It was a time when the
Forest Industry was just beginning. A time when large buildings, solid
and concrete, were taking over the shed roofs that had sheltered the
old sawmills. Band-saws and J-Bar Sorters were replacing the Gang-saws
and Green Chains. It was a time when people were just starting to
be aware of the fact that we had to preserve our wonderful, extensive
wilderness against man, as well as against lightning and fire. A time
when the Alberta Forest Service was still young enough that almost
all of the Ranger's work was done out in the field, when paperwork
hardly even existed, when people, as well as the land, were still
a bit wild.
It was a time that stories are made of.
***
The pick-up slid around
the corner, spitting bits of sand and fine gravel onto the young man
slumped against the wall of the Hotel. He had his head in his hands
and didn't seem to notice any of it. Not the dust, nor the gravel,
nor the truck. The pick-up fish-tailed a bit and then stopped, sputtering
away to itself. The driver's door opened and a big man got out, leaving
the door hanging open. He made his way around the box of the pick-up,
dust puffing up around each step, and stopped in front of the young
man.
For awhile he just stood
there with his hands on his hips, staring down at the fellow in front
of him, then he said, "What's your name there, boy?"
The fellow, still hunched against the wall, lifted his head slowly,
carefully, as if worried that any sudden movement would jar his head
loose. He squinted up at the giant of a man in front of him, but he
couldn't get his tongue working right, so he didn't bother trying
to say anything at all.
The older man towering over him shrugged, "I'm Ferguson, and
you're working for me now." He reached down and grabbed the young
man's collar in one big fist. He hauled him into a semi-upright position,
and when the fellow couldn't convince his legs to hold the rest of
his body up, Ferguson wrapped his fingers around the back of the other
man's belt and hoisted him into the box of the pick-up. Ferguson,
eyes squinted against the dust, made his way back to the driver's
side of the pickup and climbed in without a word. The sand that made
up the road was very dry, more dust than anything else. It hung in
the air over the town and coated everything. The powdery stuff was
a foot thick in places. Worse than mud, Ferguson figured, and had
about as much purchase to it for the tires. The truck stuttered and
bucked a bit, then finally started plowing it's way through the sand.
***
Ferguson's wife saw her husband's pick-up coming down the street.
She smiled to herself, she'd never have believed that she would ever
call the dust bowl outside her home a street, but she did think of
it as such now. She watched, still smiling at her thoughts, as her
husband got out of the truck, and began to haul the fellow out of
the box. The younger man pushed him away. Ferguson just grinned a
bit, leaned back and landed one of his large fists on the other man's
jaw. Mrs. Ferguson's smile faded as she turned away from the window
and hustled her children into the back room.
When she came back into the kitchen, her husband was holding his new
employee under the pump. The young fellow was spluttering away, trying
to swear.
"Better watch your tongue there, boy, or my wife just might wash
your mouth out with soap!" Ferguson smiled at his wife as he
spoke.
The young man twisted his head out of the larger man's grasp and turned
to see Mrs. Ferguson standing quietly by the door.
"Sorry, ma'am," He slurred the words slightly, but he was
standing on his own now.
She smiled at him, and said in her Scottish brogue, "Sit down
now, and I'll have supper on in a minute."
He looked from her to her husband, confused now.
The giant of a man next to him laughed and slapped his shoulder, "You're
working for me now, young man. You got yourself a choice, near as
I can see. I need a towerman for tomorrow, and I need fire-fighters.
You pick which." Ferguson went on, not giving the other a chance
to answer, "And you don't know it yet, but Jeanie here won't
let anyone out of this house without feeding them at least one good
meal ."
"Terrible, it is, what they feed those working men." Mrs.
Ferguson bustled around the stove. "Men cooking for themselves
on those towers all alone. And on the fire-line, who knows when the
food's to come." Her voice was bright, and rolled from her with
that golden brogue, and her eyes shone as she fussed over the young
fellow.
Ferguson grinned, settling his big frame into the chair between the
counter and the table. Nothing he enjoyed more than seeing Jeanie
fussing over a young'un. "Well, boy, what's your name, now?"
The young man worked his jaw for awhile with no sound coming out but,
finally, he managed to blurt his name. "Steve. I'm Steve."
He grinned foolishly, and Ferguson laughed again.
"Well, we got that much out of you at least."
"Now, Ernie. Be easy on the lad. Look at him eat now. Hasn't
got any meat on his bones at all." Mrs. Ferguson scolded.
A big hand waved in the air, and Ferguson attacked his own meal, then
stabbed a fork at Steve. "Well-"
The young man glanced up.
"What'll it be then? To the fire with you, or up to the tower-"
Steve hardly even hesitated. He'd fought fires before. "Tower."
And then he was eating again.
Ferguson grunted.
Mrs. Ferguson sat down at the table across from Steve, and pushed
the potatoes closer to him. "Well, you set up an account for
him at the store. Make sure he brings food up there for himself. Can
you cook there, lad?"
