Early Days in the Forest Service Volume 3

By Charlie E. Powell
(Retired 1955)

A few months after my 18th birthday, I wrote a letter to W.W. White, then supervisor of the Bitterroot, asking him for a job. In a few days he sent a reply saying the Ranger would call on me. The next day Ranger Winthrop H. Young drove up to our ranch on Sweathouse Creek west of Victor and said he needed a man to go up Big Creek and put out a fire. I asked him how long the fire had been burning and he said he was not sure but knew it was burning three days before. I then asked him of the location and he said it was up the creek about ten miles above the mouth of the canyon, but didn't know how large it was. I agreed to take the job, gathered up some tools and a camping outfit and left by saddle horse and one pack animal. (I was already a past master at throwing a full diamond hitch.)

Arriving at the fire late that evening, I found it to be burning in the only cedar swamp in the drainage, and covered about an acre. It was not spreading but, brother, was that duff deep! I got a good trench around it at the end of 3 days, and left. The fire was far from being out, but I later learned that the trench I had dug kept the fire contained.

After leaving the fire on Big Creek, I rode to the Butterfly Ranger Station on Willow Creek, about 10 miles east of Corvallis. There I learned the fire guard on that side of the valley had to be hospitalized for an appendectomy, and I was to take his place. Ranger Young then presented me with the large-size Forest Service badge and admonished me to wear it with pride and dignity, which I did, on a belt loop. I sure puffed up then, and thought I was equal to any Texan.

After being there a few days, a fire broke out on the Burnt Fork, which developed into a "honey." We rustled up a pack string of half-broken broomtails and with 35 or 40 men, headed for the fire. On our way to the fire some "windbag" from California kept next to Ranger Young and fed him a big "line" about his experience on large fires in California. We set up camp in Skalkaho Basin and put the men to building a fireline about a mile from the fire. They cut a swath through the green timber about 50 feet in width and a trench about 6 feet wide. Ranger Young put the "Native Son" in charge and then left for the Ranger Station. Since I was the smokechaser, I did not put in much time on the fireline, but did some looking around as the country was new to me. I did, however, notice that the fire was not burning very fast toward the fireline, so I thought it would be better to take the crew and work up against the fire. I told the foreman to get ready to hit the fire close up next morning, and he told me that he was in charge and would do as he pleased. Not knowing just what I could do but that something had to be done, I asked him, "You know that trail you came in on from the Ranger Station?" He said, "Yes." I said, "It's still there and you take it in the morning." He asked me where I got the authority to fire him, and I pointed to my badge and said, "That's it." He left next morning. What he may have told Ranger Young in unbeknown to me, but in a few days M.N. Stickney showed up and seemed to be satisfied with the progress we were making. When he left he handed me a note which instructed me to go ahead with the fire, and when we had it under control, to construct a trail down Burnt Fork Creek under my supervision and to take orders from no one but him, and signed M.N. Stickney.

As most fires of that size were generally made safe by snow, this was no exception, and the crew was sent home, but I thought a pack string would be sent in to pack the camp out. I sure got fooled that time; instead, I was given 5 head of horses, two of which were a team of draft horses owned by the Forest Service, and instructed to pack the camp out to Butterfly Ranger Station by myself. I sure goofed that time, should have left the "Native Son" on the fire as boss. I would go out to the Station one day, back the next, make up my packs and then do it all over again. There happened to be two bad bog holes in the Willow Creek trail, and it never failed that those two damn big Titanics would get down in the bog holes and I would have to remove their packs, help them out by giving them a pull with my saddle horse, then lug those packs out of the loblolly and pack them up again.

I never will forget the last trip out with that camp. As usual both of the draft horses got down, and after getting them out I would load one and send him down the trail and then proceed to put the pack on the other. When I caught up with the others I discovered the draft horse was missing, so back I went up the trail looking for the missing horse when I thought I heard some kind of a groan, and looking down below the trail, there it was flat on his back with all four feet in the air, lodged against a big boulder. I was almost tempted to use my sixshooter.

On this fire we had a cook by the name of Tom Sherrill. At that time (1917) I think Sherrill may have been 60 or 65 years of age, but anyway, he was a member of the Bitterroot Volunteers at the Big Hole Battle. (Should the readers happen to visit that Battlefield they will see two pits with markers showing Tom Sherrill was "here" and his brother Bunch Sherrill was "there.") Well, Tom told me the whole story and there I sat with a pencil and diary book in my pocket, and never had enough brains to write down what he told me. I must have been more interested in the live ones than the dead at that time.

