To Be a Logger Read online

  “Oh, if only the rain would come …” wailed Jinx.

  The children had no heart to go farther. They turned back and made their way slowly home. Billy took his shortcut and Jinx and Joel went into the house.

  “When do we eat?” asked Joel.

  “I smell something,” said Jinx, “but it’s not very appetizing. Something’s dead around here.”

  Mom was busy at the stove, cooking.

  “I’ve been smelling it all day long,” Mom said. “It must be a dead mouse.”

  The children looked but no mouse could be found.

  Joel turned to Jinx.

  “How about the chipmunks?” he asked. “Did you let them die?”

  Jinx looked in the shoebox under the davenport. All three were sleeping soundly.

  “They’re O. K.,” she said.

  Mom picked up a paper sack on the windowsill.

  “Here are those sandwiches I gave you yesterday, Joel,” she said. “Why didn’t you eat them?”

  She sniffed and looked inside the sack.

  “Good grief!” cried Mom. “It’s not sandwiches! It’s stinkin’ animal bones! The smell’s enough to gag you!”

  “Oh! Billy’s beaver bones!” cried Joel. “Give ’em to me.”

  “Take them out and bury them,” said Mom.

  “But they’re Billy’s … for his collection, for his museum,” said Joel.

  “Bury them,” said Mom, firmly.

  And Joel did.

  Not till the third night did the rain come, a short but heavy and welcome rain that put out all the fires and set men’s, women’s, and even children’s fears at rest. It was very late when Dad came home. The family had all gone to bed, but they got up to hear his story.

  The forest fire was over at last. It had taken a big bite out of Dad’s timber, about twenty-five acres, but he was glad to have saved the rest.

  Chapter Nine

  THE BLOW

  One Saturday, Joel met Eddie Wykoff down at the store. Eddie had a cast on his ankle, but was able to hobble around.

  “You still got one leg shorter’n the other?” asked Joel.

  “Sure, boy, sure!” said Eddie. “Time I get this blamed cast off, it’ll be even shorter.”

  “You’re not loggin’ any more, Eddie, are you?” asked Joel.

  “Well, not exactly what you call loggin’,” said Eddie. “No more o’ that choker-settin’ for me. I don’t like them choker-cables a-flyin’ around like buzzards in the air and boppin’ me on the head! No sir-ree, I got me a nice, soft, easy job.”

  “Doin’ what?” asked Joel.

  “Fire Watch!” said Eddie. “It’s a cinch. Nothin’ to do but read comics all day. I been doin’ it every summer since I was fifteen. Get paid, too—two dollars an hour, how’s that? This year, when I got to be eighteen, I thought I’d get me a man’s job and set chokers … but I didn’t last long.”

  “You like spottin’ fires better?” asked Joel.

  “It’s about all I can do and I was glad to get the job,” said Eddie. “Ever since the Tiller fire, the Forest Service is more particular than ever. They’re watchin’ the mountains like a hawk, from now till the winter rains begin. They lost a lot of timber in the National Forest and they don’t want it to happen again.”

  “Where’s your Fire Watch?” asked Joel.

  “Oh, up on top of Old Craggy, about five miles up that-a-way.” Eddie waved his arm. “I used to ride my bike other summers, but now I can’t with my clubfoot. I hitch a ride with Skinner’s Logging truck. It’s their outfit that’s logging up there. Say, Joel, why don’t you come along some day? I git lonesome up there—nobody to talk to. Come along, why don’t you?”

  “O.K.,” said Joel. “I’d like to. When?”

  “Monday afternoon, about three o’clock,” said Eddie. “Be waitin’ at the store and bring some lunch with you. Watch for the green logging truck. That’s Skinner’s. I’ll be on it, lookin’ for you. So long!”

  The plan worked fine. Joel met the truck and hopped on. There was Eddie in the cab beside the driver. Joel had to hunch down in front. After a long and twisty ride up and down hill, they came to Eddie’s location on the side of the mountain.

