I sniffed. I sniffed again. Could that be the acrid odor of smoke on this jewel of a spring evening? Not likely. Yet it was unmistakable. In spite of the freshly clipped grass and blooming daffodils, the evening smelled like a trash fire.
As I stepped out the door, I immediately noticed the sky. Behind the pink bridal array of our ornamental cherry, I saw a roiling cloud of heavy brown smoke. It curled around the horizon just above the tree line.
This was more than a trash fire! My family joined me, watching and wondering, but we were soon interrupted by the telephone. My little sister dashed inside to answer.
“Fire in Cleversburg!” she told us a moment later. “They’re evacuating people in Shippensburg already.”
My eyebrows shot up. I should say this was more than a trash fire! Cleversburg—that’s all of 10 miles (16 km) from our place! What was going on?
As so often happens, the rumors had traveled faster than wildfire—literally. More reports soon came to say the Shippensburg people were not being evacuated after all, for the fire was not in Cleversburg itself. Instead, it was raging in the Appalachian Mountains behind it. A chain saw, a spark, and acres of dry forest—“Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth!”
Days went by, and the reports kept filtering in. Bone-weary firefighters, no time for sleep, reinforcements called in from neighboring counties…and still the number of acres burned climbed steadily upward. It was welcome news indeed when the firefighters attained sixty percent control over their flaming foe. At last, days after that ominous cloud tainted April skies, the fire was out.
But the forest! I thought. What will happen to all the little critters? The rabbits, the coons, the chipmunks, and even the birds—what will they do, with their safe green world charred black as a camper’s marshmallow?
Hotdogs, mountain pie irons, mosquito repellent—a camping checklist can get frightfully long in this modern day and age. I gave a fleeting thought to early explorers like Daniel Boone. What would he have said if he could have seen our family traipsing out to the van, every person loaded with food and supplies for our one evening “in the wild”?
We all settled in for the twenty-minute drive to our vacation spot, a cabin owned by friends. Our expedition had two purposes (besides eating hotdogs, of course). We wanted to see the results of the fire with our own eyes, and we hoped to hear that band director of summer nights—the whip-poor-will.
“Is he still there?” we had asked our friend.
“I hope so!” he had answered. “But I haven’t heard him yet this year.”
Now, as our route led us along a dirt road winding up the mountainside, we were all eyes. All we saw was lush green vegetation. Quite apparently, the fire had not reached so far. Where were the destruction and desolation I had pictured?
We found it soon enough. On the left side of the road, naked trees rose from the bare ground, like so many burnt-out candles on an unfrosted birthday cake. But when I turned my eyes to the right side of the road, I could suddenly breathe again! For there grew the June ferns, lush and green; there laughed the creek beneath mossy rocks; and there stood the dear old cabin! Only the charred trunks of several trees remembered the passing of that fiery breath.
We tumbled helter-skelter out of the van—people and paraphernalia both—and greeted Jason, the cabin’s owner. He was packing up to leave after trimming around the place.
“Yup, we came up here at the time of the fire,” he answered our inquiries. “The firemen were here when we came, but the fire was headin’ this way from two different directions, and they were afraid they’d be trapped. They soon cleared out.
“So we were gettin’ ready to go, too. But then along comes another guy and says, ‘You guys leavin’? Really, you’re ‘bout as safe here as anywhere. You got the creek here, an’ if the fire does come down behind you, you can circle back to the part that’s already burned.’
“So we stayed!” Jason grinned. “And I was glad we did. If you head about 30 feet (9 m) back in the woods,” he gestured toward the hill behind the cabin, “you’ll come to a food plot. The fire did touch it some, but I headed up there after it was out. I guess it didn’t get too hot, because there was an anthill there, and those ants were still happy!”
With a grin and a wave, he jumped into his truck and roared off. We were alone in the woods.
“Let’s check out that food plot!” someone suggested, and the vote carried. With many a grunt, we mounted the steep hill, stopping to examine the different species of moss on the way. At the top, we found matters exactly as our host had said. Several trees were blackened, and we found some ashes, but the grass was still green. And yes, there swarmed a multitude of happy ants!
“There’s a bear track!” somebody called. It was a joke, we all knew, but at that moment, I would have preferred a bear to what we were experiencing instead—MOSQUITOS! Hovering, buzzing, biting! I do believe the entire crew of their kith and kin was there. We beat a quick retreat to the cabin and saturated ourselves with insect repellent.
The creek called, and we answered. The more adventurous souls dared the swift current and went wading while the rest of us relaxed on the banks.
What was that flash of orange? Oh, a salamander! My sister grabbed for him, but the instant she came in contact with his slippery skin, she involuntarily jerked back. Score for the salamander!
Who can resist the mouth-watering smell of hotdogs and bacon and campfire smoke? We couldn’t. Suppertime brought us all wandering back to the cabin. After all, even would-be Daniel Boones have to eat! Why is it that food and fellowship both are better around a campfire? We lingered long after the last popcorn was eaten and the last hotdog met its sad fate in the flames.
Our attention was suddenly arrested by a sound back in the woods. “Hey, was that the whip-poor-will?” one sister asked.
“But isn’t it too early for him?” another protested. “Last year he didn’t sing until after dark.”
Nevertheless, they crept toward the sound to investigate. My brother picked up the harmonica lying beside him.
“Let’s see if we can make them come running back!”
The harmonica was willing. “Whip-poor-will!” it chirped. “Whip-poor-will!”
But the birders did not so much as turn their heads.
I was lounging in the cabin when the real call finally came. Little Sister came running to find me. “The whip-poor-will! It’s singing!” She dashed outside again.
I checked the clock. Nine o’clock on the dot, just like last year. Do whip-poor-wills carry pocket watches?
I stepped outside into the darkness to join my family—but where were they? Not a person was in sight.
Well, I thought, I’ll head toward the place he was last year. That guess proved to be correct. (Do whip-poor-wills carry maps as well?)
By the time I reached my family, the songster was at it again with all his heart. “Whip-poor-WILL! Whip-poor-WILL! Whip-poor-WILL!” His calls split the summer night in rapid succession. The little fellow had an agenda, and he knew his time was short. “Whip-poor-WILL! Whip-poor-WILL!” Doesn’t he ever run out of breath?
The next time he resumed calling, I kept count. No longer did I hear, “Whip-poor-WILL!” Now he seemed to say, “Thir-ty-ONE! Thir-ty-TWO!” He hurried on. “Six-ty-EIGHT! Six-ty-NINE!” On and on, until he finally reached one hundred. Abrupt stop.
Now how did he manage that? Does a calculator ride in the same pocket as his watch and map?
At twenty minutes after nine, our singer was finished. The performance was over.
Slowly we turned back to modern life and the world of real—no, the world of FAKE—calculators and pocket watches. (For surely, the instinct given to the whip-poor-will is more real than any man-made gadgets!) Slowly we gathered our gear and climbed aboard the van.
As we rode homeward, I leaned back in my seat with a sigh of contentment. The forest was still there. It would grow again. And, in the meantime, the whip-poor-will still sang.