***
The next morning Ferguson backed Steve for an account at the store
and they got grub, then headed up to the Forestry lookout tower that
Steve was to man for the next 5 to 6 months. Ferguson showed the young
man what his duties were, and then left.
Steve was on his own, with no contact to humanity except for a black
box of a radio that had a tendency to quit at the worst possible moments.
In fact, that was one of the first things that Steve did. He took
the thing apart, just to see how it worked.
Throughout the summer, Ferguson would show up at the tower. Grinding
his pick-up over the trail that was no more than a line slashed out
of the timber. A line that tried to miss most of the low, wet spots,
but failed rather miserably. More often than not, by the time the
giant of a man reached the hilltop that the tower was perched on,
both he and his truck were covered in mud, or layered with dust.
Steve would hear him coming and slip down the ladder to put water
on to boil. Ferguson hated that black mud that other folks called
coffee. It was tea or nothing. And then they would sit and tell lies
to each other for hours, either in the cabin, or if thunderstorms
were brewing and the fire hazard was high, they'd both climb up into
the cupola to keep an eye out for fires. Occasionally, if the hazard
was low they'd even drive or walk around the area surrounding the
tower. Just touring, and exploring, enjoying each other's company
and the wildness around them.
Sometime close to the middle or end of September, when Steve was starting
to count down the days when he would 'get out' of the bush and 'back
in' to civilization, Ferguson showed up again, and the two of them
set out for a tour. They were driving through a break in the trees,
dodging mudholes and rocks, when all of a sudden a big old bull moose
stepped out in front of the truck. The rack had at least a 50 inch
spread (although the actual size varied tremendously later on, depending
on who was telling the story). Ferguson let the truck roll to a stop
and grabbed his gun from Steve's lap. He rested the barrel of the
rifle on the door of the truck and sighted in on the moose. He squeezed
the trigger. And nothing happened. Frowning, he pulled back the bolt.
"This thing never misfired on me before," he muttered under
his breath. He looked into the chamber. It was empty.
Still a bit confused, he looked up. The moose was gone, and so was
his chance at a full deep-freeze for winter. He turned to Steve who
was trying, unsuccessfully, to sink under the floorboards.
Now Ferguson was angry, he had three kids and a wife to feed, as well
as the odd young bachelor who inevitably showed up at their door before
supper time to wheedle a meal out of Jeanie. "What-n-ell did
ya do that for?" he roared at the younger man as he got back
into the pick-up and slammed the door.
Steve's own temper flared, "Well, the way you drive this thing,
bouncing all over the place, I thought for sure that rifle of your's
was going to go off and blow a hole through this bucket of bolts you
call a pick-up. Or through my foot. Or through something."
Ferguson just looked at the angry young man next to him and then started
laughing, his own anger fading away, "Well, you know, I sure
wouldn't have minded if that old moose would've been that "or
something" of yours."
***
Later that fall, Ferguson came to take Steve back to town. They were
down on roads that actually had a bit of gravel on them, when they
crossed over a small culvert. On one side of the road, the culvert
was hanging slightly, and the water, as it fell out of it, had gouged
out a deep pool. Two boys were crouched by the pool, fishing. Ferguson
grinned at Steve, and they hopped out of the truck.
The big man stood on the road, glaring down at the boys, "Don't
you fellows know that fishing season's closed?" At that time
Forest Rangers were responsible for everything from enforcing hunting
and fishing regulations to fighting forest fires.
The boys' eyes widened as they shook their heads.
"Well," he went on, "I'm gonna have to send you both
back to town now."
The two boys started gathering their gear, casting scared glances
over their shoulders at the towering man.
"No, I think maybe you boys had better leave those poles, and
that tackle with me," Ferguson's voice was gruff, "I'll
take it back to town for you, and give it to your parents. I don't
want you two stopping at some other little stream along the way."
The boys looked longingly at their gear, but they stammered out a
quiet, "Yes sir," and headed out of there, throwing frightened
looks over their shoulders.
Ferguson waited until they were out of sight, and then started to
chuckle. He scrambled down the bank of the creek with Steve close
on his heels. They made it back to town late that night, and they
each had a nice mess of trout with them.
***
Steve's tower season was over. He bummed around for the winter, doing
odd jobs here and there. A bit of trapping, some logging, working
at the Wild Game Checkpoint for awhile. Basically, whatever he could
find. But the next summer he was back on the tower. He had caught
the bug, and it changed his life. This was just the start of a career
that would last longer than 30 years, but even more telling, was the
fact that he was seldom thrown out of the Hotel after that first summer.
This the story of Hope Klein's father's start with
the Alberta Forest Service. He began his career, as told here, as
a Towerman, working his way up to Senior Towerman, into the Radio
Room, until he finally retired as a Comms Technician after 30 years
of service. He has always loved his time as a towerman, and always
talks of the whole experience as a start in a career that he didn't
know he was looking for.