  It was August now and the dry weather continued in this part of Oregon. The danger from forest fires increased. The loggers started “hoot-owling”—going to work at 2 or 3 A. M., to get in as many hours of work as possible before the sun came up and the humidity dropped. At their homes, they did their sleeping in the heat of the day, while the rest of the family was awake.

  According to government regulations, every logging operation, no matter how small, had to have its own fire-fighting equipment. This meant a water-tank at the landing, fire tools for no other use in a sealed box, and spark arrestors on all exhaust pipes on machines. Besides this, a Fire Watch was employed to spot fires if any started.

  Joel and Eddie jumped out of the truck. Joel looked around. The view from the landing was beautiful, steep canyons and more mountains beyond. He looked at Eddie’s camp.

  Eddie had things fixed up pretty nice. He had built a lean-to shelter and a table out of small logs. He had a box fitted out for keeping books and comics, and a small battery radio. Beside the table was a folding chair. Eddie had to sit on the landing and watch for fires. If he saw smoke anywhere, he had to call the Forest Service. There was a rig on the landing with a radio telephone in it.

  “Would you like to be up in a lookout?” asked Joel.

  “They don’t man them all anymore,” said Eddie. “The State Forests still have them, but the National Forests only a few. They find that airplanes are more useful for spotting fires.”

  “Do you just sit up here for three hours?” asked Joel.

  “Oh, no,” said Eddie. “After the crew leaves, I have to cover, on foot, on my bum foot, the area that was logged. I have to go over it all least twice. I have to go on foot to get the fire before it’s out of control. I can put it out with a shovel and an axe and a five-gallon can of water, if it’s a little one.”

  The boys were both hungry, so they sat down to eat lunch. While they ate, Eddie talked about his work.

  “Any machine can throw a spark,” he said. “Friction on the lines can cause a fire. No matter what you do to prevent forest fires, it seems they start anyhow. The least little thing—a tiny spark—in dry weather like this, can sure cause trouble.”

  “Don’t I know it!” said Joel. “That Tiller fire burned off hundreds of acres. Of course it was caused by lightning.” He paused, then went on, “It must be fun stayin’ up here in the woods every day.”

  “It gets lonesome,” said Eddie. “I get tired readin’ and listenin’ to the radio, and wishin’ something would happen. One day, what do you think I saw—a bear eating blackcaps! He just stood there and growled at me over the bushes, then turned and scooted off as fast as he could go. I’ve seen so many deer I can’t count them all. Once I saw a doe with triplets! That was really something!”

  Eddie turned the radio on and stretched out on the ground, his hands under his head.

  “Well, if you’re goin’ to take a nap,” said Joel, “I think I’ll go watch the logging, before the men quit.”

  “O. K.,” said Eddie, “but don’t get lost. Them woods is big and it’s mighty easy to get turned around.”

  “I’ll be O. K.,” said Joel.

  “I have to make my rounds after a while,” said Eddie. “I have to stay for three hours after the loggers leave. Then my brother comes for me in his Model A Ford. Be sure to get back here by that time.”

  Joel started out. How wonderful it was to be in the woods again. He had loved it all his life. He loved its peace and quiet, its flickering lights and half-shadows, the chirping and squeaking noises of the wildlife.

  The tall trees of fir and pine and cedar made a curtain of green, reaching from the clouds down to the earth. Berries and ferns and wild flowers grew at their feet. Sometimes the fog drifted in over the mountaintops and dr
aped itself over the low branches and dampened the pine and hemlock needles with drops of dew. The air was so clean and pure, scented with pines, good to fill the lungs. The earth was soft with a carpet of rotted and decaying trees and logs and leaves, with wild flowers springing up here and there.

  Joel came out of the woods to the edge of a clear-cut and stared. The contrast was frightening. The clear-cut was horrible, a scene of desolation. It was a vast area of amputated stumps, with chunks of waste wood strewn about, piles of slash and brush, and patches of hard naked soil showing. Small young trees had been broken off or damaged by the logging. Bare spots of rock or hard ground were not good places for seeds or seedlings to take hold. How could they ever replant in a place like this?

  Joel came to the place where Skinner’s men were working. He stopped to watch. They were falling a big Douglas fir tree. He heard the penetrating, angry buzz of the power saw long before he came up.

