“Never leave a fire to its own devices,” Ranger John Searles scolded a backpacker whose abandoned fire he’d found smoldering down the trail. “You think it’ll just give up the ghost? It wants to live just like you do, and it might just find a way.”
John Searles had been a conscientious child of the Vietnam Era who’d wanted to make a difference, but even more, he just wanted to work in the woods. He loved the woods. He’d grown up hunting and fishing with his uncle and his Hoopa buddies up in the Klamath Mountains. He’d done well in school, and he earned a degree from Humboldt State University. A year or so after graduating, he got a job with the Forest Service on a tip from a ranger who’d heard about John’s skills and exploits. Searles quickly earned a reputation for being a gifted tracker and a steady hand. He could track down a lost hiker or a problem bear with the best of them.
In the summer of ’75, Searles was assigned to the investigation of a fire in Sequoia National Forest above Porterville. A number of fires had started on the Range under suspicious circumstances, often associated in some way with campfire neglect, so Ranger Searles was called in to investigate. He was dropped by helicopter on a ridge top near the site of the fire with a local ranger named Sanchez, and they proceeded on foot from there. When they got to the site of the fire, Ranger Sanchez didn’t have to say much. Searles identified the pattern immediately. A great thicket of manzanita had burned, but not entirely; rather, it had burned in a checkerboard pattern. Many plants amid the desolation seemed to have been utterly untouched by the fire, while just as many had been utterly immolated. “It’s like some kind of scrub rapture,” Searles observed. Sanchez replied, “Yeah,” and added “Spontaneous combustions.”
“Yeah. Looks like a burning bush convention … Any visuals on a Hebrew grey-beard with a pronounced brow ridge?”
“Chuck T. Heston? Not that I’ve heard, chief. The bears are mum on this one.”
Searles wandered among the survivors, following the ground before him—almost randomly, like a hound follows its nose.
Sanchez inspected a healthy, green manzanita. Her pink and white blossoms were just opening for the season. The ground around her was blanketed with ash.
“How many boots’ve been through here?” Searles shouted over to Ranger Sanchez with audible frustration.
“Too many, as you can tell,” Sanchez answered.
“What else do you got?” Searles asked after a pause.
“We had a small fire in a grove not far from here—couple days back. Looked like neglect. Scouts. Burned itself out.”
“Huh. Scouts, eh?”
Searles stopped and backed up a half step. “I’ve got a bare track here. Looks like a light step. Just one. … Funny.”
“What’s that?” Sanchez inquired.
“No. Nothin’” Searles said with a wave of his hand.
Searles wound among the bushes for a while, and then walked back to Sanchez. “I’m going to need more time. I’ll need my pack and supplies. Maybe a pistol—just in case.” Sanchez radio’d his dispatcher and told Searles “It’ll be here in about forty.”