An Agency Much Maligned

 

For more than fifty years I’ve never had just one neighbor, I’ve had thousands of them. Some wore green uniforms and fought wildfire. Others marked timber sales, maintained trails, studied wildlife, battled bark beetles, or explained why roads were closed. They were the United States Forest Service. When I built my cabin next to one of the largest national forests in the nation, every decision about timber sales, wildfires, recreation, insects, or trail maintenance eventually found its way to my subdivision’s property line.

My relationship with the Forest Service has never been simple. As a young boy I admired Smokey Bear, the men in green pants with yellow fire shirts, and the idea that someone watched over America's forests. Later, I observed logging that left mountainsides devoid of trees. I fought with the agency over filming in wilderness and questioned whether a bureaucracy housed in the Department of Agriculture could ever truly see forests as more than a crop.

When Outdoor Idaho convened a group of current and former Forest Service leaders for an extended conversation in McCall, I hoped to learn more about one of the most criticized institutions in the American West.  As the cameras rolled, I found myself watching something I hadn't anticipated. It felt less like a television production and more like eavesdropping on an intimate family conversation. These men and women had spent decades together, as colleagues and subordinates and supervisors, in what they all referred to as their “family.” Luckily, we had managed to snag the former leader of this sprawling, sometimes dysfunctional household, Thomas Tidwell, the 17^th Chief of the United States Forest Service.                                          

This federal agency has long been one of the most controversial in the American West, managing roughly 20 million acres in Idaho alone. That’s nearly 40% of the state’s land mass, a higher percentage than any other state. Outdoor Idaho had covered the Forest Service (FS) in all kinds of ways, but we had never gathered the leaders to talk about their family’s failures, successes, and concerns. I suspected no other television program had done so, either. I wanted them to be their own worst critics. If they weren’t good at it, I jokingly warned them, we could easily find outsiders who would love the opportunity to voice their opinions of the Forest Service on statewide television.

"We were arrogant,” said retired Forest Service Supervisor Jim Caswell, leaning into the assignment. "We're responsible for cutting on the national forest in places that we should have never cut. It just can't support that kind of forestry. We paid for that in the end.” Boise National Forest Supervisor Tawnya Brummett, representing a younger generation, added, "We tended to think of ourselves as the experts on everything. We'd ask for public input, put it away in a tiny little file, and go on with what we wanted to do."

Fellow Forest Supervisor Cheryl Probert also criticized the way things were done, wondering aloud if the agency used “beefed-up public involvement” as an opportunity to tell people why they were wrong. “Our tagline is ‘Caring for the Land and Serving People,’” Cheryl reminded the group. “We are all trained in caring for the land, but we have very few who understand the science of serving the people.”

I was getting the feeling the old guard was in for a smackdown.

I had known Brian Harris for years. The public information spokesman for the Payette National Forest liked my idea for a segment on Forest Service leadership. It would be for our hour-long March 2022 pledge special, “The Next Chapter,” exploring how agencies were adapting to change. Brian helped choose the six people who met in McCall that bitter January morning at the historic log building known as the Administrative Site. We set up the chairs and the three TV cameras in the basement of the beautiful Civilian Conservation Corps building, but someone had forgotten to light the wood stove. At least no one was going to doze off for the next 2½ hours.

Forest Supervisor Cheryl Probert had joined the federal agency because she was interested in range management. One of the attractions was that she wouldn’t have to spend much time interacting with humans. A lot of people joined the FS for that very reason, she informed us. “And then I became a range con, and I was like, so 10% of my job is doing the grass and dirt thing, and 90% is working with people. Well, it’s a good thing I like it!” She now supervises two national forests combined into one administrative unit called the Nez Perce-Clearwater National Forests. That makes it the largest single national forest in Idaho. “We need people who understand social systems, and don't just merely do a socioeconomic cost benefit analysis and stick it in a report.” 

I could tell Tom Tidwell was enjoying himself. He didn’t disagree with any of their comments. "I've always thought the agency was a little slow to really recognize what the public wanted from their land. And it is their land.”

Tom’s roots run deep in Idaho. He was born in Boise and began his 40-year career in the Boise National Forest fighting fires not far from my cabin. “I wish we could have learned a little faster and a little sooner,” Tom told his former colleagues. “I give credit to the environmental groups that I think really helped us. They kind of forced us to use the science and to take a step back. They also provided us some cover to be able to change. If we hadn't had the environmental movement in this country, I would hope that we would've been able to do it on our own, but I don't think we would have.”

 

As a boy I met Lassie at a county fair. She represented everything good about forests, rangers, Smokey Bear, and the Forest Service. Chief Tidwell smiled when he recalled those years. "Back then the Forest Service was the white-hat agency. We were on TV, and Ranger Rick was the hero. And, of course, Lassie was a big part of it.”

