The People's Voice

What Do You Do In Winter?

NOTE: Many of the youngsters with whom we come in contact are enthralled with the idea of becoming a "Forest Ranger", with its promise of adventure in the wilderness. They see themselves fighting fires, caring for animals and trees, and with a cabin bedecked with bear skins and lion rugs beside the fireplace, a favorite pipe and dog. Every once in awhile one of these youngsters will really delve into it and usually, sooner or later, asks this question. Below is an answer that was given recently in rather an off-the-cuff manner. We understand that this lad has now turned his attention to bookkeeping.

The thermometer reads 10 degrees below zero. Snow on the ground measures four feet, with drifts twice that. You sit in your truck waiting for the other two men who are coming in to work with you.

This is another day of timber cruising in the winter on a State Forest. The other men arrive, they had trouble with their chains and had lost some time. It's grey out, and time to get to work. You put the snowshoes on boots that are just a trifle wet from the day before yet. The paint cans have to be thawed out, you hold a match under the nozzle and soon you are able to fire a thin stream of blue into a close snow bank. Now it's up the bank and into the woods, there's a half mile of cross-country before you get to the section that you are supposed to cruise. You follow a line through the woods, the man in the lead is a tall one, and you're a little guy so you can't quite make it over some of the obstacles that he takes in stride. Over a drift the man in the middle goes on his face in the snow, all you can see are his snowshoes sticking out. The laughter warms you and gets him just a little hot. Now on your way again.

Somebody has to cruise the line and mark it, that's your job. Every cut for a blaze brings snow cascading down your neck. Your axe rings off the frozen knots. It's too doggoned cold to take a break.

The line found and marked, you rejoin the others for cruising. The compass man has to hold the staff lest it disappear in the snow. The chain is out of sight except where it's being held on both ends. The first plot is established and you start tallying. With four feet of snow you have to measure just above the crust to get an accurate measurement of what would, on a summer day, be the diameter breast high. Have to thaw out the paint gun once more. You move pretty fast, the crust is good now, and there's not much danger of overheating.

Lunch time. One of the men is able to light a pitchy stump sticking out of the snow and you stand around it for warmth. The sun has turned your world from grey to dazzling white, and has softened the crust. Your lunch pail slowly settles out of sight in the snow. Back to work.

Every hour finds you sinking further until now the snowshoes don't really help much. Being a little guy, you spend much of your time high centered.

Time to start back now, the sun is behind the range to the west. You slide down the bigger hills as best you can, it's wetter, but it's easier. In the shadows the crust has set up again and makes easy walking, then you step out of the shadows and you are up to your waist.

Finally to your truck, it won't start right away, but now everything is fine and you bid goodbye to your friends and head home. The rig is put away and you go to the house, wet, tired, and hungry. Just another day, there will be another just like it, like there was yesterday. One last look at the gathering darkness. Well, at least there aren't any bugs, and no forest fires.

The rate of mortality in timber in Montana is extremely high, with a total in the neighborhood of 630 million board feet per year being killed by fire, insects and diseases, windthrow and overcrowding.