STORIES TOLD IN RANGER CAMPS 



By CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, Supervisor of Sierra National Forest 



No. 1 



SIX or seven years ago I rode into a 

 ranger camp on Bubbs Creek, and 

 found three men there, intently 

 hstening to a young ranger from Inyo. 

 Those were the days in which not only 

 the total inadequacy of the force to any- 

 thing except the most perfunctory pa- 

 trolling of the back-country, but also 

 our definite orders, compelled the rang- 

 ers to be camped many miles apart. 

 If I should map this ranger's district 

 topographically, all of you who read 

 this would be sorry for him — and for 

 the forest (in those days the "reserve"). 



But the ranger, a fine and fearless but 

 somewhat young mountaineer, was not 

 at all sorry for himself. Plenty of 

 pleasant people went past, along the 

 great Kearsarge trail, or fished in the 

 magnificent rivers, and he gave them 

 easily and well of his really superb 

 knowledge of that whole region. Ac- 

 cording to his lights, he was an honest 

 ranger and resisted every temptation to 

 leave his beat and go hunting, or to 

 climb the peaks. Then, coming back, 

 some of the tourists took dinner with 

 him, and left him little mementos or 

 surplus grub. 



So I let my horse wander and crop 

 grass, and told the ranger to "go ahead 

 with his old yarn," which I write down 

 here partly to show the stock from 

 which this type of ranger springs, partly 

 to illustrate "the times that were," but 

 chiefly, I think, because I liked the 

 straightforwardness of the story itself. 



"Now, my uncle," he was saying, 

 "was just that kind of an up-and-down 

 man, and after that trouble he came to 

 California, in 1850, when he was twenty- 

 five years old." Evidently I had lost 

 the boyhood of the hero of the epic, 

 but from the solemn tone of the young 



ranger, one could see that his uncle's 

 career had become a proud family tra- 

 dition. 



"My uncle was mighty strong an' quiet 

 by then, an' people was generally care- 

 ful what they said to him. He was fif- 

 teen years older than my father, but 

 when they growed up they acted an' 

 looked a good deal alike." 



The ranger, stretching himself out 

 on the rocks, added : "An' those that 

 knew them say I am cut off the same 

 stick, only I am bigger — an' lazier." 



Looking at the careless young giant 

 of twenty-two, one could have given 

 anything to have seen him truly and 

 completely aroused in some great cause. 

 He looked like a yellow-haired Viking 

 up among the high places of Norway, 

 looking for pines to build a sea dragon 

 — under orders, for some one else to 

 sail into the West. 



"Well," he continued, "my uncle 

 came to California, and looked around 

 a little and noticed that every feller 

 had to take care of himself pretty lively 

 at times. Then he went south of San 

 Francisco on the road to San Jose, and 

 built a roadhouse and eating station, 

 fenced in a patch of land (squatter 

 title) and got him some hogs and a 

 few cattle. Of course, he run a little 

 saloon — every roadhouse needed that. 



"In a year everybody who traveled 

 that road stopped at the place, an' he 

 dealt square. Then he picked up a boy 

 of sixteen out of some decpwatcr ship 

 in the bay — a boy who had run off 

 from his home in Vermont and had 

 learned to ride and shoot. He was 

 kinder reddish and freckled and went 

 by the name of Brick. He didn't talk 

 nnich, and he had gray eyes that shut 

 out everything behind them — but he got 



763 