The next year (1918) I was located on the west side of the valley and had my camp at the mouth of the canyon on Mill Creek. The Selway was having some trouble with fires in Idaho and most of the supplies were being packed in from Hamilton, through Blodgett Creek. Ranger Young sent 3 of us up Blodgett Creek to construct a bridge as the ford had a big bog hole on both sides of the creek and pack stock could no longer get through. There was a fire crew camped at the old Blodgett Creek Ranger Station at the end of the road, waiting for us to finish the bridge. Working with us was a fellow whose voice over the phone sounded just like a girl's. He was given the nickname of "Sister." Finally we finished with the bridge and that night went into Hamilton. We met some forest officer from the District Office (I don't recall his name) who was pleased to learn that the bridge was open to travel, but said we would have to get that girl out of camp. I said we had no girl in camp, and he said we did. I asked him what made him think so, and he said some girl named McKay had answered the phone. I said, "Oh, that's Sister." He said, "Oh, you have your sister up there with you." Then I told him that the fellow's voice sounded like a girl's over the phone. About that time Sister showed up, and after hearing his voice, we were forgiven.

Jack Fitting was, or at least I thought he was, Ranger at Elk Summit at that time, and made quite a few trips with his packer (Frank Freeman) into Hamilton for supplies. I believe Jack had a cast iron stomach. They used to camp at the first meadow below the pass on the Blodgett Creek side, and would leave their camp intact and go on to Hamilton. Then on their way back, they would camp there again, thereby saving one camp erection. Jack would leave partially filled cans of food on the table for two or three days in summer heat, and then would eat that stuff, yet some people even today believe that whiskey is harmful to humans.

In 1919, I thought I preferred to work in a wilder area, so I hired out to Ranger James D. Vance, with headquarters at the Allen Ranch on the Nez Perce Fork of the Bitterroot. Jim was a fine man to work with, and he also had the touch of Midas. That summer he had about 20 head of his own horses packing to fires. He leased the Allen Ranch and the packers put up the hay which was sold to the Forest Service. Then he brought up a small herd of beef and put them on the meadows, we packers did the butchering, and the meat went to the fire camps. He had one small string of 5 horses that carried nothing but fresh meat and traveled at night to keep the meat out of the heat. My partner and I had a string of 24 horses and 2 mules that summer. The mules belonged to the Forest Service.

Fires broke out down on the Selway between Indian and White Cap Creeks rather early. As a matter of fact, there was still some snow on the Nez Perce Pass. Vance had a 12 or 15-man trail crew on Watch Tower Creek that he wished to move to the fire on Snake Creek on the Selway. He sent three pack strings of about 25 head each from Allen Station, with a crew of firefighters, to Watch Tower Creek where we picked up the supplies and trail crew and headed for the fire. Dick Vance, a brother of Jim, said he was acquainted with the country and trail, so Jim sent him ahead. When we reached the divide at the head of Watch Tower Creek we had to travel over three feet of hard-packed snow which obliterated all signs of the trail, but was hard enough to support the stock. I asked Dick where the trail went from there and he said it dropped right into the head of Cooper Creek. It didn't look good to me but he claimed to know the trail, so down we went. We did not have to go far until we found he did not know what he was talking about, and did we have a time getting that mess of horses out of there. I told Dick there could be but one way to go and that would be to follow the main divide south until we reached the Cooper-Schofield Creeks divide. Well, we did and we soon picked up the trail, but darkness overtook us and we had to make a dry camp. That really-wasn't nice either, with 75 head of pack stock without feed or water and a crew of men with very little water. The next morning we started down the trail for Cooper's Flat at the confluence of Canyon and White Cap Creeks. When we reached Canyon Creek the horses, being crazy for water, really created a problem to get them out on the flat away from it before they foundered themselves. We finally managed to get them away from the water before they got too much, but when we got them out on the flat, about 75% of them started to bucking, and with them being so gaunt because of the lack of feed and water, most of the saddles were rather loose. We finally got their packs off - that is, those that did not unpack themselves. As I recall, we had 50 or 60 men with us enroute to the fire and they were just about as gaunt and sullen as the pack animals when we reached Cooper's Flat.

A cook from the trail camp, by the name of Barr, was, I believe, the best camp cook I ever saw before or since. He came from Ten Sleep, Wyomingand said he used to cook for a cow outfit. After that bucking spree I don't believe it was much over an hour until the crew was eating, and he made all his bread in a reflector. This cook was always talking about his twin brother, which I took with a grain of salt, as he was kind of fickle with the truth. One morning we left him at the fire camp on the river just at daybreak, and late that afternoon here he was cooking at a fire camp on Boulder Creek on the Montana side. When I saw him, I asked him where in hell did he pass us. He looked kind of bewildered and did not say anything, and then it dawned on me that he was a twin of the cook at Snake Creek.

