THE FIRE AT SOAPSTONE MOUNTAIN

Before I ever had a license, I was already in the dirt. 

Frank H. Baker III gave me a job when I was just a kid clearing the Somers Mountain State Forest—what some people call Soapstone Mountain. We didn’t have horses then; we had heavy saws and the heat of massive bonfires. 

Frank would hand me the jerry pack—a tank of kerosene on my back—and I’d walk those piles like I had my own personal flamethrower to keep the fire roaring.

 I remember the smell of the fuel and eating bologna and mustard sandwiches while the mountain burned. This tower was the landmark of my youth—the place where the work started.

This was our kingdom. Back in the Somers Mountain days, I didn't park in the lot and walk like a tourist. I drove my Forest Green V8 Jeep CJ-5 straight to the foot of this tower because I was a bad boy like that. 

We spent our days clearing the land with Frank H. Baker III, eating bologna sandwiches by the bonfires, and our nights up here looking out over Connecticut. 

This steel tower was the lighthouse for our youth, marking the spot where the grit of Jeffrey P. Landry was first forged in the fire.