It was perhaps inevitable that my admiration for an agency that manages 193 million acres would evolve as I started seeing how the world really works. As I look back on it now, no agency caused more cognitive dissonance in my head than the U.S. Forest Service. Some of my upstanding friends worked for the federal agency. Still, I had a hard time accepting that the Forest Service was part of the Department of Agriculture. Forests were more complicated than crops. And why should the approach to forest management change every time a new administration settles into the White House?

When the Forest Service was created in 1905, Chief Tidwell explained, forest reserves were established to protect watersheds, provide a sustainable supply of timber, and safeguard landscapes that had already been stripped by careless logging, overgrazing, and catastrophic wildfire. That’s why most Americans viewed the Forest Service as the good guys.

Until America changed.

I remember when things changed for me. I was heading to a lake in Oregon, hoping to camp, hike, and fish. I came around the bend of the dirt road, and in every direction, as far as I could see, the trees were gone. I stopped the car. No birds were singing. No animals anywhere. Instead of a forest, I was looking at stumps stretching toward the next ridge. I never made it to the lake. I turned around and drove home. I promised myself that if the chance ever presented itself, I would warn people that the Forest Service was not always a friend of the forest. How can there be “multiple use” of a forest, I wondered, if the forest had disappeared?

Former superintendent Jim Caswell viewed those years with remarkable clarity. "We had the green light," he told the group. "We knew what we were doing." The country wanted timber, communities depended upon timber, and the Forest Service delivered. Then a new generation of environmental laws  fundamentally changed what Americans expected from their public lands. "It always takes about ten years," Caswell observed, "for legislation everybody thinks is wonderful to become a nightmare when you're trying to implement it on the ground.”

 

Coming from individuals who knew life in the belly of the beast only too well, I figured it must be cathartic to share their experiences on our program. They were all familiar with Outdoor Idaho, so there was a certain level of trust. The problem was that when my colleagues and I determined what would be in our hour-long program, I had allotted only six minutes to the Forest Service discussion. I mean, how interesting could a talking-heads segment really be, I had told myself.

My colleagues had begun working on other parts of the hour-long program, so I was loath to pull rank on their hard work. This would be one of those times where I would rely upon Outdoor Idaho’s social-media efforts. I chose what part of the multi-hour discussion to use for our TV show and then put more of the story on our website and Facebook page. Turns out the TV segment came in just under 7 minutes. The website version tipped the scales at 15. It was one of those times when I truly appreciated social media, and this from the guy who was once quoted as saying “I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste my time on something called My Face.”

One thing that made it into the longer social media version was Chief Tidwell’s comments on multiple use. “Our public lands are a tremendous resource and there’s a lot of controversy because of all the different uses. We do work under the Multiple Use and Sustained Yield Act, but what's interesting is that it was the first legislation that said no use can dominate another use. Wildlife’s interest is to have the same importance as timber harvest or recreation.” Yeah, right.

Still, the agency that once measured success in board feet now measures it in partnerships, recreation, habitat restoration, and how well it prepares communities for wildfire. It’s a safe bet that getting the cut out will once again become a top priority.

Each institution develops its own family dynamic, and the Forest Service is no exception. Spend a career together fighting wildfires, arguing over timber sales, hiking burned landscapes, testifying before Congress, sitting through endless public meetings and lawsuits, and eventually you become something more than co-workers. You share victories and disappointments, admit mistakes, laugh at old memories, and recall regrets as they did in that cold basement of the McCall administrative building.

One regret shared by everyone is how the Forest Service moved out of rural towns throughout the West. I certainly noticed it when I moved to Idaho City in the 1970s. Forest Service employees were on the city council and their children went to the same school as everyone else’s. I’d see them in the restaurants and in the bar. The Forest Service was a major player in that small town. This was back when someone working with the Forest Service could walk into an Idaho City bar and have an even chance of being bought a beer. If he was a member of the fire crew, wearing the distinctive dark forest-green pants and bright yellow shirt, he would likely get all his beers for free. People might have problems with Forest Service policy, but everyone loved the firefighters.

“That doesn’t happen anymore,” lamented Jim Caswell. “We’ve moved out of county seats. We just walked away. That’s a loss of community support. We’ve lost the ability to be really connected to the community. Look at Warren, Dixie, Oak City, Red River. We pulled out of those old work-stations.  You can’t go down to the coffee shop on Wednesday at 6 a.m. and sit down with the ranchers any longer because we don’t have anybody there. That really bothers me.”

When the Forest Service was forced to do more with less, the easy answer was to shrink services and operate out of a centralized location, usually an urban office. “I’m not suggesting you go back,” said Jim Caswell, “because I don’t think you could, even if you wanted to, but it’s a loss. I think it’s a bad deal, and that’s something you really need to think about as an agency nationwide.”