  “DOWN THE HILL!” he heard the men shout.

  First the shiver and the ominous cracking, and then the terrifying roar as the mighty tree crashed down to earth and hit with a thundering thump. A shower of debris followed, twigs, branches, and vines.

  Joel shivered. A rush of sorrow and regret swallowed him up. Why was it so tragic to see a tree fall? It hurt him horribly, although he knew it had to be. He had watched many trees fall, but this time it was different.

  Out from the branches came dozens of silver flying squirrels. Joel had never seen so many in a flock before. When the tree started going, they all took off at once. With legs outspread like a big flat leaf, each squirrel began to glide through the air. It was a regular airlift! The whole flock made a dip down and then soared upward, ready to light on a nearby tree.

  But there was no tree near. They went on and on, not too fast, gliding like birds with wings, like eagles …

  Joel held his breath. How far could they go? A mile?

  It must have been a mile across the clear-cut and over the deep valley, until they finally found a tree to their liking and settled in its branches. What cute little old things they were. And what a wonderful sight to see so many of them soaring!

  How lucky they were!

  When danger came, they could get out of the way. Mother Nature had provided them not with wings, but with a loose fold of fur-covered skin at each side of their bodies, which acted like sail when they spread their legs. Their furry tails were flat like feathers and helped them to balance and steer. What a wonderful arrangement it was.

  They were night animals, Joel knew that. That was why they had such large bright eyes. They were cuter even than chipmunks. Jinx would like one for a pet, and she could probably tame it, too.

  But making pets of wild things was foolish. You had to let them go back to the wild, or they would die. The three chipmunks were gone now. Joel was glad Jinx let them go before something happened to them. The woods was their best home, after all. Living with people was not good for them.

  Joel thought of winter coming and the way the woods animals took care of themselves. They made nests or burrows or tunnels to live in. They stored food ahead of time, so they could eat, and some of them slept all winter, living off their own fat. The mice and the chipmunks and ground squirrels, and even the bears hibernated, but rabbits and deer had to live out in the snow. The cougar had his home in a cave in the rocks, Billy said. Billy knew a lot about animals. He had learned it from the animals themselves.

  Joel came to a tree and saw bear manure at its base. Looking closely, he saw fresh claw marks on the bark. He looked around, but there was no sign of the bear.

  He knew all the trees well, from the huge sugar pine with its cones a foot long, to the lacy hemlock, with its tiny inch-long cones. There was the stately Douglas fir, the ponderosa pine, the incense cedar, and the spruce. They were all beautiful. But his favorite was not one of the giants at all. It was the vine maple, a little delicate half-viney tree, with leaves of red and gold. There was always something red on it—leaves, twigs, and shoots, even its seed wings. And the madrone, too, with its smooth red bark, so easy to carve initials in, its thick shining leaves and edible red berries. Dad called it “the cleanest tree in the woods” because it was always shedding, “always changing its clothing.” It was always shedding and always green. The children loved its many curving trunks and branches, so easy to climb up and slide down.

  Joel walked on, half-dreaming, half-observing. Now he noticed that the ground was getting rougher and many trees were down, some piled on top of each other. Brush was thick and an army of briars and brambles blocked his path. To be a logger, a boy had to learn to climb steep grades, jump over logs, wade through brush and saw and chop trees. Joel wished for a chain saw like Dad’s, with a sawlike blade five feet long and a small gas engine built into its handle. All he would have to do was hold it against the wood and let it buzz, as it melted its way through a tree. Some day he’d have one of his own to take with him into the woods.

  Dad never went anywhere without his Homelite. If a big tree came down across the highway in a storm Dad, or the next logger coming along, would stop, buck it, and roll it over to one side. No wonder the loggers had to go to the woods armed with spiked boots, tin hat, and leather gloves. They never knew when they might meet an enemy. A fallen tree could be an enemy—a wild animal could be one, too.

  There were other enemies—big rocks and boulders sliding down a steep cliff, falling snags, “widow-makers” crashing down on your head when you weren’t looking, tangles of vines to trip you up, logs to stumble over. The woods was a friendly place, but it could be dangerous, too, if you weren’t alert.

