A gaudy red were the vine maples, but there was a leafy beauty greater than theirs. The flowering dogwood blazed from every nook and cranny. The ripening of the dogwood gives to its leaves a flame that burns with a fierce glow; a glow that further ripening deepens until its crimson flush becomes the loveliest hue of the British Columbia woods.
The fireweed, or willow herb, that in July gives to the open spaces a gorgeous tint of bluey pink, were now loosing a flock of seeds to float away like tiny parachutes. Each small bit of fluff held a minute germ of life that would build a plant as large as its parent when, dropped by the friendly wind, it reaches a fertile spot. The stately cottonwood were sending out a life-fluff as tiny as that from the smaller plants. Thistles, cat-tails and asters hurried to join the silken clouds until the air was misty with these germ balloons, seeking their winter’s rest. The red elderberry and its magenta neighbour, the thimble berry, with its truculent Scotch cap, gave to the woods a material flame.
A curious timidity had come over the birds; not only were they quiet, but they were no longer to be found in their usual haunts. In some retired spot they were moulting. While the weather was at its best, and food was the most plentiful, they were dressing themselves in a new set of feathers for their long flight to the south. The tops of the tall pines were filled with sweet twitterings, of flutterings out and in, wing trails and quick short flights. A flock of waxwings had gathered for the migration. They would not leave for some time yet, but the change had come. Birds from the north had arrived, creeping south by easy stages, taking plenty of time in their journey—the freest creatures that live, staying or going as they feel inclined.
Wild berries, dead ripe, hung on lush drooping branches.
A soft “prut-prut-kwit-kwit” came from the leader of a covey of willow grouse that were feeding on the tiny fruit of a crab-apple tree. The call was answered by a shyer note from one of the young birds, who probably was being taught the scale.
The summer had been one of exceptional dryness. For weeks there had been no rain, and a blazing hot sun had poured its fiery rays from a cloudless sky. The heavy mountain dews could not penetrate the close standing timber, and the carpet of needles and moss became dry as tinder. A pall of smoke, from fires raging on the Coast, hung over lake and mountain.
For Wilkinson and his men these were anxious days. They covered the section between the mill and Squamish twice a day; scanning the hillsides and valleys, ever watchful, ever on the alert; pleading and exhorting the settlers and loggers to greater vigilance, and all the while praying fervently for rain.
Donald had posted a notice that any employee found smoking in the woods would be immediately dismissed. Logging creates a vast amount of débris, or “slash,” as it is known to the men of the woods. With the assistance of the Forestry men, Donald’s crew had piled enormous heaps of slash on the hillside, awaiting a favourable opportunity to burn. These menacing piles of brush, extending along the main road for a quarter of a mile, were a constant source of danger. Every precaution, therefore, was taken. The spaces between the mounds of brush were raked clean, the road was patrolled day and night, and pails filled with water were placed at regular intervals. Special notices stating the great danger of fire, and warning not to smoke in this area, were posted conspicuously on tree and stump.
The mill at Cheakamus had closed. Sparks from the donkey engines had threatened the extinction of both plant and timber.
Donald with Wilkinson stood surveying the piles of dangerous waste. “If a fire starts and we can get to it at once, we will be all O.K.” said Wilkinson, “but if it ever gets away from us here,” pointing down the road, “no human agency can stop it.”