During the next few weeks the patrols became monotonously routine. The hot, dry weather continued and the fires broke out with a regularity which nonplussed the foresters and the aviators. New fires were picked up in spite of the smoke pall, but it was mighty hard work. The aviators were having their fill of flying over the forests, but with each patrol they became more experienced and could locate the fires with an accuracy that was astonishing. It was a question as to how much longer they could stand the strain, for the constant flying over timberland, where landing fields were conspicuous by their absence, showed its effect on the smooth flying of the pilots. The Flight Surgeon had already sent several of them into the woods on vacation to rest, something that they would not do while at the base.

The critical fire situation which existed in the woods was shown by one patrol on which Kiel carried Forester Oglesby over a particularly bad area. They discovered four new fires all within six miles of a lookout station. One covered four hundred acres and another over two hundred acres, and yet the lookout could not see them on account of the smoke pall. When Kiel thought that he had about half completed the patrol, he handed Oglesby a note asking which direction he wished to go to finish the patrol. Oglesby then returned the paper to Kiel. On it he had written, “Take me home. I have counted thirty-one fires and have seen all that I can stand for one day.” Rain was needed, and needed badly to save the woods.

The Weather Bureau predicted rain, and the appearance of clouds indicated that there might be some precipitation, but in the meantime the clouds made the situation further complicated by decreasing the already limited visibility. The smoke and clouds joined together into an impenetrable mass of murky haze. That made the flying much more difficult, but did not assist in limiting devastation of old fires nor in preventing new ones from starting.

“I wonder how much longer this dry weather can continue?” asked Simmons of Bill as they stood out in the airdrome looking into the sky. “There are plenty of clouds, but not much rain that I can see.”

“The weather map gives every indication of rain within a short time,” replied Bill. “One day’s good soaking would put out all the fires that are now burning. It would also wet the woods so that new ones could not start so easily.”

“I hate to admit that anyone could be so mean and despicable as to deliberately set the woods on fire, but it certainly looks that way to me,” said Simmons. “The fires are breaking out with too much regularity to be accidentally or carelessly started.”

“I can’t imagine anyone being so malicious,” replied Bill.

“I said that I hated to admit that I had such a thought, but I have it just the same,” explained Earl Simmons. “You must have studied the fire map and seen how the fires start in one place and then new ones start just a short distance away. This procedure has been continuing now for several days.”

“Captain Smith presents his compliments and directs that you report to his office,” said an orderly who came up to where they were standing.

“Both of us?” asked Bill.

“Yes, sir, both of you,” replied the orderly.

“Something gone haywire somewhere, or Smith would not send for both of us,” said Earl as they started toward the office.

“Come in and sit down,” said Smith when they entered. “Goldy started a patrol from Medford, but had to turn back on account of engine trouble. Just before he turned he thought that he had spotted an extra large fire between Abbott Butte and Rogue River. He could not verify it. He picked up what he thought was large columns of smoke arising from the timber and then his engine started acting up. He went back. Landed O. K. at Medford. I would like you two to go out and verify that fire.”

“We haven’t much ceiling,” said Earl.

“The fire won’t stop burning just because there is a low ceiling,” replied Smith. “If it is as big as Goldy thinks it is, it must be a corker. We haven’t had any reports of any fires in that vicinity prior to this.”

“We’ll take off in ten minutes,” said Bill. “Can you be ready, Earl?”

“I’ll be there waiting for you at the plane,” replied Earl.

Bill wondered how he would get to that location and either verify or determine definitely the absence of that fire. The mountains were several thousand feet high. The clouds in the Willamette Valley were but a couple of thousand feet high. He would have to follow the different valleys which headed in that direction and hope that the clouds did not drop down in front of the plane and block his way. He studied the map and made plans accordingly.

Bill secured his flying togs and went out to the plane. Earl was already in the cockpit. Breene was warming up the engine. As soon as Breene was satisfied that everything was functioning properly, he throttled the engine and climbed out of the cockpit. Bill got in and the plane started on its way across the airdrome.

Soon after leaving the airdrome Bill found that the flying conditions were exactly as he had anticipated. The smoke joined with the clouds to form a brownish gray mass of mist and haze that prevented his getting more than three thousand feet above the floor of the valley. If the ceiling did not get any higher than that, he would never be able to make the jump over the passes from one valley to another. However, he would make a good try at it and do the best that he could. He headed the plane toward the Middle Fork of the Willamette River.

