Now when a forest is used for a treasure hunt all the trees are still there when you leave.  That moonlit night the trees at Red Arrow provided the perfect place to plot out a trail through the forest to the small rocky rise where the gold was hidden.  The kids found almost all of the quartz rocks, marked with yellow paint, and sold them back to me.  Some went back the next day to see if any were left.  We found the forest a special place to enjoy!

Now the forest is gone. There are people who want to save the world’s forests and are very concerned if trees are cut.  They need to consider who lives there and what their needs may be.  That forest was planted for lumber and became lumber.  The lumber helped many people build what they wanted to build.  Much of the area has been replanted, but with coffee bushes.  After all, the Belgians never got to harvest the trees, and cypress trees take a long time to grow to an optimal size to cut for lumber.

What did God tell us to do with what we are given?  I don’t think the Zairians used the forests badly, in fact they replenished it (planted something else), they subdued it (cutting down the trees for lumber), and took control of it (selling the lumber or building something they wanted). 

What if they just burned it?  That wouldn’t be good.

Not only did the Belgians plant eucalyptus and cypress trees, they also introduced black waddle trees, originally from Australia.  Those trees make excellent building materials, fence posts, firewood, and charcoal.  The trees were planted on either side of the roads where the wood could easily be cut and be transported to where it would be used.  They were also planted on the slopes of Mount Aboro, the highest mountain at the northern end of the Blue Mountain range near Rethy.

The trees are very fast growing, and depending on how they were planted, grew differently.  When I went out as a dorm kid with Mr. Schuit to get firewood, we were getting it from the side of the road.  I’m not sure how we got permission to cut the trees, but they were crooked old trees with lots of branches.  When we had filled the truck we left the useless branches behind.

The early missionaries had also planted a couple black wattle forests for the dorm, which we used as needed.  When the trees from an area were removed, the branches too small for firewood were placed into piles and burned.  These small controlled fires burned the fallen seed pods and all that was on the forest floor as well. 

The small black seeds, after being heated, germinated by the thousands and in a few weeks the burnt off area resembled a field of tall grass, since the trees grew so closely together.  In a couple years the tall perfectly straight saplings could be selectively cut and woven between vertical poles to make the walls of a mud and wattle house.  The remaining trees would become poles and fence posts in a few more years.  The forests were extremely useful, but without being burned the seeds would not grow and the area would go back to weeds.

A fire was needed to get an old forest to grow up again.

I once burned the forest off the side of a mountain.  I used only one match.  I really didn’t mean to, but this is how it happened.

Years after I had camped out on Mount Aboro, when Ray Stauffacher was my dorm parent, I again climbed that mountain.  I was now the dorm parent, the leader, the one responsible for all the kids who were climbing up with me. I was out to share some of the great memories from my time at Rethy, but we didn’t plan to stay overnight on the mountain.

To make my fire, I used dry materials on a brilliant sunny day at noon, unlike when I saw Mr. Stauffacher make his fire in the rain, at night, with wet wood.

When I started my fire, it was easy. We had climbed up the mountain with dust and pollen blowing in our faces. The moss beards that hung from the dead branches on the forest trees were a dusty gray, instead of the usual light green. The grass rattled, rather than swished as we pushed our way through it avoiding the hard and sharp thorns the best we could. Even the leaves seemed to clatter against one another. It was extremely dry.

At the top of the mountain, the view was obscured in the dry season haze. Lake Albert couldn’t even be seen. All the puddles that were normally in the rocky depressions were gone. The mud at the bottom of each had dried up and cracked into small cubes. Thin tan flakes curled up in the hot sunshine where the edge of the pool had been. The small aloe cacti were the only plants that still looked alive. It was hot. It wasn’t hard to start the fire.

For some reason the kids wanted some hot tea to go with their sandwiches. It is possible that I offered the idea. Their sandwiches were all wadded up in the bottom of the plastic bags they carried; the peanut butter and jelly blended into the bread. Dust and bits of dry leaves and a few insects had somehow gotten into the bags, but the kids thought they would like some hot tea. Sure, I’ll be glad to make a fire. I foolishly didn’t think.

I didn’t need to worry about kindling; plenty of dry grass lay all around. The twigs easily snapped off the branches of the small dried, dead, bushes. It wouldn’t take long to make a hot fire. The kids helped gather what we needed, well, maybe a bit more than we needed, but plenty to get a good fire started. I used only one match.

The fire caught hold immediately. Soon it was crackling cheerfully among the rocks in the sheltered hollow we had selected. Then a gentle breeze began to blow. It felt so good. In the stifling stillness, our sweat wouldn’t even evaporate in spite of the baking heat. The breeze picked up and so did the fire.

A tall clump of lemon grass at a small distance from the fire, between a couple rocks, suddenly burst into flames. We tried to stamp it out, but burning curls of grass floated upward from beneath our feet. The wind carried them a short distance and they drifted back down to settle on more clumps of grass, which also began burning almost immediately.