One of the younger members of our discussion was former firefighter Jared Schuster. He got his start with the Forest Service in one of those small communities. “I loved it. It was great,” he said.” You can make your own niche, and you can make a difference. I think that's amazing.” He had nothing but admiration and respect for the federal agency he worked for.

My respect for the Forest Service grew that January morning in 2022. What impressed me most was that these people were still trying to understand an institution they loved enough to spend their lives serving. Families can be stubborn. They can make mistakes. Sometimes only family members can speak honestly about both the strengths and the failings of the people they call their own. Several things stood out to me that I could agree with. One is that the FS is actually capable of fundamental change.

Gender diversity and collaboration are two changes that suggest the behemoth federal agency can move forward with the general culture. “When I was a young buck, we were talking about diversity and having targets and being evaluated,” said Jim Caswell. “And I kept thinking, gosh, I don’t know if this is ever gonna work. But you can see the results today, vividly. Just think about who's in leadership in this outfit at every level across multiple forests,” he marveled. “If you go back to 1965, almost every one of 'em was a white male. That is no longer the case.”

The second change was that collaboration became the new coin of the realm, thanks in large part, I think, to women taking leadership roles in the agency. Women seemed willing to reach out and bring conflicting views into the conversation. They understand that sometimes compromise is necessary to keep things on track. 

To someone like Molly Eimers, one of the youngest members in our discussion that morning, collaboration is the only thing she’s known. “I just feel tremendously grateful for the growing pains that I think you have all weathered,” the young archaeologist told the group. “I don't really know the Forest Service without collaboration. I feel like that is one of the primary pillars of the Forest Service that I know, that I've been a part of.”                                                     

One thing I didn’t expect to hear from the former chief of the U.S. Forest Service is the emphasis he put on creating memories. A Forest Service official who climbed to the top of an agency placed in the Department of Agriculture announced that “Yes, commodity production is important, but public lands are the place you can take your dog, ride your bike and your motorcycle, where you can hunt and fish. That’s the real benefit,” said Tom Tidwell. “Commodity production is just an additional benefit. The real benefit is where we get to go play, it’s where we get to enjoy ourselves, and it’s where we get to create memories.”

I would expect to hear those words from the director of the National Park Service, where the goal is to inspire public appreciation and stewardship in places like Yellowstone and Glacier National Park. I didn’t expect to hear those words from the chief of the U.S. Forest Service, where the slogan has occasionally been “Get the Cut Out.”

Our discussion wandered through timber, wilderness, recreation, endangered species, budgets, and politics. Eventually we got around to the issue that overshadows all others the FS faces. Can we keep our forest and the communities near them from burning up? Fair or not, much of the public now judges the Forest Service by that question. If smoke fills the valleys each summer, people ask why more timber isn’t being cut. If prescribed burns escape, they ask why the agency lit them in the first place. If logging increases, some fear the forests are once again becoming little more than tree farms.

It’s understandable that when the conversation turned to wildfire, Tom’s voice carried a different urgency. “When I first came in as Chief,” Tidwell explained, “our scientists and I would talk about longer fire seasons. And they would say, ‘Wait a minute, Chief. They are 78 days longer, cuz we have the research. So when you talk about it, say 78 days longer on average across the country.’ 

“In 1995 wildfire suppression accounted for 16% of the USFS budget,” said the chief. “By 2015 more than half of the total budget went to fighting fires. The result of that was 50% less foresters, 50% less engineers, 50% less wildlife and fisheries biologists, 50% to 60% less archeologists. And it affected the summer crews also.”

Large wildfires used to be rare in the West. “There’s still this expectation that the federal agencies, working with our state partners, can suppress every fire. And that’s a myth. It’s not going to happen. It never has, and it never will,” he said. “When you get these large fires, the science is very clear that no amount of suppression is going to change the overall size of that fire. 

“When it comes to being able to protect homes, we do a tremendous job,” said Tom. “But the science will show that all the work, all the effort that goes into the size of those large fires is basically the same, whether we are there or not. They don’t stop burning until the weather changes, or they burn a different field type. I have to admit, at times it’s really hard not to get defensive. I just want to tell people, well, this is the way it is. Climate change is real, and this is what’s causing it.”

 

As the chief talked about longer fire seasons, I wasn't thinking about national policy. I was thinking about the view from my deck. For more than half a century I've lived beside the Boise National Forest. I’ve watched smoke columns rise, listened to chainsaws, celebrated prescribed burns that worked, worried about the ones that didn't, and watched generations of Forest Service employees come and go.

My little cabin has given me a front-row seat to watch an imperfect agency struggle to care for lands that belong to all of us. Being so close to a national forest, I know my cabin—my delight and my albatross—is living on borrowed time. That’s why I celebrate each October, near the end of an expanding fire season. There’s comfort in knowing that the much-maligned Forest Service will be there in future years if ever help is needed.

But I’m realistic. I know the odds, and increasingly they are not in my favor.