by Byron White
Stan joined in and began helping the two men. Within a short while Bill was whistling from the top of the loaded rack as Min headed slowly out the road.
Stan turned to Allan.
“How are things going in here?” Stan asked.
“Well, b’y, not bad, I s’pose,” was Allan’s reply.
“Is all the wood cleared from the inside branch roads now?”
“Yes. All the wood inside this branch has been pulled out,” Allan stated. “This road would be cleared, too, if it wasn’t for Old Min.”
“I believe we’re ahead of last year,” Stan stated referring to the rate at which the pulpwood was being moved.
“Yes. I believe we are, too,” Allan agreed.
“Jingoes, Allan. I hope so. This wood has got to be all out this winter if there’s any way we can get it.”
“Stan, we’ll do it. I think we’ll do it.” Allan tended to be a bit more upbeat and optimistic than his brother. Stan took nothing for granted. He would not be satisfied until the last piece of pulpwood was out.
“So everything is moving okay in on this end?” Stan asked as he prepared to leave.
“Yes, b’y.” Allan paused. “Well, we had a small delay there this morning.”
“How so?” Stan asked.
“Well, Alb and Art moved more wood than I expected yesterday and they were ready to go on the next branch road this morning.”
“Yes, Allan. They move a lot of wood!”
“This morning their new road was drifted in some, so I got Gerald to go in with Scott to break the road a bit better for those two,” Allan continued.
“Good. You know what’s best. Do whatever is needed, but keep that wood moving, Allan.”
“B’y, I’ll do me best.”
“I know that, b’y. I know,” Stan said as he turned to go.
“It’s a bit warmer this morning,” Allan noted as Stan headed off.
“Yes, it is. I hope it doesn’t stay like this for long,” Stan called back over his shoulder.
“No, me neither,” Allan replied from behind.
Stan walked in on some of the branch roads that extended in among the pulpwood brows. He stopped to check on the road crew working up on this section maintaining the winter roads. Satisfied that all was going as smoothly as possible, he headed back out the ridge. He didn’t like being away from the cliff landing for too long. He was always worried that something would go seriously wrong out on that end.
Gerald Head was not a happy man this Friday morning. He was running behind his usual wood tally for this time of day. He was competitive and wanted to keep up with Albert Oake and Art Brenton. He knew it was a faint hope and that he couldn’t haul the amount of wood they did. But darn it! It made him mad that they beat him. He wanted to do his best and he’d kill himself trying. And now this morning, what did Allan ask him to do? He had put him and his horse Scott in breaking the branch road so Alb and Art would not be delayed! Alb and Art were Stan’s and Allan’s pets! Do everything for those fellows! And what about him? What about Gerald Head? No thought for him being delayed, he bet! He was being picked on. Well, he’d show them! He might be young and new at the haul-off, but he’d move his share of wood! You just watch and see!
Gerald had been just heading out the ridge with a load of wood when Alb and Art passed by on the parallel return trail. They had one load over the cliff and were back for their second. When Gerald reached the landing, he sent the wood flying off his rack. Uncle Ben Mills had been nearby and had given him a hand. Now Gerald was sitting on the empty rack and he and Scott were heading back in the ridge. Gerald slapped the reins on his horse’s back.
“Get up, Scott. Getty up!” Gerald urged.
Scott trotted back up the trail, pulling Gerald and the empty rack and sled behind him. Gerald was intent on making up the time he’d lost earlier in the morning. He was starting to feel a bit better already. Suddenly, and without warning, everything changed.
From the direction of the outbound wood road, a snow-shrouded apparition sprang through the trees and onto the return trail. A giant arm reached out and grabbed Scott by the bridle and almost brought the horse to its knees. Scott had gone from a trot to a full stop in a matter of a few feet—the sudden stop sent Gerald forward, and he grabbed the upright, the sled horn, and held on. His quick reaction was all that kept him from plummeting forward and landing under the horse’s rear end.
