A forgotten fire

If Earl W. Raymond walked into my house today, I would not recognize him. Cannot attach a face to the Falmouth, Maine man who feels I saved his life. Nevertheless, he somehow found me through the Internet last week by sending an email to my daughter Wendy and after checking with me on the phone, she sent him my phone number.

The only hint I had about him was that he told Wendy, “I was a smoke jumper with George in 1951. I would like to ask him about a fire we were on in California.”

Because I had been on several fires in California during the early ‘50s, a different places and with different men, I had no memory of Raymond or which fire he was trying to learn about.

When he called me that night it didn’t take long to figure out what fire it was. He said, “I remember thinking we were getting trapped and the guy in charge seemed confused. It was a huge fire in thick mature timber and we were on a steep hillside with towering flames coming toward us. As a first year man, I decided that you, a second year jumper, seemed the most competent, so I decided to stick with you.”

Of course I felt flattered at that part of his sketchy recollection and immediately told him, “That was the ‘Pony Peak’ fire above the Klamath River.” Earl couldn’t remember for sure what happened after that but knew we “somehow gotten out alive.”

Gave him brief account of what occurred, including the fact that Pony Peak was the worst fire I was ever on during about 10 years in the wildfire fighting business.

I was not in charge of the crew there. A jumper from The Cave Junction center had that job, but when he seemed not sure of what to do I told him I was taking that Missoula crew with me and leaving, “Right now!”

The six or seven men in the group agreed and we headed downhill angling slightly away from, but still in front of the fire burning toward us.

Told the men we were not going to panic into running but were going at a trot. Asked them to stay right together behind me. Had gone about a quarter mile and met a U.S. Forest officer in dress-up uniform, including his Smokey Bear hat. He wanted to know where and why I was leading those men away from the fire. Right or wrong, I didn’t stop to talk, just told him he had about 20 minutes to stay alive or come with us. To this day I don’t know if he made it out or not.

Cannot remember now if it was paved, but there was a wide roadway running parallel and right beside the Klamath River where we reached it minutes before the fire got there. The river was quite wide, but we were able to wade past the middle with the depth not getting over our chests. There we crouched with our faces just out of the water.

The road along the river made a good break, but a fire as big as that one could have gotten across except for one saving factor — the wind had picked up and was blowing almost directly up the river, keeping embers and flames from crossing. The roar of the fire was deafening as it passed because of the heavy ground cover and it was a scary time for about a half hour until the flames began dying down.

After his recent call to me, Raymond sent another email to Wendy; “Thank you very much — We had a very interesting conversation and George confirmed that we had been in an extremely dangerous situation on a fire called Pony Peak. Were very fortunate to have survived. Because that was my last fire of the 1951 season, I returned to Massachusetts. I had never had anyone to confirm that we went through that incredible ordeal.”

I am sure Raymond only jumped that one year and who is to blame him. If I talk to him again, I’m going to ask him why he waited 65 years to find out what happened to him.

G.George Ostrom is an award-winning columnist. He lives in Kalispell.