Fires in the Wilderness (6 page)

He continued, “They darn near took all the pine. Now this area is covered with stumps, brush, and trees that the lumber barons didn't want.” Mr. Wilson gestured to the countryside just outside our camp. “Our job will be to clear the area and build roads to prevent wildfires. Who knows? We may be called on to fight fires as well. Come next year, we'll be planting trees in this area.”

Mr. Wilson went on to tell us that the limbs and tree branches that were stacked into slashing piles across the state created serious fire hazards. Our first task as the CCC was to do all we could to reduce wildfires. He called the job “pre-suppression.” That meant building roads and fire trails, constructing watchtowers, and stringing telephone lines that would link the towers to the camp. If and when the time came, we would put our lives on the line fighting fires in the wilderness.

“Fellas,” Lieutenant Campbell concluded, “your assistant leaders will be assigning you to teams and passing out jobs based on your skills. Remember what Captain Mason said earlier: This is the Civilian Conservation Corps. We ain't your mommies. Work hard and keep your noses clean. I don't want no trouble from any of you. If you have problems or questions, take them to your assistant leaders.”

My heart sank as Mike O'Shea approached. “I've got a special job for you boys.” He glared directly at me. “You'll be in charge of supplying road construction materials. It's up to you to make sure that the road crews get the gravel they need.”

Road construction materials—sounded good; maybe I'd even have a chance to drive a truck. After all, workers and materials had to be delivered to areas where roads were being built. Optimism faded away when we were handed shovels and marched to a gravel pit that was a few miles from camp. There we began our work.

Drivers backed huge dump trucks into the gravel pit. Once they parked, Stosh, Pick, Yasku, and I loaded each truck by hand—shovelful by shovelful. Ice-cold water seeped through the gravel. In short order, our feet were soaked and miserable. That was the least of it. Hour after hour we picked up the gravel and tossed it far overhead into the trucks. It was backbreaking work. At lunchtime, we sat at the edge of the pit and ate our sandwiches. Our arms were so sore and tired the sandwiches seemed heavy.

Work in the gravel pit went on day after day, five days a week. The days lasted forever, and the nights were a blink. One day Pick took me aside. “Mike is always going to keep us in this pit or someplace worse. Why don't you try to clear things up? Maybe we'd have a chance for something a little easier.”

What Pick said made sense. After supper, I tracked Mike down to talk things through. My hand reached out to him. “I think we got off on a bad foot,” I began. “I just want you to know that I don't have any hard feelings.”

“Well, I do have hard feelings.” Mike poked his finger into my chest to punctuate his words. “If you're here to get buddy-buddy with me, I don't want it.”

I stepped back and looked him in the eye. “What do you want?” I asked.

“I want you and your pals to pay for making me look like a fool.”

A big-mouthed response was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn't say it. Mike didn't need anyone else to make a fool out of him. He was good at making a fool of himself by the way he acted. Talking to Mike O'Shea was impossible.

W
e ignored Mike O'Shea and the constant taunts he delivered both at camp and in the pit. Our work continued regardless of the weather. In fact, we were told that the only time we wouldn't be outside working was if the temperature was lower than twenty degrees below zero. The month of May had been cold and rainy so far, but not that cold. The weather took a change for the better one day, or so we thought.

Down in the gravel pit, we couldn't always tell which way the wind was blowing. Early on that particular day, we felt a breeze on our backs for the first time since our jobs began. The wind had shifted and was coming out of the south. The air carried warmer temperatures and the first smells of spring.

Before long, our shirts were off and we were feeling charged up at the promise of warmer weather yet to come. That morning seemed to fly by. We were all surprised and pleased to see the lunch truck roll up to the pit. The driver laid on the horn to tell us to come and get it.

As we sprinted up to the lunch truck, the driver poked his head out the window. “Looks like there's a storm coming up from the south. D'ya needs me to grab some rain ponchos and run 'em back to ya?”

