The spring of 1959 was the start of the wild fire season in New York. I had spent the previous five months as a forest ranger learning my district and getting general training from the older rangers and specialized training on how to combat forest fires. I was not looking forward to testing my newly acquired duties in that field knowing full well that I would be on my own in instituting the necessary actions.

Before launching into the details of the first fire I should lay the groundwork preceding the actual fire and its location. Otter Lake was the starting point or base of operations for the fire and Brewer Lake was the immediate location. Brewer Lake is located roughly a mile due east of the village of Otter Lake. At the time of the fire its only access was via a foot trail from the village. It was privately owned by Vivian Norton around whom this narrative revolves. Otter Lake at the time consisted of two churches, five bars and one very small pseudo grocery store. The principal industries consisted of a veneer mill at nearby Mckeever and summer home cottages around the nearby lake and surrounding woodlands.

I knew about Viv Norton, as he was known, long before I ever met the gentleman. He was very prominent in the community, unofficial mayor and largest landowner. In my initial orientation about the job requirements his name arose during the segment dealing with public relations and individuals I would very likely be interacting with. It was impressed on me that it would be a good if I established a favorable rapport with him, something in the past my predecessors had a problem in doing.

Naturally when my first fire was discovered at Brewer Lake, on his property, I knew instantly that how I handled it would be crucial in maintaining that bond.

Daily life in the community revolved around several people who can only be described as characters. Good characters that I am proud to say I admired and was only too happy to call my friends. I am sorry to say that they were all older than me and none of them are alive today except Stella Kowalick. They were well known in the surrounding area. There was Joe Kowalick, Stella’s husband and Barney who lived over the fire hall and his drinking companion George Fox; I cannot recall Barney’s last name but George was a retired lumberjack from Maine. Eddie Dufrene owner of one of the local taverns, now known as the Otter Lake Station played a leading role. John (Buzz) Norton, who operated the Standard Supply along with his father, was part of the crew. Charlie Warren owner of the grocery supplied the provisions; and several others like John Gaffney. Many of the people from the veneer mills names have been lost to antiquity.  

The fire was reported to me by the owner himself and the tone was one of utmost urgency. When I asked how big the fire was and how many men I should bring the answer was big, many and that’s my land. What I did not know was that Viv had already initiated action. He was a state designated Fire Warden with the authority to commandeer recruits and had done so by the time I arrived there with equipment. The state Department of Transportation and the entire veneer mill crew had been pressed into service. They were joined by the entire ready and willing able bodied members of the community who looked forward to participating in an exciting distraction from their otherwise humdrum work schedules.

When I arrived at what can only be described as a chaotic scene, the attack had already began. I handed out tools and equipment and shouldered the sixty-five pound Pacific Marine Y pump and started up the upward inclining trail to the fire front. I had no more than began the struggle than I began encountering streams of men winding their way back down to our base behind Eddie’s tavern. The message was that the battle was over and the fire was out. I was both relived and apprehensive because it was over so quick and I shed the pump and made my way to the scene. The fire had been not much more than a twelve foot in diameter circle where a campfire had burned its way down in the duff surrounding the shoreline. After making sure it was out I made my way back down to the base where the apprehension began.

The danger was abated and the celebration had begun. The tailgate of my truck was festooned with cases of beer and sandwiches. Beer cans were being popped with fire axe bits, this was the times when the cans were opened with what were called, “church keys.”

Everyone was having a good time but me as I was presented with the bill for the refreshments and everyone was signing payroll forms for their seventy-five cents an hour wages. How was I to explain the expense based on the evidence I had to present on the fire report that was destined to be sent on to the district office and then on to Albany? If only that was not enough to worry about the Utica newspaper called that evening for details. How do you report such an episode honestly and not get fired for malfeasance in office?

The answer is very adroitly without perjuring oneself. I must have done everything right because things worked their way out and Viv Norton sent a message to my supervisors that he thought that they had the right man for the job at last.

I went on to work many other more serious fires but none have remained in my memory so vividly or with more admiration for the old timers who were responsible for my quandary.