The Young Forester
By Zane Grey
I. Choosing A Profession
I loved outdoor life and hunting. Some way a grizzly bear would come in when I tried to explain forestry to my brother.
'Hunting grizzlies!' he cried. 'Why, Ken, father says you've been reading dime novels.'
'Just wait, Hal, till he comes out here. I'll show him that forestry isn't just bear-hunting.'
My brother Hal and I were camping a few days on the Susquehanna River, and we had divided the time between fishing and tramping. Our camp was on the edge of a forest some eight miles from Harrisburg. The property belonged to our father, and he had promised to drive out to see us. But he did not come that day, and I had to content myself with winning Hal over to my side.
'Ken, if the governor lets you go to Arizona can't you ring me in?'
'Not this summer. I'd be afraid to ask him. But in another year I'll do it.'
'Won't it be great? But what a long time to wait! It makes me sick to think of you out there riding mustangs and hunting bears and lions.'
'You'll have to stand it. You're pretty much of a kid, Hal–not yet fourteen. Besides, I've graduated.'
'Kid!' exclaimed Hal, hotly. 'You're not such a Methuselah yourself! I'm nearly as big as you. I can ride as well and play ball as well, and I can beat you all–'
'Hold on, Hal! I want you to help me to persuade father, and if you get your temper up you'll like as not go against me. If he lets me go I'll bring you in as soon as I dare. That's a promise. I guess I know how much I'd like to have you.'
'All right,' replied Hal, resignedly. 'I'll have to hold in, I suppose. But I'm crazy to go. And, Ken, the cowboys and lions are not all that interest me. I like what you tell me about forestry. But who ever heard of forestry as a profession?'
'It's just this way, Hal. The natural resources have got to be conserved, and the Government is trying to enlist intelligent young men in the work– particularly in the department of forestry. I'm not exaggerating when I say the prosperity of this country depends upon forestry.'
I have to admit that I was repeating what I had read.
'Why does it? Tell me how,' demanded Hal.
'Because the lumbermen are wiping out all the timber and never thinking of the future. They are in such a hurry to get rich that they'll leave their grandchildren only a desert. They cut and slash in every direction, and then fires come and the country is ruined. Our rivers depend upon the forests for water. The trees draw the rain; the leaves break it up and let it fall in mists and drippings; it seeps into the ground, and is held by the roots. If the trees are destroyed the rain rushes off on the surface and floods the rivers. The forests store up water, and they do good in other ways.'
'We've got to have wood and lumber,' said Hal.
'Of course we have. But there won't be any unless we go in for forestry. It's been practiced in Germany for three hundred years.'
We spent another hour talking about it, and if Hal's practical sense, which he inherited from father, had not been offset by his real love for the forests I should have been discouraged. Hal was of an industrious turn of mind; he meant to make money, and anything that was good business appealed strongly to him. But, finally, he began to see what I was driving at; he admitted that there was something in the argument.
The late afternoon was the best time for fishing. For the next two hours our thoughts were of quivering rods and leaping bass,
'You'll miss the big bass this August,' remarked Hal, laughing. 'Guess you won't have all the sport.'
'That's so, Hal,' I replied, regretfully. 'But we're talking as if it were a dead sure thing that I'm going West. Well, I only hope so.'
What Hal and I liked best about camping–of course after the fishing–was to sit around the campfire. Tonight it was more pleasant than ever, and when darkness fully settled down it was even thrilling. We talked about bears. Then Hal told of mountain-lions and the habit they have of creeping stealthily after hunters. There was a hoot-owl crying dismally up in the woods, and down by the edge of the river bright-green eyes peered at us from the darkness. When the wind came up and moaned through the trees it was not hard to imagine we were out in the wilderness. This had been a favorite game for Hal and me; only tonight there seemed some reality about it. From the way Hal whispered, and listened, and looked, he might very well have been expecting a visit from lions or, for that matter, even from Indians. Finally we went to bed. But our slumbers were broken. Hal often had nightmares even on ordinary nights, and on this one he moaned so much and thrashed about the tent so desperately that I knew the lions were after him.
I dreamed of forest lands with snow-capped peaks rising in the background; I dreamed of elk standing on the open ridges, of white-tailed deer trooping out of the hollows, of antelope browsing on the sage at the edge of the forests. Here was the broad track of a grizzly in the snow; there on a sunny crag lay a tawny mountain-lion asleep. The bronzed cowboy came in for his share, and the lone bandit played his part in a way to make me shiver. The great pines, the shady, brown trails, the sunlit glades, were as real to me as if I had been among them. Most vivid of all was the lonely forest at night and the campfire. I heard the sputter of the red embers and smelled the wood smoke; I peered into the dark shadows watching and listening for I knew not what.
On the next day early in the afternoon father appeared on the river road.
'There he is,' cried Hal. 'He's driving Billy. How he's coming'
Billy was father's fastest horse. It pleased me immensely to see the pace, for father would not have been driving fast unless he were in a particularly good humor. And when he stopped on the bank above camp I could have shouted. He wore his corduroys as if he were ready for outdoor life. There was a smile on his face as he tied Billy, and, coming down, he poked into everything in camp and asked innumerable questions. Hal talked about the bass until I was afraid he would want to go fishing and postpone our forestry tramp in the woods. But presently he spoke directly to me.
'Well, Kenneth, are you going to come out with the truth about that Wild-West scheme of yours? Now that you've graduated you want a fling. You want to ride mustangs, to see cowboys, to hunt and shoot–all that sort of thing.'
When father spoke in such a way it usually meant the defeat of my schemes. I grew cold all over.
'Yes, father, I'd like all that– But I mean business. I want to be a forest ranger. Let me go to Arizona this summer. And in the fall I'd–I'd like to go to a school of forestry.'
There! the truth was out, and my feelings were divided between relief and fear. Before father could reply I launched into a set speech upon forestry, and talked till I was out of breath.
'There's something in what you say,' replied my father. 'You've been reading up on the subject?'
'Everything I could get, and I've been trying to apply my knowledge in the woods. I love the trees. I'd love an outdoor life. But forestry won't be any picnic. A ranger must be able to ride and pack, make trail and camp, live alone in the woods, fight fire and wild beasts. Oh! It'd be great!'
'I dare say,' said father, dryly; 'particularly the riding and shooting. Well, I guess you'll make a good-enough doctor to suit me.'
'Give me a square deal,' I cried, jumping up. 'Mayn't I have one word to say about my future? Wouldn't you rather have me happy and successful as a forester, even if there is danger, than just an ordinary, poor doctor? Let's go over our woodland. I'll prove that you are letting your forest run down. You've got sixty acres of hard woods that ought to be bringing a regular income. If I can't prove it, if I can't interest you, I'll agree to study medicine. But if I do you're to let me try forestry.'
'Well, Kenneth, that's a fair proposition,' returned father, evidently surprised at my earnestness 'Come on. We'll go up in the woods. Hal, I suppose he's won you over?'
'Ken's got a big thing in mind,' replied Hal, loyally 'It's just splendid.'
I never saw the long, black-fringed line of trees without joy in the possession of them and a desire to be among them. The sixty acres of timber land covered the whole of a swampy valley, spread over a rolling hill sloping down to the glistening river.