Mike O'Shea appeared out of nowhere. It seemed as though he was always showing up at the wrong time. “Don't bother trying to help these guys. They don't have the sense to get in out of the rain. Heck, they're so stupid they won't know it's raining unless somebody tells 'em.”

Mike slapped his knee as he laughed. The driver stared at him and shook his head. I just wrote off the whole situation as another example of how Mike made himself look foolish. I wasn't going to let O'Shea spoil this first nice day since coming to Polack Lake.

“You guys quit lollygagging,” Mike said as we enjoyed our lunches. “Some of the drivers and road crews are complaining that you ain't keeping up with your share of the work.”

We all knew better than to believe what Mike was saying. The drivers were always telling us that we were working hard and doing a good job in a bad situation. They also told us that the road crews were working hard and could barely keep up with the gravel we were sending to them. Still, none of us was about to argue with Mike. When he realized that he wasn't going to get us riled up, he stomped off to check up on other work crews.

I turned to the lunch truck driver. “Don't pay any attention to Mike,” I said. “He's got a mean streak in him.”

“You fellas are good workers. I'd be happy to bring back some ponchos if you want,” he said.

“No thanks,” I said. “I think we'll be fine. A little spring rain might even feel good.”

“Yah,” Pick added. “It's starting to get right warm down in that pit.”

“Well, be sure to take shelter if we get lightning.” With that, the driver waved and headed out to complete his deliveries to the other work crews.

We watched the storm coming as our lunches settled. “I don't like the look of them clouds,” Yasku said.

“Me neither,” said Stosh.

“Where would we go if the lightning starts crashing around us?” asked Pick.

“The pit is probably as good a place as any,” Yasku said. “Don't lightning usually strike high points like trees and flag poles?”

“There's too much water in the pit,” I said. “If lightning strikes a river or lake nearby, we could get electrocuted.”

Pick came up with a solution. “We could crawl under a gravel truck. That would get us out of the rain and protect us from lightning.”

We all agreed to the plan.

The storm got closer and closer through the afternoon. The sky was taken over by tall, black clouds that roiled and boiled. Just as we finished loading a truck with gravel, the warm south wind seemed to stop all of a sudden. We watched the truck roll away and were waiting for the next one to arrive when the storm hit.

The dark sky covered us. Day became night. A sudden wind from the north turned our skin prickly and the air carried a frightful cold. We heard it long before we saw or felt it. A roaring sound started off in the distance and approached us rapidly. Our plan to hide under a gravel truck had gone bad. There were no trucks around and no shelter in sight. We were caught out in the open.

Hailstones smashed to the ground all around. They were bigger around than our thumbs and struck with the force of a thrown rock. I covered my head with the blade of my shovel. The other guys did the same. The stones pinged off the shovels that protected our heads. Our arms, backs, and legs took the brunt of the stones as they fell from high above.

The hailstorm lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed like it went on for hours. Just before it let up, another gravel truck arrived and backed down into the pit to take on another load. Like the storm was on some kind of switch, the hail stopped when the truck driver turned off the engine and set the parking break. Our shelter from the storm had arrived too late to offer any help at all.

The driver stepped out of his truck and wiped his brow with his cap. “Whew, that was quite a hailstorm wasn't it?”

“Really?” Stosh asked. “We hadn't noticed.”

Our mouths hung open as we looked at the truck driver. Each of us was bruised and bloody from being left out in the open without shelter. As the driver turned his back on us to walk to the rim of the pit, we grabbed handfuls of hailstones and pitched them at him.

That was to be one of the most miserable days we were to spend at Camp Polack Lake. The hailstorm had leveled our camp. Many tents were knocked down and blown away. The mess tent was ripped to shreds. The trucks were dinged and dented, windshields smashed and shattered. The storm destroyed practically everything we'd built over the past few weeks. After a day of working in the pit and being caught in an awful hailstorm, we had to begin the work of rebuilding our camp.

It took nearly a week to patch tents and fix all the damage. We did all the repairs in the evening after a long day's work.