The valley was wide enough so that he had no trouble in navigating up to the time that they reached Fall Creek, but beyond that whisps of clouds seemed to drop below the main mass and threatened to cut them off from the upper valley. When he could, Bill went under the low-hanging clouds, but after a while they hung right on the tree tops. Even at that he sometimes went through, but he could never tell what he was liable to meet on the other side. It was a dangerous proceeding, but could not be helped. Bill’s mission was to get to the reported fire, and if it was humanly possible he would do it.

The old Military Road ran alongside the river. This road had been constructed years before when the covered wagons were bringing settlers out over the Oregon Trail. While Bill found the going rather hard, he thought of the greater troubles that the old pioneers had when they traveled the same route. They had no idea what they would find when they reached their destination. Indians might ambush them anywhere along the trail, the trail might become so impassable that they might have to abandon their wagons and proceed on foot, but they forced their way ahead in spite of all obstacles. Bill watched the road turning and twisting its way through the river valley and tried to imagine that he saw a wagon train coming down the valley toward him.

The wagon train in actuality was another low-hanging cloud, and Bill had plunged his plane into it before he came back to the present from the past. He dropped down as low as he dared in an endeavor to see the ground beneath, but the mist must have been right on the ground. Then he emerged from the cloud as suddenly as he had entered it. Below them was a small village called Lookout. They were getting fairly well up into the mountains.

He reached Oakridge, the last town along the road. Beyond the town, the valley turned and twisted with almost unbelievable abruptness. Bill had to keep a sharp watch ahead to prevent the plane colliding with the hills along the valley. He followed its broad sweep to the south. Soon he would reach the place where he had planned to leave the Willamette Valley and cut across the mountains to the Umpqua Valley on the side.

The clouds seemed to remain at about the same altitude above the trees, in spite of the general rise in the ground. He reached the entrance to Staley Creek Canyon and hesitated before entering it, for it looked impossible. He made a circle and then started up the canyon. The plane had gone but a short distance up the Staley Creek Valley before they ran into a terrific rain storm. They could not see sufficiently far ahead to insure their safety. Bill turned back and started down the Willamette again.

Once again he found his path barred. The river valley was completely closed ahead of them by a mist that lay right on the ground. Bill knew that the valley had so many sharp turns that it would be folly to try and fly blindly through that mist. He was in a pocket with no chance of getting out. In the meantime there was the added danger of the rain storm driving down into the area in which he was flying.

Bill searched the terrain and saw another canyon leading to the south. He turned his plane into that and found that it was much narrower than any of the others that he had flown through. The fog seemed to hang higher. Perhaps he might get through. The air became much rougher and with the rough air came a slight rain. Bill flew through the rain and found that the floor of the valley was gradually getting closer to the plane. He could not climb any higher, as the clouds were just above his top wing. In fact at times he flew through the lower patches of mist.

Finally he reached a point where he was missing the tree tops by inches and, before he knew it, the ground had started dropping from beneath the plane. They had reached one of the small creeks which empty into the Umpqua. Bill did not even realize it at the time, for he was busy fighting the bumps in an endeavor to keep his plane from striking the mountain sides. Then all of a sudden it seemed as if the flood gates of the heavens had opened on them, and, to make matters worse, the lightning flashed and blazed all around the plane.

Bill hoped that they would escape being hit by lightning. He had never heard of a plane being hit by lightning and did not want to be an interested party in the first of such cases on record.

The rain fogged his goggles so that he could not see. He wiped the water off with his gloves, but was compelled to use one hand continuously for that purpose in order to see at all. At best he could see only a few feet from the plane. There was no place to land anywhere in sight. In fact, he had not seen a place where even a crash landing could have been made for the past forty minutes. His safety and that of Earl Simmons in the rear cockpit was dependent upon his getting through into the open.

The ground was surely dropping beneath them and Bill was certain that they had now crossed the divide. A steep ridge projected abruptly into the valley. Bill had but a few seconds to make up his mind which way to turn to avoid it. If he turned one way, he would run into the main mountain. If he turned the other, he would come out into the clear. He swung the plane around to the right and hoped for the best.

Then he saw that he had taken the right route, for the valley opened up with another creek coming in to join the one they had been following. For several minutes Bill was busy banking the plane in one direction or another to miss the tree-covered sides of the ravine through which they were flying. The rain continued to fall in torrents. There was one consolation: the forest fires would surely be quenched by this downpour. That thought was consoling, but it did not help Bill in his present situation. He did not know how much longer he could continue to see the ridges ahead sufficiently far to miss them with the plane. He hoped that the rain would cease, the clouds would raise or an open space large enough to land the plan would make its appearance while he still had control of the plane.