Before Gerald had a chance to compose himself, Stan had released his grasp on Scott’s bridle. He was now standing on the road looking menacingly at Gerald.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he roared. Gerald was speechless. Stan was standing there, clutching the handle of his axe just below the blade.
“If I ever catch you trotting Scott again, I’ll send you packin’ down the line before you know what hit you!” Stan said, shaking his arm and axe in Gerald’s direction.
“I have one horse hove up in the barn now that’s worn out and in no condition to work,” Stan continued. “You look after that horse of yours, or I’ll take it from you!”
Gerald was as white as a sheet. He was still atop the rack and he hadn’t said a word.
“Now get on in the trail and see if you can pull a bit of wood,” Stan said, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone.
Gerald touched the reins on Scott’s back and headed in the trail. His head was spinning and he felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. Scott plodded on and Gerald sat with a blank stare as if traumatized. It took a few moments before he regained his composure.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asked himself.
He was only trying to put in a good day’s work, to make a good showing for the camp and himself. If there was a problem Stan could have discussed it with him. He didn’t have to shake him up like that. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t being treated fairly. He had a good mind to quit, to chuck it all down and go home.
After the encounter with Gerald, Stan headed on down toward the river. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “Jingoes. I don’t know about that fellow.”
He recalled the incident just after Christmas, when Gerald had only been teaming for a few days. Stan had been inspecting the outbound road, like today, when through the trees he had heard someone approaching on the return trail. He paused to listen. Someone was singing lustily.
“If there’s a mosquiter on your peeker, whack it off.
If there’s a skeeter on your peeker, whack it off.
If there’s a skeeter on your peeker, If there’s a skeeter on your peecker,
If there’s a skeeter on your peeker, whack it off!”
Gerald rounded a turn on the adjacent trail and came into view. He was heading back up the slope with an empty rack. Gerald was new on the haul-off and Stan had decided to keep an eye on him, to see how things were working out.
As Stan watched, Gerald passed along a section where several large trees grew nearby. Their great branches swept out over the road a few feet above the horse and teamster. Gerald was standing on the forward section of the wood rack when he passed the trees. His singing stopped abruptly. Suddenly, Gerald’s arms shot up and his hands grasped one of the tree branches. Scott plodded on as Gerald hung suspended above the moving rack. At the last moment, Gerald released his hold on the branch and dropped, landing on the back of the rack. Having successfully accomplished this venture, Gerald nimbly ran forward and again grasped another overhanging branch. He again hung suspended in the air and dropped with considerable agility to the back section. Again, he sprang forward and was about to repeat the adventure for a third time when Stan had appeared in the road in front of him.
“Now look here, my son!” he shouted. “This is no place for sports! Next thing you know, you’ll have an accident and be broke up!”
Gerald mumbled somewhat sheepishly that it wouldn’t happen again and Stan crossed back to the outbound trail.
Today, as Stan headed toward the river, he shook his head ag
ain remembering the event.
This morning as Gerald reached the stacked pulpwood, he could see the branch road where Art and Alb were loading. Paddy, Alb’s horse, was loaded and ready to go. Alb was down in the snow hole at the bottom of a pulpwood pile. He was tossing pulpwood up to Art. As oft before, Gerald noted the fluid motion of Alb’s movements. Art, he noted, was no slouch either. Wood was flowing from the snow hole onto Art’s rack in a steady, almost effortless rhythm. The way they worked, Gerald knew no one would ever haul more wood than they did.
As Gerald headed Scott to his section of wood, Alb called up to him.
“Geraldie, you made good time that trip!”
“Yes, Ger, you were just under way when we got back,” Art added.
“Yes, I didn’t waste any time,” Gerald said solemnly as he reined Scott to a stop.
“No, I can see that,” Alb said.
“Did anybody give you a hand unloading?” Art asked.
“Yeah, Uncle Ben helped me,” Gerald replied.
“Well, that’s good. It’s always nice to get a bit of help,” Alb said.
“Yes, Uncle Ben helped me unload, and then I was scravelling back in here when Stan caught me.”
“What do you mean, Stan caught you? What were you doing?” Alb paused now and he and Art stared intently at Gerald.