M
ike O'Shea had work responsibilities that took him to different projects in the area, so we never knew when he'd show up at the pit. We kept our backs to the work even when Mike was nowhere to be found. During our lunch break one day, the drivers left their gravel trucks and took a walk. Pick was off exploring when he spotted something in the brush nearby.

“Hey, look!” he shouted.

Pick began chasing something through the underbrush. He zigged and zagged through the nearby thicket. Now and then we'd catch a glimpse of him and the critter he was chasing. The dark animal squealed as it charged up the backside of a nearby oak tree. Pick wasn't far behind. As he climbed, the animal scurried higher and started to bleat. We didn't know whether the animal was friendly or not, so we grabbed our shovels and joined the chase.

“What is it?” Yasku shouted up at Pick.

“Don't know,” Pick hollered back. “Maybe it's a dog.”

“You rube,” Stosh laughed, “dogs don't climb trees. Maybe it's some kind of wildcat.”

The answer came quickly. Mother bear crossed the nearby clearing like a black landslide. She took up a position at the base of the tree, tilted her head back, and clacked her teeth. All of us on the ground backed away nervously. The bear issued a sound like a long, low train whistle. Our hair stood on end. Stosh jumped behind a tall stump and peeked out occasionally.

“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” Pick repeated as he feverishly searched for an escape. His eyes moved left and right, up and down, desperately looking for some way, any way, to save himself from an angry bear.

“Get out of there!” Yasku hollered up to Pick.

“I can't!” Pick screamed in terror. “Help me!”

The black bear circled the oak, then began to climb. She hung just below Pick. Her head swung back and forth as she continued to make loud clacking sounds with her teeth. Pick was trapped between mother and her baby. The cub clung to the only branch nearby that would hold Pick's weight. Mother inched her way up, peeling bark from the tree with her sharp claws.

“We've got to do something,” I said to the guys. “If Pick gets out of there alive, we'll have to keep the bear away from him. Be ready with your shovels and follow me.”

“Help!” Pick screamed desperately.

Stosh threw a rock at the mother bear, striking her in the back with a dull thud. It had no effect whatsoever. The bear inched upward and took a swipe at Pick.

“Climb, Pick! The cub is sitting on a strong branch—climb up to it, then swing out and away from the bear,” I shouted.

“Are you crazy?” Pick screamed. “I don't want to get anywhere near that bear baby! Its ma will tear me to pieces!”

I hollered back, “When you climb further up the tree, the cub will go higher.”

Eyes wide with fear, Pick pulled himself up slowly. When the cub scooted farther up the tree trunk, Pick swung his body out on the branch. His feet were just above the mother. “Good bear. Good bear. Pay no attention to me. Just get your baby,” Pick pleaded.

Hand-over-hand, he moved farther and farther away from the tree trunk. The cub cried and the mother bear continued to clack her teeth loudly. We edged toward the tree, holding our tools up, ready to strike in Pick's defense.

The branch bent under Pick's weight. When he was out about six feet from the trunk of the tree, mother bear scampered up to reach her cub. With her baby protected, once again she took a swipe at Pick, her claws falling short of their mark. Coming so close, the claws caused Pick to lose his grip on the branch, and he tumbled out of the tree. He grunted as he took several limbs with him on the way down before falling hard on the ground.

“What's going on here?” shouted one of the truck drivers from behind us.

“Is that a bear?” asked the other.

Just then, mother and cub scuttled down the tree and hurried off into the woods. When she was off a fair distance, the bear snorted a final farewell.

We had the heebie-jeebies that whole day. Cautious eyes kept focus on the horizon as we shoveled load after load onto the gravel trucks. The last thing we wanted to see was another bear. Every snapping twig or movement in the brush caught our attention.

Now and then, one of us would recall something from the encounter. We talked it over, laughing nervously at both our actions and our stupidity.

“I guess that sergeant back at Camp Custer was right,” Pick said. “There are bears up here, but we ain't seen no man-hungry moose or a crazy lumberjack ghost just yet.”