By now many of us were trying to stamp out the fires, trying to beat them out with little dry bushes we pulled up, only to find new fires starting yards away, and our little bushes catching on fire. The twisting spinning bits of burning grass and sparks drifted ever higher and further away, as the heat from the increasing number of fires became ever more intense. I had started a fire all of us couldn’t stop. We were forced to retreat from the heat and the growing orange flames. Back on the bare rocks, a few yards away, we could do nothing but watch and eat the wads of sandwich, without any hot tea.

There was no time to make kites, though the wind was perfect. With the fire now beginning to roar and spread rapidly, I collected everybody as quickly as possible, checked to be sure everyone found their partner, and we hurriedly began our hike back down the mountain. Had we waited much longer, the fire would have blocked our return path through the forest. The fire became so hot that there was surprisingly little smoke, yet we could clearly see the cloud of drifting sparks and ash towering above the mountain as we looked up behind us on our way back down.

That Saturday night, viewed from Rethy, miles away, the fire on the mountain proved to be a spectacular sight. Bursts of orange flames leapt up into the black sky every time another large tree was consumed like a brilliant torch. A huge circle of dancing, orange light around a black center, the fire burned its way down the mountain. There was absolutely nothing that could be done; no fire fighters, no government authority to phone, nothing could stop what I had started. I had started a forest fire with a single match.

Early Sunday morning, even from that distance, I could see that the mountain still burned, though only in small patches here and there. Mostly black, the mountain breathed isolated plumes of white smoke that drifted nearly straight up into the air. The wind must have shifted in the night and the fire had died down, at least as far as I could see. My single match had caused that tremendous black blotch on the mountain.

Shortly after I returned into the dorm, a man knocked at the door. Bleary eyed, tired, and none too clean, he apparently hadn’t slept much that night. Clearly he had been drinking something much stronger than water and not fighting the fire, though he smelled of smoke. “I am the Agronome,” he stated, “I have heard that you were up on the mountain with your children yesterday. The chief has eaten a goat with the elders.”

I realized that the celebrations had already begun. The celebration expenses were no doubt on credit, knowing that the muzungu had lots of money. He told me I was to report to the Zone Agronome near Buba, halfway to Djugu, near the Blukwa /Linga turnoff. I had committed a serious “infraction.” Clearly, I was in trouble with the local forester from my single match.

After Sunday School that morning, I collected all the older boys, and we climbed into my blue Chevy four-wheel-drive pickup. We took old burlap sacks. We took hoes and shovels. We took axes, pangas, and my light blue Homelite chain saw. We were resolved to fight the fire and create a firebreak, so it would spread no further.

Well, by the time we arrived, we had a hard time deciding where to make a firebreak. The fire had burned itself out. It didn’t seem to be heading anywhere and there was no wind. I guess all I can say is that the Lord made that fire go out.

We began hacking anyway, cutting a path near the only burning area we could find. The chain saw roared. Kids were hacking joyfully at the dry brush. They shoveled up dry dirt and tossed it into a bush, which was smoldering on the far side of the small area. Black dirt and flying ash soon has us looking a lot like the Agronome who had been at my door that morning, at least in our complexion and the smell of smoke on our now filthy clothes. We really didn’t do much good. The fire went out before we got our feeble firebreak completed.

I did have to go to Buba and reply to the questions asked by the authorities in what was called the “procès-verbal”, the “Peh-Veh” or the verbal process, a questioning to determine what had happened. 

They proved to be very understanding and gravely collected all the details asking:

    “Where did you make the fire?” – between three rocks at the top of the mountain;

    “Why did you make the fire?” – to heat water to make tea for my children;

    “How did the fire burn the forest?” – the wind came up and took the fire away from us;

    “What did we do to put it out?” – we stamped on it, hit it with branches, but it overcame us.

The listeners had apparently heard the chainsaw on Sunday because I recognized the sound effects as they talked in Kilendu.  My French isn’t all that good but I understood that I needed to be more careful.  I apologized.  I would be more careful.  I was sorry the forest on the mountain had burned. 

What would they do to me?  I didn’t ask what my fine might be, nor did they ever send me an official notice of any penalty.  The local Agronome rode back to Rethy with me in my dark blue Chevy pick-up truck.  He may have been disappointed in the outcome of the “procès-verbal” which made him no richer. 

I am sure Mount Aboro became green again, because after the rains it was certain that millions of black wattle seeds would germinate and the young trees battle for the light, growing straight and tall to become materials to build new houses. 

Now, about 35 years later, the satellite view shows that the mountain is mostly green.  The patchwork of gardens shows many colors, some just freshly cultivated, others showing different stages of growth and a variety of shades of green.

The people there forgave my thoughtless action and have turned the burned off area into gardens.