Arthur Rothstein’s amazing photograph May 1, 2011Posted by Jenny in history, literature, nature.
Tags: Arthur Rothstein, Dust Bowl, Farm Security Administration, Franklin Roosevelt, The Worst Hard Time, Timothy Egan
In 1936, during the period of the Dust Bowl, Franklin Roosevelt was running for a second term. While many Americans were grateful for the programs of the New Deal, some of the programs were coming under attack. It wasn’t clear whether the subsidies and resettlement plans and new agricultural practices aimed at solving the Dust Bowl problem would be successful: the drought and the dust storms had been dragging on for six long years. A man named Roy Stryker at the Farm Security Administration came up with the idea of sending photographers out to take pictures of the devastation: it might help to convince the public that the government programs were necessary—and it might help get Roosevelt reelected.
A 21-year-old guy named Arthur Rothstein, just out of college and living in New York, was one of the photographers that Stryker sent out. In Oklahoma, Rothstein was driving down the highway when he spotted a pathetic shack. Arthur Coble and his two young sons were digging out fence posts and carrying water to a couple of cattle that were dying from lack of food and breathing in too much dust. When Rothstein got out to take a picture, a sudden gust of wind kicked up the dust, and the Cobles went hurrying for shelter in their shack. Rothstein clicked the shutter and captured an image that was to become the most famous photograph of the whole period.
The subject and the composition have come together seamlessly. The profile of Arthur Coble, his head bowed against the dust—the hat somehow suggesting a feeling of adult responsibility—is lined up perfectly with the edge of the shack. His legs and the legs of the closer son are moving in parallel. The younger son seems barely distinguishable from the half-buried fence posts, continuing a line that starts with the roof of the shack. The horizon is nearly erased by the dust. The shack is being consumed by it. The helplessness of Arthur as a parent, his obvious inability to truly protect his children from the hellish elements, comes at us strongly. It haunts us.
How did Rothstein manage to get such an incredible photograph in the haste of the moment? The photo simply couldn’t have turned out any better. Some powerful instinct must have guided him.
My information about the circumstances of the photo comes from a marvellous book titled The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan (Mariner Books/Houghton Mifflin, 2006). Read it.
“Around noon on January 21, 1932, a cloud ten thousand feet high from ground to top appeared just outside Amarillo. The winds had been fierce all day, clocked at sixty miles an hour when the curtain dropped over the Panhandle. The sky lost its customary white, and it turned brownish then gray as the thing lumbered around the edge of Amarillo, a city of 43,000 people. Nobody knew what to call it. It was not a rain cloud. Nor was it a cloud holding ice pellets. It was not a twister. It was thick like coarse animal hair; it was alive. People close to it described a feeling of being in a blizzard—a black blizzard, they called it—with an edge like steel wool.”
Ed Pulaski and the tool he invented January 27, 2011Posted by Jenny in history, trail maintenance.
Tags: "The Big Burn", Ed Pulaski, forest fires, Forest Service, Great Fire of 1910, pulaski tool, Timothy Egan, Wallace Idaho, William Taft
When I first got involved with trail maintenance 25 years ago, I quickly became acquainted with a tool called the pulaski. It’s about the size of a long-handled axe, but the business end of the tool has two sides: one side is an axe and the other is a grub-hoe. We used pulaskis for digging out water bars, cutting tree roots when digging, cutting small brush, shifting piles of debris. We were told that the pulaski was a firefighting tool. But I never knew the whole story until I read The Big Burn by Timothy Egan.*
The “Big Burn” was the name given to a tremendous conflagration that started along the Idaho-Montana border on the hot, dry, windy afternoon of August 20, 1910. Altogether, an area of about 3 million acres burned, about the size of Connecticut. There had been no rain all through that summer. The forest floor was covered with slash from logging operations, dried out and ripe for burning. Small blazes had been sprouting up by the hundreds, and already thousands of men had been brought in to fight the fires. They were a ragtag bunch—ranging from eager college boys to immigrants to guys pulled out of the bars who needed a quick buck.
But even if the firefighting crew had been tripled, quadrupled in size, there was no way anyone could have dealt with what happened that afternoon. As Egan beautifully describes, it started with a wind called a Palouser that fed on the differences in temperature, moisture, and barometric pressure between adjoining regions of desert plateau and big forests. The wind built up furious strength and slammed into the already smoldering forests.
Egan tells the tale of the various pockets of humans who got caught when the world around them turned into towering flames. Some jammed onto trains leaving the area—shoving and pushing others out of the way. Some ran for a creek or a river, lying in the water with damp blankets over their heads, often to be killed anyway by falling, burning trees. Some ran for isolated cabins that burst into flames. And some found old mine shafts where they could wait out the conflagration.
Ed Pulaski, a ranger who’d been with the Forest Service since 1908, led about 45 men among burning trees toward the town of Wallace, Idaho. They stumbled down a steep ridge, some crying and screaming with fear as balls of flame jumped over their heads. Soon it became apparent they wouldn’t be able to make the town. Pulaski recalled an old mine tunnel he’d seen back in prospecting days. It was amazing he was able to find it in this overturned, disorienting landscape, but he led the men there. They dashed inside, but the air in the tunnel soon turned hot and stale as the flames right outside the entrance sucked the oxygen out of the opening.
Pulaski ordered everyone to lie down, but they were choking and gagging. One man panicked, fearing suffocation in the small stifling space, and ran toward the opening. Pulaski knew that was suicide. He pulled his .44 revolver and shouted, “The next man who tries to leave the tunnel, I will shoot!”
They waited it out. Five men died, but the rest staggered out the next day. Pulaski had survived with terrible burns to his eyes, his head, and his hands, as well as damage to his lungs. He permanently lost sight in one eye. He and many others wounded in the fire hoped for aid from the Forest Service—they needed costly medical assistance. But the help that came was too little, too late. The Forest Service had been gutted, neglected, left with inadequate funds under the presidency of William Taft, who’d come under pressure from the timber barons to disband the agency.
In the end, the plight of the wounded firefighters came to the attention of the newspapers and the general public. It was an outrage! The mood of the public turned toward support of the young Forest Service, and it was an important rallying point for Gifford Pinchot and Theodore Roosevelt, the leading spirits for conservation of public lands. Still, the men who had suffered never did get the care they deserved. An embittered Pulaski tended the scattered graves of those who had died, lobbied for a memorial, and pushed for a graveyard where the dead could be gathered from many locations. Six years later, Congress finally appropriated the funds for a granite slab engraved with the names of the dead. But it wasn’t until 1933 that a central graveyard was established and the remains gathered there. Pulaski died before he could see that happen.
In the meantime, he invented a tool that would come to be of great use for the firefighters of the future. And for trail maintainers. I will think of him now whenever I use a pulaski.
* Timothy Egan, The Big Burn. Mariner Books, Boston, 2010.