“Well,” he said, “I had Scott trotting back in the road to get another load and . . .”
He was interrupted by a low whistle that issued from Alb’s lips.
“You weren’t trottin’ your horse, Gerald?” Alb was looking at Gerald in disbelief.
“That’s a black mark against you, Ger b’y,” Art stated.
“Why? I was only tryin’ to get back in to get more wood,” Gerald continued, pleading his case now.
“But Gerald, you knows, me son, that you never, never, never run your horse!” Alb asserted emphatically.
“No. I didn’t know. No one told me.”
“Ger, everybody knows that, ol’ man!” It was Art speaking now.
There was silence for a moment, as Art and Alb digested the news. Then Alb spoke again.
“What did Stan say to you?”
“He told me if he caught me again he’d send me down the line.” Gerald paused, then added, “And he almost knocked me off the rack.” He looked at Alb and Art, hoping to read some sympathy in their faces. But these were seasoned teamsters. They had worked for Stan for a while now, and he saw no great empathy in their eyes.
“Gerald, my son, the skipper must like you or you would have been fired on the spot,” Alb stated flatly.
“Like me?” Gerald replied in disbelief.
“Yes. After what happened last year, you’re lucky to still be here.”
“Why? What happened last year?” Gerald wanted to know.
“Last year,” Alb began, “Stan had two fellers here who ran their animals. They trotted them back and ran them right into the ground.”
“Yes, the two animals gave out and the poor things spent the rest of the winter in the barn,” Art added.
“Stan didn’t catch them running their horses,” Alb continued “but when he found out, them fellers were sent packing in one awful hurry.”
“Yes. You don’t run your horse and you don’t mess around with Skipper Stan,” Art agreed.
“Stan’s the boss up here. He’s blunt and he’s hard, but you know where you stand with he,” Alb continued, bending down to pass up another piece of pulpwood. He paused, holding it across his right arm as he looked at Gerald, who was still sitting atop his rack just staring ahead. Alb noted his drooping shoulders and his downcast face.
“Gerald b’y, don’t dwell on it. Don’t let it get you down,” Alb said.
“I s’pose,” Gerald replied in a low voice.
“Put it out of your mind. We all make mistakes. Just don’t repeat this one.”
With that, Alb pitched the stick of pulpwood up to Art. In one fluid motion his pulp hook swung into the next piece. The two buddies were back at work and wood was once again flowing onto Art’s rack. Gerald slapped the reins on Scott’s back and headed to the next section of wood.
CHAPTER 8
THE NEXT DAY, BIG heavy snowflakes were falling as the teamsters passed Stan’s outstretched lantern and headed in to haul wood. By mid-morning a brisk westerly wind had sprung up. The sheltered sections of the trail offered protection and the wood train moved on unimpeded. In the open sections, the bog areas, and in on the ridge where the cutovers lay, conditions were becoming harsher. Snow was drifting and the road crews and the teamsters were battling to keep the road open. Out by the river, great caution was needed as the teamsters approached the cliff.
Stan stayed out by the river now. He and Uncle Ben took turns leading each horse up the landing to the zone for unloading. There was no need to take unnecessary chances with the weather like this. Stan wanted the wood to keep moving for as long as possible. He hoped the weather would soon improve, but by midday the sky had darkened and snow was hurtling down. Great sheets of driving white whipped across the landing—the wind had gained in fury. In on the open ridge, the full force of the storm was being felt. It was difficult for man and beast to see anything in front of them. It was becoming a losing battle to keep the roads open. But still the teamsters pressed on, the horses straining to pull sleds with racks only partially full.
When the men paused for lunch, they stumbled into the canvas shelter, which was encased in snow. Outside, only the upper walls and roof of the big enclosure were visible. The shelter was practically buried in snow, and it was this that kept it from being lifted and carried off by the wind. The tea was not ready when the teamsters arrived. Lew Cull and Cecil Cooper had not reached the lunch ground. As the men ate, they wondered aloud how much longer the wood could keep moving now that visibility was zero and the road was drifting in faster than it could be cleared.
