Dynamic Forest. Malcolm F. Squires
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How I Became a Forester
The boreal forest has been a part of me, and me of it, from my birth. I grew up in a logging and wilderness-accessvillage in the boreal forest of central Newfoundland, when what is now the newest province of Canada was a protectorate of the British Empire. My hometown of Millertown was the headquarters of a logging division of the Anglo (Nfld.) Development Company Ltd. (AND). The AND owned what once was one of the largest pulp and newsprint mills in the world, which was located some one hundred kilometres down the Exploits River from our village.
My father scaled (measured) wood, the basis for paying the company’s loggers and maintaining inventory records. The company encouraged salaried employees to take their sons for visits to their bush camps. I recall spending some of the most enjoyable weeks of my life with Dad as he went about his job. On warm summer evenings, we sometimes fly-fishedfor brook trout for the camp’s breakfast.
By the time I was ten years old, I was spending time alone in the bush behind our house. I recall that at age fourteen my best friend and I were wandering farther from home and exploring new territory. Whether alone or with friends, I was acutely aware of the forest as it was going about its business. Everything caught my attention, from the trees to the tiny mosses, from the moose to the weasels, voles, and green frogs, from the eagles to the chickadees. I was intrigued at how some species appeared to be dependent on some other species for their food and homes. I often sketched what I saw and collected books that helped me identify and learn about the different species. I recall that my habit of declaring the species of something caused my buddies to roll their eyes. They probably knew me as a nerd before Dr. Seuss had coined the word that fit me.
Millertown had an active Boy Scout troop and Girl Guide group. Our troop leaders were usually familiar with the local forest and living off the land and water, and they ensured that each scout developed those skills. Although I had a love of the land and enjoyed learning how to better interact with nature, I didn’t harbour any ideas at the time of a career involving the land. Instead, I was developing a dream to become an airplane pilot. Millertown is located on the shores of Red Indian Lake, which is an ideal landing site for large amphibious aircraft. Although only five or six years old at the time, I can remember one day, during the later years of the Second World War, two Yankee Clippers landed and taxied toward each other. A group of American military personnel, who were stationed in an adjacent community, used a row boat to ferry people from one aircraft to the other.
Millertown was also beneath the flight path of the Ferry Command, which ferried military aircraft manufactured in the United States and Canada to Britain. I recall hearing the distant drone of approaching aircraft and looking up as they passed in formation en route to Gander, where they refuelled. Following the war, bush planes began to appear in increasing numbers, and I recall a war veteran and bush pilot making numerous landings with his float-equippedStinson on our lake. Every time a plane landed, I was at the lakeshore dreaming of the day I would pilot one like that.
A Forestry Seed Is Sown and Nurtured
After finishing high school, I worked and lived in the bush camps and banked my earnings to finance my education but waffled on what I wanted to study.
One day a crew of forestry students led by an AND forester stopped at our camp. I spent several hours questioning them about their “forestry-survey” work and its purpose. After a while, the company forester, who had been listening to my questions, took me aside and asked if I might be interested in becoming a forester. Even though I had for years known company foresters, it was the first time I had ever thought about that possibility. Frankly, I did not approve of what the foresters that I knew were doing to my beloved bush.
As a bush worker, I was a member of the logger’s union and during the winter of 1957 the International Woodworkers of America (IWA) began raiding us.1That February I was employed at loading pulpwood on tractor sleds and one evening, when we loggers returned to our bunkhouse, we discovered that it had been completely reorganized into a meeting room. After dinner, we returned to the bunkhouse where we were met by two strangers who told us we were having an important meeting and to take a seat. The meeting was called to order by a third stranger, who passionately boasted about what the IWA had done for loggers in British Columbia. As he elaborated about the pay and living conditions they had, he promised that, if we were to sign a card that we would be given, he and the IWA would ensure that we got the same benefits.
Then he asked, “Does anyone have a question?”
There was a long silence. He had described the menu offered in the B.C. logging camps and it was quite different from what we were eating, but in reality, our menu was much like what we were eating at home; except in the camps we were getting larger helpings and more desserts.
I was happy with our menu and, as a naive eighteen-year-old, had the bad sense to ask, “Why do you think I want something different from what I already like?”
From behind me, the two strangers who had ushered us into the bunkhouse took my arms and, lifting my puny, fifty-seven-kilogrambody from my seat, led me through the door and told me, “Don’t come back. You won’t be welcome.”
I retreated to the foreman’s quarters where, after telling him of my plight, I was offered a bed for the night. On the hand-crankmagneto telephone he called the divisional superintendent, who was apparently unaware of the IWA organizers’ presence in his division. The next morning the superintendent showed up and offered me a non-unionjob in the depot supply store until spring.
Not long after my move, the superintendent introduced me to the company woods manager. The manager told me that he had heard about my predicament and had enquired about my employment record.
“You are wasting your time as a logger. Your record indicates to me that you can have a better future.” Continuing, he said, “I guarantee you that as long as I am manager here you can have work, but I advise you to seek further education.”
“I already have plans for that,” I replied. “I am applying for entry at Memorial University of Newfoundland (MUN) for this coming fall.”
After questioning me further and learning that I had no definite planned specialty, other than maybe a general science degree, he suggested, “You should consider studying forestry. If you do, I recommend that during your studies you look for summer work with other companies or governments to broaden your experience.” Then he added, “Any summer that you can’t find work, I will see that you get a job with AND.”
With my love of the bush, the forester’s encouragement, the students’ inspiration from the previous summer, and the manager’s promise, I made my decision. That winter I applied at MUN for entry into their pre-forestrydiploma course. MUN had an arrangement with the University of New Brunswick (UNB), whereby an additional three years at the latter school could lead to a Bachelor of Science in Forestry (B.Sc.F.). I was accepted and registered that fall.
At the back of my mind, I still saw myself as an airplane pilot and had also applied for admission into the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) Regular Officer Training Plan (ROTP). I had an ulterior motive; acceptance into the ROTP would guarantee that my education would be funded by them. At registration, I applied for the ROTP program and apparently qualified.
After a two-weekcooling-offperiod, I was interviewed by a perceptive recruiting officer who quickly got me to admit that my main motive was to have ROTP pay for my education. He said, “Now look, Malcolm, you are committing yourself to five years in university. That’s all to the good, but do you realize that upon graduation you are committing yourself to a five-yearcommission as an officer in the RCAF?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” I replied.
“Well, okay,” he continued. “What use do you think your forestry degree will be to you after that?”
I recall that he offered a few days for me to think on that and also assured me that, if I decided to withdraw from the program but changed my mind again, I could reapply the next year.
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” I replied, “I want to be a forester. You have helped me realize that and I thank