling saw. “Who will go with me?” he called.
Gillis stepped forward with wedge and hammer.
“Nothin’ doin’,” said little Blackie; “Wilkinson here has a wife and
kid, an’ Jack has brains enough to be our boss. Me and Hoop-la ain’t got
neither, we’re just a coupla roughnecks. Whadda you say, Hoop-la?”
“Ye betcha,” came vigorously from Blackie’s pal.
Two men were sent with them to assist in clearing a space at the foot of
the big snag. A few minutes later the twang of the cross-cut, mingled
with Blackie’s happy song, sounded above the crackling of the fire.
Wilkinson pointed to the southern sky, where heavy nimbus clouds were
massing. “At last! The blessed rain is coming!” he cried in a voice of
thankfulness.
A stronger gust swept through the valley to send a surge of flame from
the giant cottonwood’s topmost branches. There was a sharp cry of
warning as a limb broke off with a splinter-crash and came roaring to
the ground, sending up a swirl of dust. A strangled cry of pain,
animal-like in its intensity, cut the air.
“Blackie’s hit,” screamed Hoop-la.
Blackie lay on his face, his clothing afire, pinned down by the
shattered limb. With a heave of powerful shoulders Hoop-la flung the
crushing weight aside, and his big hands quickly smothered the fire in
the clothing of his fallen comrade. Gently he raised the stricken man in
his arms and bore him beyond the range of fire.
“Blackie! Oh, Blackie! are you all right?” he questioned fearfully as he
looked down at the quiet face that held the grey pallor of death.
“Call the doctor and bring a stretcher,” sharply ordered Wilkinson.
Men hurried to do his bidding. When the stretcher bearers leaned to lift
the inanimate body, Hoop-la fiercely interfered. “Let him alone,” he
said savagely. Stooping, he picked up the light form and bore it down
the hill to their bed in the rough log shack. Donald forced a few drops
of brandy through the dying man’s colourless lips. Blackie stirred
feebly. His eyes flickered open and he smiled as he recognized Hoop-la.
“Give me your hand,” he whispered faintly; “I’m runnin’ my last
high-lead, old pal. I guess God’ll be good to us roughnecks.” He gasped
painfully. The irregular breathing ceased; his eyes became fixed and
glassy; his jaw sagged.
Hoop-la sat motionless, the hand of his dead friend held in his warm
clasp. Slowly his head dropped forward and his big frame shook with dry
racking sobs. Doctor Paul came in hurriedly. In answer to the look of
interrogation in Donald’s eyes, he shook his head sadly.
Donald and Wilkinson tiptoed softly to the door. They were unashamed of
the tears that made furrows down their blackened cheeks. Sick at heart,
utterly overcome by this tragedy, Wilkinson sank dejectedly to a seat
outside the cabin door and covered his face with his hands.
There came a sudden patter of raindrops that drummed on the roof of the
cabin. Wilkinson stood erect with arms stretched wide. “Rain!” he cried.
“The merciful rain! Thank heaven!” He stood with face upturned for an
interval, enjoying the pelting downpour, then turned to look in the
cabin door, a deep and brooding sadness in his bloodshot eyes.
“Donald,” he said gently, “the newspaper account of this fire will
mention the fact that ‘a logger was killed.’ A logger!—yes—men like
Blackie are the backbone of this country, the salt of the earth. Will
people ever learn?” he continued, in a voice vibrant with deep emotion.
He pointed to the barkless skeletons of trees blackened and charred and
branchless save for the gibbet-like limbs stuck out from the naked
trunks. “Think of it! All this—the sniffing out of a valuable life—a
verdant hillside changed to a charnel-house of dead trees and blackened
stumps on bare rocks—the loss of thousands of dollars worth of valuable
timber—all this caused by the careless dropping of a lighted
cigarette!”