The first thing we notice as we walk into the woods is the unmistakable odor of quenched campfire carried on the air that filters down the mountainside. Recently this peaceful spot rocked with the sound of water bombers and helicopters fighting a stubborn forest fire on the rocky slopes high above us. Our path, notched into the lower mountain slope, tunnels into the forest. Uphill, hidden far above the trees, are the scorched cliffs of Mt. Maxwell and below us the steep hillside dives into the cool blue waters of Burgoyne Bay: all of this is clothed in a rich growth of fir, arbutus and rampant undergrowth. Now, in early summer, bushes of Ocean Spray blur the air with waving creamy blossoms and foxgloves stand tall amid white daisy clusters scattered along the sunnier edges of the path. We feel its peaceful aura seeping into us even as our jangling nerves ring bells warning that all is not right: that insidious smell still warns of danger.