Say Goodnight George

I finally made it back to LA (and internet access) a couple days ago, and when I returned I found out that The Angeles National Forest had lost one of its most dedicated caretakers: George Geer. He passed away unexpectedly.

George was a forestry major in junior college, and had worked for the City of San Gabriel Parks and Recreation Department before joining the Forest Service at age 22. He was initially stationed at Chilao and was put to work fighting a five-acre fire on his first day on the job. George worked on The Angeles for over 35 years and was a familiar figure to anyone who has spent time in the forest. Much of his time was spent as a Fuels Reduction Officer. He made sure campers had safe fires and inspected the camps and cabins for compliance with fire clearance regulations. But George always went beyond the call of duty. I used to see him in the turnouts of the Chantry Flat road picking up cigarette butts and painting over graffiti, whereas the man who now holds his position never gets out of his truck, let alone hike to the campgrounds and cabins. George was the last of the old garde.

I first met George before I knew anything about the San Gabriel Mountains. I wanted to explore the trails near my Altadena home so I went up the street and camped at Millard Campground for a few days. Early one morning, before I got out of my sleeping bag, a man banged on my tent and told me to get out. I didn't know what to make of that so I ignored him. He banged again and said he needed to talk to me. Cautiously I got out of my tent and was confronted with the man I came to know as George Geer. He pointed at my fire ring and asked "What is that?" It seemed obvious to me that it was a fire ring, but not wanting to sound like a smart-ass I just said "What do you mean?" Before going to bed I had put a log in the ring that was slightly too big and he was fussing over the six-inch piece that had fallen out overnight. It was a little singed and cold and there was nothing around but dirt. It could not have caused a forest fire, but it was poor fire etiquette and George was mad (or so it seemed). He told me to clean it up so I picked up the chunk of wood and put it in the fire ring; job done. But George had different ideas. He came back from his truck with a rake and shovel and made me clean not only around the fire ring, but my whole campsite. Frankly, I was glad to have the tools to clean up the area, but I let him have his moment of "punishing" me. He was really just trying to educate me.

The following is a story in George's own words from the book The Angeles Was Our Home: Recollections of Life on the Angeles National Forest by Norma Rowly...

Mustard Off The Hot Dog

In the early '80s I was having trouble with my new boss regarding my taking my black lab companion of four years, Freedom, on patrol. It was "suggested" that she should no longer accompany me.

I started on my early morning patrol to the mesa above Angeles Crest Station to see what the late-night friends of the forest had left behind. Freedom was enjoying her daily fight with the bushes that got too close to the truck. This was a daily ritual for her. Since an attack the bushes made on her nose while she was sleeping on Juanita Romero's lap with her head out the window years earlier, she had never forgotten.

When we reached the mesa, two parked cars and four or five teenagers were next to a safe, but illegal, bar-b-que. The rest of the mesa was strewn with beer cans and other debris from the night before.

As I approached the kids, I told Freedom, who was standing tall and erect in the hose basket she had adopted as hers, "Alert!" I had seen this somewhere on TV, and since a few people had asked me if she were trained, I used the ploy on questionable contacts.

The young visitors were eating their freshly cooked hamburgers and hot dogs. Still more were heating up on the grill. They passed the attitude test and apologized for their misdeeds. I told them they could choose between a citation or help put something back into their forest by cleaning the mesa. I took their ID's and began writing up warning notices.

As I finished my write-up, I looked around for Freedom. She was nowhere to be found. I quickly called her name and within seconds she came from behind the cars.She looked at me somewhat sheepishly with her tongue out and was trying to lick the mustard that was all over her muzzle.

I was dead! I walked around the kids' cars and my worst fears were realized. The food - every bit of it, even the food on the grill - was gone. I knew that would be the end of Freedom's days on patrol. What was I going to tell the boys, and my boss?

As the kids came back I told them what had happened and offered to pay for the food. Luckily, they all laughed and thought it was justice for what they had done.

George was stern, but always tried to be fair.

Another story I have about George involves fire clearance. The owners of cabins #116 & #117 in Winter Creek had hired me to do the fire clearance around their cabins. I was weed-whacking around #117 when George came down the trail. He had been cleaning Hoegee's Campground. He had his usual list of criticisms and suggestions on how to do the clearance better. I told him I would take care of the details and he went on his way, but not before reminding me to trim the Vinca around the outhouse.

The next day, as I was picking up manure from the front of the barn at Adams' Pack Station, George showed up and leaned on the corral fence and looked at me. I said hello, but he just stared at me - angrily. I asked him "What's wrong?" and he said "You told me you would clean around that outhouse." I told him that I did and he said "No you didn't. I was just there." It turns out George had actually hiked back in that morning to examine my work; a three mile round trip just to check on me. So he marched me back in, one and a half miles with a weed-whacker, to finish the job. When we got to the cabins I realized that we were each thinking of a different outhouse. Without getting into the details, I had only cleaned the area belonging to the people that paid me, and I left alone the neighboring cabin - the cabin that claims, and in fact has the keys for, the outhouse in question. Of course, since I was already there on a special trip with a weed-whacker, and since I didn't have the nerve to argue with George, I cleaned around the outhouse while George watched. Looking back I realize he was mad because he always did what needed to be done whether he was technically getting paid for it or not.

A lot of cabin owners didn't like George because he made them work harder than they wanted to, or pay for others to work more than they wanted. But they didn't realize that he was just wanted what was best for the cabins. He (unlike Jody Noiron & Marty Dumpis) loved the cabins, and camps like Sturtevant's, and did everything he could to protect them from wildfire. Somewhere between the lackadaisical attitude of the cabin owners and George's extreme standards the cabins were reasonably well protected.

George often got reprimanded by his superiors, like the time he took it upon himself to hire "jail crews" to clean up Chantry Flat. They cut all the tall grass, pruned dead limbs and cleared Poison Oak. He only did these things because it was what the forest needed, and because he cared about the experience of the public. If someone told him "no" and he knew better, he would find a way to get it done anyway. The results were always good and I don't think he ever got into serious trouble. Nobody could argue with George's knowledge, productivity, and devotion to his job.

A couple three years ago George turned 55 years of age and they took him out of the field; this is supposedly Forest Service policy. Shortly after this I did a major clean-up and fire clearance around the pack station. I cut down California Bay trees, cleared a dumpster-full of Poison Oak, and raked the duff down to dirt. When owner Deb Burgess saw what I had done she was a little shocked; it had to be done, but it was a shocking difference. I jokingly (and affectionately) named it the George Geer Memorial Desert.

Admittedly, George was a hot-head and blurred the bounds of propriety, but he loved the Angeles National Forest as much as anyone ever has and his motives were always to protect and serve. The Angeles needs more people like him. The current management rarely come out off their offices and don't like to get out of their trucks. I challenge you to find a tan on any one of those people. George was a true patrolman. The story above about the hot dogs refers to the mesa above the station where the Station Fire started. I guarantee you if George Geer were on patrol when a crazy man was seen pushing a shopping cart up & down the Angeles Crest Highway that fire never would have happened.

I don't know for sure how George died, other than "natural causes", and I have heard that it was a heart attack, but I can't help but think that maybe the worst thing for him was to put him behind a desk. Patrolling the mountains, visiting friends and educating the public were his passions. I have heard stories of men who lose their will to live when their life's work is finished. I don't know this to be the case, I hadn't seen George in quite a while to know if he was happy, but it does make me wonder.

UPDATE:

As soon as I posted this I got word from Deb at Adams' Pack Station, who went to the memorial service, and she told me that George committed suicide in his car. In her words: "We all believe in our hearts that George found himself lost when he was forced to resign."