Fighting Wildfires in 1940

We are all thinking a great deal about the wildfires in the western part of our country.

In 1940—before the fire retardants, before water containers (sometimes called water bombs) dropped by airplanes, before enormous bulldozers that can dig firebreaks, before much of the firefighting equipment we now have—I was with my parents in Idaho's Coeur d'Alene area driving on our way back from an around-the-country tour. Any notice of the fire we were approaching might have been on the radio, but our car radio did not work well in mountainous country, so it was not on. Communications have progressed since 1940! (Also the average income has progressed in Idaho since then, as in 1940 it was $464. Yes, things have changed.)

We were driving through the 21 million acres of forestland in the state when, as we rounded a curve in the road, we could see parked cars pulled over, and in the distance we could see smoke billowing toward the mountains. There were water trucks, varieties of fire equipment, and many men in yellow coveralls that distinguished them as official firefighters. We thought, being inexperienced Easterners, that we would be waved through, but no—we were told to pull over, get out of the car and get to work.

I noticed there were workers (not firefighters) of all ages doing tasks to which they had been assigned. We quickly were assigned our jobs. My mother was assigned to the coffee detail. She lined up cups and kept the coffee urns in her area filled, and then filled cups with coffee as needed. I was assigned to making sandwiches. We had to keep the bowls of sandwich material covered when we weren't spreading the contents on bread, as ash continually floated down. My father was assigned to wield a broom. As the fire burst in each tree the sparks came down, and if they were not swept over the pavement of the road to an already burned area, they started small fires and added to the dreadful inferno in the trees.

In brief moments I watched as the fire leapt over the space between trees, causing perfectly healthy green trees to suddenly burst into complete flame. All the official firefighters could do was contain the fire with what seemed to be comparatively puny flows of water and some chemicals. My father continued sweeping the constant fall of sparks to a place where they wouldn't start yet another fire. Mother worked at her coffee station and I made sandwiches (the only kind I remember making were peanut butter, but there were other kinds)—anything to keep the firefighters going with energy.

We stayed at our "jobs" for an hour or so and then more cars came through with people who could take our places. The whole procedure was well organized and not a person complained. We went on our way, as the highway had been pretty well cleaned by the sweepers and the fire gradually moved away, somewhat contained. The events that I remember the most were the willingness of people in cars who immediately started at assigned tasks, and the flames leaping from a burning tree to a green, healthy tree, which would burst all at once into a ball of fire.

It is hard to imagine thousands of acres burning this way, even though I have seen a relatively small wild forest fire. People in the forested states take fire precautions very seriously, and I can see why. One woman burns a letter and thousands of acres are still burning, with firefighters put at risk of serious injury or even death.

I sometimes wonder if our schools might well include a tour of the timbered and mountainous western states to "instruct" our students about how vast these United States are.