We can criticize U.S. Forest Service policy. But when the smoke clears, they’re still heroes

I grew up in a U.S. Forest Service family.

The first book I learned how to read was a Little Golden Book (remember those?) called “Smokey the Bear.”

Of course, anyone growing up in a Forest Service family knew that he was Smokey Bear, an orphaned cub from a fire in the Capitan Mountains of New Mexico in 1950.

I even saw the real Smokey Bear in 1967 at the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. He did not have bandages on his paws — nor did he talk, or wear a ranger hat, or wear cuffed blue jeans, or carry a shovel. He died in 1976 at age 26.

Occasionally in my career I’ve satirized Smokey and the Forest Service. Criticizing their policies is fair game. But my respect for their often unappreciated work runs deep.

My dad was a research scientist for the Forest Service. He ultimately rose in the ranks to become the Deputy Chief for Research.

Throughout my childhood in the 1960s and 1970s, I heard lots of phrases related to the USFS, such as “forest tent caterpillar,” and “gypsy moth” and other insects and tree diseases. My dad even discovered a number of fungi of the northern hardwoods states, and they were named after him.

As a child, he would bring home fungi from his lab — and one time, penicillin in a petri dish. I went to his lab in Marquette, Michigan all the time. I am sure that my failure to become a research scientist bothered him.

I saw the sacrifice that federal employees like him made for the American people. I gave up a lot of childhood moments to the Forest Service as he flew in small planes to various garden spots like Rhinelander, Wisconsin and Carbondale, Illinois in midwestern thunderstorms and blizzards.

But he wasn’t a firefighter. Along with rangers, those folks were the public face of the Forest Service.

He spoke reverently of the sacrifice the fire fighters made. One night, in the late 1970s, Dad came home from a trip to the Bob Marshall Wilderness in Montana where he had just completed an assignment on a team of fire tanker crash investigators. A B-17 (yes, a B-17 from World War II) had gone down, and he was truly shaken by what he saw.

He announced that he was going to show us the slides he had taken of the crash. Now, this wasn’t the typical slide show or 8mm home movies we would periodically view together. I was fearful it was going to be bad, and I was right.

You could see where the plane had plowed through the trees at 200-some miles per hour. The wreckage was oddly intact, as I recall. The B-17 had landed upright. The pilot’s window glass was gone. In the foreground of that slide of the window and the nose cone was what looked like a large pink ham on the forest floor.

It was the pilot.

He had been ejected through the window. The body wasn’t remotely recognizable as a body.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. Now, I rarely draw cartoons about the Forest Service per se. Nor did I really do many when I lived in Oregon. I discussed various policies with Dad, but I never made specific observations about the agency.

Last week, the Chief of the Forest Service announced that the agency was going to modify its so-called “let it burn” policy. My dad would often note that forest fires were just a part of nature, and the human/forest interface was collateral damage. Of course, climate change wasn’t top of mind then.

I drew a cartoon about that policy, and I was very specific about using the word “policy,” as well. It wasn’t about personnel.

There are 4,300 USFS firefighters in California alone, according to Jonathan Groveman, the agency’s California spokesman. He thinks there are about 10,000 of them nationally.

I had a very thoughtful call with Groveman about the sacrifice that firefighters made. I told him my dad worked for the Forest Service.

I didn’t apologize for the cartoon. But I did want to add this observation as an addendum to the cartoon.

Firefighters are in constant danger. What they do is frankly thankless, and dozens die on-duty each year. Some have lost their homes to fire during fires they battled. Society asks them to do dreadful things, and they should be highly paid and treated respectfully. I have done many, many cartoons saluting them as well.

Rep. Tom McClintock, R-Elk Grove, called them “unskilled labor” a few weeks ago. I’d argue that McClintock is unskilled labor in Congress.

To this day, I am haunted by the image of the pilot of the B-17 in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. I wish McClintock had seen the slide I had seen.

The pilot was highly skilled, and brave, as are the 4,300 firefighters in California, as well as the thousands of others.

This story was originally published August 13, 2021 at 6:00 AM.