Later on we packed to a fire on Sabe Creek, which has a long, 3-day trip one way. On our first trip into the Sabe Creek fire with the crew, we had a dope addict for a cook. He sure could hike when he was "high," but while taking a bath in Sheephead Creek he lost his dope or else he lost it on the trail. We camped that night at the Indian Graves, and the next morning he did get breakfast, but when we reached Kit Carson, he said he could not go on, so we went off and left him. There we were, my partner and I with a pack string of 26 horses, a 45-man crew, no cook, and no bread. The packing, the cooking, and making biscuits for 45 men with reflectors was not much fun, but we kept on. At the Upper Selway crossing we phoned back and requisitioned a cook, who showed up at Sabe Creek in a day or so after we reached the fire. After that we just had to pack from the Upper Crossing to the fire as another string packed the supplies from Allen Station to the river and dumped it there for us.

After the Sabe Creek fire was in the mop-up stage, Ranger Vance phoned us to go to Steep Hill near the Blue Joint-Storm Creeks divide and move a fire camp, as the trail to the north was cut off by fire. When we reached the bald knob at the top of Steep Hill, we noticed a heavy column of smoke boiling up from the foot of Steep Hill. I told my partner that if he would hold the stock I would ride down and see what was going on. I rode but a short distance when I met Lee Bass, the foreman, coming up the hill with his crew. Lee said their camp had burned, and nothing was saved but the tools they had with them. (Bass was at that time living in Stevensville and ran a taxidermy shop, and still lives there but is retired.) Well, we all went back to the bald knob and prevented the fire from sweeping over the grassland, but it did burn completely around us. That night a heavy snowstorm hit, and there sure was misery walking around there the next morning. About 40 men and no breakfast, but we packers did have enough coffee to give each man a weak brew. My Partner and I were more fortunate as we had our bed, and we let the men use saddle blankets and pack covers that night. My partner was quite a poet, and could build one on a moment's notice. That night he forgot to put his boots under cover, and the next morning when he slipped his boots on he found them half full of snow. He sat there with a blank stare for awhile and then said, "Oh God, I howled no louder since the day I was born, when I ran my foot off down that boot, that cold and bleak September morn." This, I think, was about September 21, 1919, when we got about 14 inches of snow.

All the time I spent in the hills, I ran into but two grizzlies, rather I saw but two. In the fall of 1924, after the protection force was off fire protection, I received a call from Supervisor Lowell saying a fire was reported near the lake on the head of Mill Creek. The call from Lowell came just about quitting time and it was up to me to go to the fire. I had a 3-man trail crew working on Blodgett Creek, so I decided that I would take a few iron rations and go to their camp and then the next morning I would take them with me to the fire on Mill Creek. This was in the month of October and the moon was almost full which made it nice for night traveling. After hiking up the trail a couple of miles, I came to a short, steep pitch, and being somewhat winded when I reached the top, I stopped and looked up. There it stood, not over 20 feet ahead of me, its fur having a silver cast in the bright moonlight. There stood a pillar nearly 10 feet high and glistening like an icicle. I froze, and felt as cold as it looked. I didn't make a sound because I couldn't, but I did turn off the trail, walked down and waded the creek and then went on my way up the creek, really afraid to look back. I doubt that I even rested until I reached the camp, which was about 10 miles up the creek.

For some reason unbeknown to me, Supervisor Lowell would always start a field trip about Thursday, and it would generally run until a week from the following Tuesday. They always took in two Sundays. I recall one trip that started at the Black Bear Ranger Station on Skalkaho Creek, took up the South Fork to Congdon Peak, then we went north along the Sapphire Range to the Miller Creek Ranger Station, and back over the cross-country trail to Ambrose Ranger Station. There he had someone meet him with a car and I rode on to Victor with the stock. One Sunday while on this trip we ran into some women having a picnic on Miller Creek. John asked me if I ever talked to campers on my travels, and I told him I did, but that I never barged in on picnickers unless they invited me to get down and have a bite. He said that it was good public relations to visit with such groups. He then proceeded to show me the proper technique, rode up near their table, removed his hat and asked, "How is every little thing around here?" One of the young women said, "There aren't any "little things" around here." We rode off, me chewing my tongue and Lowell frowning to beat hell.