In on the open ridge, a full-blown blizzard was raging. It was becoming difficult to stand and breathe, let alone work. Allan decided it was time to have a talk with Stan. He hitched a ride with Uncle Aram Freake, the last teamster heading out before the midday break. As they passed the lunch grounds, most of the crew had already stopped to eat. Allan went on down to the river to help Uncle Aram unload. As they entered the landing, Stan was holding King, Uncle Aram’s big brown horse. Even this huge animal was straining to move its partially filled wood rack. Stan stopped the horse and the men began to push the wood into the ravine.
“Allan, what’s it like inside?” Stan shouted through the driving snow.
“Stan b’y, ’tis hard. I allows we should shut ’er down for the day,” Allan replied. He was half-expecting Stan to be less than agreeable to his suggestion, but to his surprise, Stan was in agreement.
“If we don’t stop soon, we’re gonna have fellows stuck in the wood trail and that’ll be a mess!” Stan shouted above the storm.
“They’re only hauling partial loads now and they’re hardly makin’ it,” Allan continued.
“Yes, if they get stuck, they’ll get drifted in and it’ll take us all day Monday getting dug out,” Stan added.
“We may as well shut her down now. We have no choice! Go on up and tell the men having lunch to head on back to the barn. Me and Uncle Ben will help Uncle Aram finish unloading. Then we’ll head back, too,” Stan concluded.
Allan turned and waded up the road. The snow was now above his knees.
As the wind and snow whipped his body, Stan reviewed the decision he’d just made. He knew it was the right one. The decision wasn’t just for the men or the horses, or for him. No, it was more than that. If the wood sleds got stuck in the trail this afternoon, they would get buried by this blizzard. No one worked on Sundays, and Monday and maybe even Tuesday would be lost before the wood got moving again. That would be unthinkable. The wood had to be kept moving.
The men arrived back at camp before mid-afternoon. With the blizzard raging outside, both the men and the animals were thankful
to be in out of the weather. A bit of extra rest would be good for all.
In the bunkhouse both wood stoves were burning briskly. The stoves were crude affairs made from recycled oil drums. A straight stove pipe protruded from the top and extended through the roof. Cecil Cooper, the camp attendant, had large stacks of firewood piled beside each of the stoves. The stoves, themselves, were located about a third of the way from each end of the bunkhouse. And when the fire burned briskly, as it did now, heat circulated freely around the sleeping quarters. Some men were taking the extra time afforded to them by the blizzard to give themselves “a good wash” and a shave. Others were using the time to stretch out on their bunks and catch up on their sleep.
The bunkhouses had rough wooden floors. The walls were studded, vertical logs with seams filled with moss. In later years, plywood would be nailed inside. Large beams ran across the bunkhouse, connecting the tops of the walls, and under these crossbeams, vertical posts were added for support. Atop the crossbeams, vertical and angled logs reached up to support the long peak roof that ran the length of the building. The bunkhouses were approximately thirty-five feet by seventy feet. Inside, each bunkhouse formed one giant open room. There were two of these bunkhouses at Camp 13, both utilized when the wood was being cut. During the current haul-off, with fewer than forty men in camp, only one was in use.
The exception to this open space was on the side of the bunkhouse, about halfway from each end, where a section was partially partitioned off. This was the washroom area—a Spartan-like affair with a wash shelf that ran along the far wall; at intervals, there were holes cut in the shelf and wooden chutes led to the ground below. The men provided their own towels, face cloths, mirrors and toiletries. The camp provided the wash pans and water. Part of Cecil Cooper’s job was to keep large barrels filled with water for the men to use. Barrels nearest the wood stove contained the warmer water. After washing, the dirty water was simply thrown down the wooden chute where it drained onto the ground. Normally, only the face and hands were touched by the water, but on Saturday evenings, some men expanded their washing to other areas of their bodies. Under the circumstances, with little privacy and only a wash pan, it was difficult to clean oneself properly. Besides, most saw no great need to do so. After all, there were no women around to impress.