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Not that it’s easy now, but being a forest ranger was hard work in the 1940’s.  Being four years old is always hard work.  Combining the two experiences was especially challenging—at least that was the way I saw it.

My uncle was a forest ranger during the summers of the mid- to late-1940’s. My aunt was the “chief cook and bottle washer” for the dozen or so rangers stationed at the Big Smokey ranger camp/station in Idaho.

Located north of Fairfield and upriver from Featherville, the camp was close to neither.  In fact, as with many ranger stations in those days, it was not easy to get to.  Always winding, the miles of narrow dusty gravel roads included steep mountain passes.  Each turn had its own surprises. Dodging wildlife or boulders, punctured tires from dead porcupines, vapor lock, steaming radiators, the infamous “red-ants-at-the-side-of-the-road” dance and getting carsick were considered normal, if not routine, events on the trip.  I loved it.

The ranger compound consisted of a small two-room cabin (for cooking and eating), a bunk tent (for sleeping), the barn and corral (for the horses and tack), one outhouse, the storage shed and smokehouse, and one flagpole—all neatly contained by a pole fence.

There was no electricity and no running water.  All cooking, baking and heating was done on a large black cast-iron wood stove.  Oil lamps provided light in the evenings. No place on earth was closer to heaven, as far as I was concerned.

During the summers when extra “government” men came to the camp to help build and repair trails and campgrounds in the area, my mother, with me in tow, was recruited to help my aunt. Overnight, several new tents sprouted up and extra horses filled the corral.  There were more hungry mouths to feed.  While my aunt and mother exercised their culinary skills, I quickly established myself as a self-professed forest ranger—albeit short of years and stature.

Each morning after breakfast, the rangers saddled up their horses and rode off to do what rangers do.  Every night near suppertime, I waited by the road and watched for their return.  As they came through the gate, my uncle would reach down and swing me into the saddle in front of him.  Both hands on the saddle horn, chin high and back straight, I rode back to the corral, a proud part of the daily procession of my heroes and “fellow” rangers.

Being a ranger who was forbidden by her mother to leave the compound by herself, my daily “rangering” duties were limited.  Since I was also denied use of one of the horses (unfairly, I thought), I made my rounds of the compound’s inner perimeter on foot—arms swinging with purpose, kicking dust with every stride. Even when I stopped to rub noses with one of the horses at the corral, I still had most of the day for my other chores.

Sometimes, my aunt, mom, and I walked across the road to fish in Paradise Creek.  Once a week, we drove over Fleck Summit to get milk from one of the ranches.  I remember that on one occasion, we drove to one of the more remote cabins to pick up some bear meat.  A marauding black bear had gotten into the sheep one too many times and the rangers were invited to share the benefit of its sudden demise.

I loved the weekends, especially the Saturday night soak in the natural hot springs located a short distance from the camp.  It was an old mountain version of a modern hot tub party, complete with teasing, splashing and dunking. I suspect that it was also the only “bath” that many of the men had had all week.

My favorite weekend visits I made on my own—with permission, of course. Two Basque sheepherders had set up camp just outside the compound, not far from the cabin. I had become a regular guest (pest?) at breakfast on the weekends.  The aroma of boiled coffee, sourdough flapjacks, and sizzling strips of bacon or side-pork was a powerful magnet for any ranger, no matter what age.  It took me a couple of years to discover that we spoke different languages.  I found this somewhat surprising, considering communication had never been a problem.

As I get older, I remember those years and what they taught me:

Number  One, water snakes are beautiful and will curl around your wrist like an exquisite bracelet when you catch them.  But, like all wild creatures, they are the most beautiful in their freedom.  They die in a jar.

Number Two, there are two kinds of people—those who destroy and those who build trails.

And, Number three, I still want to be a forest ranger when I grow up.