Well, time moved on and so did I landing on the Kootenai. Frank Jefferson was supervisor when I took over the Swamp Creek District. That dwelling really was something, a log building with two rooms upstairs and two down. We had water on the back porch which ran when the creek did not freeze dry. It was in the $700.00 cost class, not the $24,000.00 like they build now. We had a Ranger meeting that spring at Schrieber Lake, in a ranch house. The Rangers attending that meeting were Bob Byers, Mac Gregg, Howard Matthews, L.D. Williamson, Dewey Sousley, Charlie Fenn, E.A. Woods, Ralph Fields, and myself; Jefferson and Pink Dwinelle from the Supervisor's Office, and Roy Phillips from the District Office. (It hadn't yet become the Regional Office.) Phillips was to teach us how to plow and grade a trail. It rained and snowed every day of the meeting, which was in early May. E.A. Woods got us all together and away from the ears of the brass and said, "Fellows, this is it." We all wanted to know what he meant by "This is it," and he said as long as Jeff was supervisor of the Kootenai, we would be expected to hit the ball no matter how bad the weather was.

Well, I believed Woods, and that winter Jeff had me construct a telephone line from the old Geiger ranch to Wolf Creek and to Fisher Mountain. I had Harvey Sheely and Bill Williams on the job. We had a team and sleigh for transportation which meant that we had to camp on the job. We camped in a tent at Tepee Creek and Squaw Creek and from McKillop on down we used abandoned cabins. While at Squaw Creek the weather turned cold, -30, -35, and down to 38 degrees below zero. We kept telephone communication with the Ranger Station and Libby as we went along. One night Jeff called and asked me where I was as he could not hear me too well. I told him I was at Squaw Creek. He said, "What in hell are you doing there?" I told him we were building telephone line and all we had to do was to make a motion at a limb and it would break off. He said, "God, man, no one expects you to work out in this kind of weather." So I found that Jeff was not quite as tough as Woods said he was. Whenever Jeff got a bunch of Rangers in the Supervisor's Office to do some winter paper work, he would get us all together and tell us he would give us one day to get through BS-ing and then get to work. At that time the Supervisor's Office force consisted of Jefferson, Dwinelle, Billings, Bob Strong, Klehm, Miss Erdman (now Mrs. Byers), Miss Neuman, and 3 scalers - John Baird, Fred Gravlin and Edd Henrichs.

One time Jefferson wrote each one of us Rangers a memorandum telling us of our shortcomings. Of course, we all got together and were crying on each other's shoulders about what he accused us of doing or not doing. We all had some faults. I remember he said Bob Byers should be a - little more careful about his working hours. At that time Bob was courting and had to travel by train as Adelaide lived in Libby and the train's schedule did not agree with Bob's working hours. Anyhow, we all were giving Jeff hell when in walked Charlie Fenn. We asked Fenn what Jeff had to say about him, and Fenn said, "Damn him, he said I was a little careless about the truth." That tickled the rest of us so much that we forgot about our grievances.

At the time I went to Rexford there was still a little trouble on Pinkham Creek with the "Ridge Runners." I thought that if I could figure out who molded the "bullets" I might be able to get around him and stop the incendiarism that flared up now and then.

One day I went up Pinkham Creek and stopped at the Old Boy's place. He was quite suspicious of me and asked me what I wanted. I told him that I just wanted to get away from that damn telephone for a spell and take my mind off of fire. He said to come in and sit in the shade. About that time a flock of big Plymouth Rock chickens came around the corner of the house. I said to Mrs. Doe, "You sure have a lot of nice chickens." She said she had so many - some 50 or 60. I said to her, "It's a wonder you don't cut one's head off once in a while." The Old Boy said, "Sis, why don't you cook this man a chicken." She said, "Pa, do you know who he reminds me of?" Pa said, "No, who?" She said, "That preacher we used to have on Spring Creek in West Virginia." The Old Boy said, "Huh, he was a mean --- -- - -----." I spoke up and said, "For all you know I might be one also."

Another Pinkham Cricker asked me to dinner one day. He had raised a large family, and during our conversation at the table I asked him about his family. He said he had 12 kids besides Homer, and he didn't count him. I asked, "How come you don't count Homer?" The Old Man said, "Because he's a damn Brush Colt."

I wasn't only a Ranger on that District, but everything from a deacon to a Dorothy Dix. Sometimes when they saw me coming they would dash out and want me to get them something in town and bring it back the next time I came up. I picked up shoes, overalls, baby nipples, tobacco, and paid their express bills. One day a fellow came out and said his daughter was about to marry a good for nothing and wanted to know what to do. I told him I didn't know what he could do. He asked me what I would do if it was my daughter, and I told him I would make her a widow. He said he didn't mind so much about her marrying the guy only he was just a little worried thinking she might be marrying her half-brother.

Boy, oh boy, if I could only write, Peyton Place would be wiped off the shelves.

(click on image for a PDF version)