  Suddenly the wind began to blow. It ruffled Joel’s hair and blew through his cotton shirt. He felt chilly—he had been sweating the minute before. What direction was the wind coming from? He reached for his compass, but it was not in his pocket. He tried his other pockets: The compass was gone. Oh, well, he’d get along without it. There was the sun, that was west. And the moss was always on the north side of the trees. He knew which direction he was going, all right. Down in the valley ahead somewhere was the Drum Store and his home.

  He saw a tree with a nest of bees. Did it have honey in it? That old bear ought to come and find it. He walked on past—he did not want to get stung.

  The wind kept on blowing.

  That meant Skinner’s men must stop work. All loggers had to get out of the woods when the wind blew. Too many snags to be blown down on their heads. It was impossible to fall trees in the wind. A faller could not make the tree go where he wanted it to go. Dad had said that more than once.

  The loggers must be going home now. Where was the woods road? And where was Skinner’s landing? Joel listened but could not hear the men or a motor—only the clicks and clacks and rattles and rustles of twigs and branches, only the whacks and bangs of broken limbs, only the rush of the wind and a sudden clap of thunder.

  Was it going to rain again?

  It never rained in August. August was the driest part of the year in Douglas County, the time when people had to irrigate their hayfields and their gardens, if they wanted to save their vegetables. It never rained in August. Lightning? Thunder again, would it bring lightning, to set fires in the dry-as-dust brush?

  The thought of the recent fires made the boy’s heart sink.

  The wind blew. The sun faded, the sky turned dark. It was as if daylight had suddenly changed to night. The wind blew with stronger force.

  Now the howling gale tugged at the boy’s clothes, trying to tear them off. Trees fell around him. He found an open spot and crouched down by a stump. There was nothing to do but wait till the blow was over.

  It grew darker. There was something moving. Was it an animal—a coyote, a cougar? Things were hiding behind trees, sometimes they peeped out. What was it? What were they? Birds, branches, animals? Oh, if he’d only brought Corky with him! That little old dog was mean, but he wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Joel knew he must get back to Eddie. He jumpe
d up and started calling: “ED—DIE! ED—DIE!” He called over and over, but only an echo came back. If Eddie didn’t hear him, surely the loggers would. No, they had stopped work when the wind began to blow. They must be halfway home by this time, maybe already there.

  “ED—DIE! ED—DIE!” It was only a waste of breath.

  He stood still and looked around. At the edge of the timber, he could see the sky. That was the way to go. Eddie’s Fire Watch was in an open place. He took courage and ran. It was hard to run, for the vines kept tripping him and the briars kept holding him back.

  What he came to was a deep ravine, one he had never seen before. The drop was so deep, he could not see the bottom. There was only a trail on the ledge, nothing to hang to above and a long way to fall below. He turned and began to run the other way, madly, anywhere to get away.

  Now he had no idea where he was. Every tree, every trunk, every path looked alike. Snags and logs and rotten stumps blocked his path. Vines and thorns and briars reached out to grab him by the feet, to scratch his arms and face. Twigs and limbs and needles and leaves pelted him like stones, strange noises pounded in his ears, whistlings and sighings and grumblings and crashings and bangings and whackings … The woods had come alive in the terrifying gale. The boy’s body became a mass of aches and pains and hurtings and fears and tears and despair.

  It was nearly dark now. The night animals would soon be out, the owls with their weird screeches, the cougar with its screaming, the coyote with its long-drawn-out wail. Oh, if he could only find Eddie again …

  Where was the Fire Watch? Had Eddie’s brother come in the Model A and taken him home? Was Joel left all alone now in the forest, the forest he loved so much? Was he lost, lost for the first time in his life?

  He stumbled on, not knowing or caring where he went, just to keep going. His head ached and his stomach pained with emptiness. His thoughts kept going round and round. The forest was no longer a friend, it was an enemy. It had turned on him and he hated it. How could he ever have wanted to be a logger? The forest was the logger’s enemy all his life. It existed only to destroy him.