by Byron White
Stan smiled now as he remembered the day’s excitement. The hunters had been lucky to have acquired their three moose with relative ease. But Stan’s excitement had not been limited to that one successful hunt. Walking in over the ridge, he remembered another incident from the previous fall. It was late in the year at Camp 13 and preparations for the coming winter were almost finished. Seven of the twelve men at camp had a moose licence. So far, four of the seven licences had been filled: Ron Ginn, Uncle Walt Cooper, and Stan White had each taken a moose, and Heber Hurley had taken one from the hunters from Comfort Cove. This left three more licences to fill.
This particular afternoon, Stan had taken his 30-30 and walked in over the cutover where he had seen moose the week before. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and there had been a dusting of snow, but it had largely disappeared. Stan walked slowly across the cutover, passing the piles of pulpwood that dotted the landscape. As he moved slowly, he scanned the ground for any fresh signs that moose were still in the area. Many tracks and great piles of round moose droppings indicated that the moose were active around the cutover. Stan stood near a stack of pulpwood and surveyed the treeline. Still nothing. He pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and surveyed the scene again. A slight movement at the edge of the cutover to his right caught his attention. His senses heightened and he focused on the area.
There, in a bunch of small fir trees, stood a cow moose. Her head was high and she appeared to be looking in his direction. She was too far away for a decent shot, and there was no way for him to get closer without being seen. Stan decided to wait.
After a few moments the cow stepped out of the low trees and began feeding along the edge. A short distance on, she turned and slowly disappeared along a small trail. Stan knew this area well. The moose was now on an animal trail that led to a small bog nearby. By crossing the ground in front of him, Stan could gain access to this bog and hopefully get a good shot at the moose when she emerged from the low trees. With this plan in mind, Stan headed off.
Five minutes later, he was on the bog. He looked over the area but saw no moose. She must still be on the trail among the young fir, Stan reasoned. He waited a moment longer and then crept along the edge of the bog to the animal trail, pausing to get his breathing under control. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
After a short rest, he moved behind a young juniper and peered in among the fir. Yes! There she was! He could clearly see her front shoulders. Her head was down; she was probably feeding. Stan took off his cap and slowly raised the 30-30 to his shoulder. He sighted in on the moose and squeezed the trigger. When he lowered his rifle and looked ahead, there was no sign of the moose to be seen.
Stan put another bullet in the chamber and headed up the old animal trail. He had not gone far when he spied the moose. She was lying on the ground with her hind quarter sticking out in the trail. The shot had been true and the animal had dropped where she had been standing.
Stan looked around. The sun was getting low in the sky as he set to work preparing the animal. Stan took his rifle and stepped into the growth of small fir near the cow’s neck and began the task of dressing the moose. He opened it up and put a piece of wood between its front ribs to enable the air to circulate and cool the meat. In the morning, he would get a horse and a couple of men to bring the animal back to camp.
He was still working on the animal when a great ruckus arose. Stan paused, all his senses alert. From out on the bog came the sound of trees breaking amid heavy snorting. Then there was silence. Stan picked up his rifle and slipped off the safety.
Suddenly, there came the sound of hooves splashing through water. Another animal was nearby on the bog! An instant later there was a pounding of hooves and a great parting of trees. Stan crouched low just as a giant bull moose came tearing up the animal trail. It charged in with ears flattened and its neck hair standing. When it reached the spot where the cow’s hind quarters lay across the trail, the bull’s huge front legs locked straight and its hooves drove deeply into the black mud. For a brief moment it stood there over the cow, its nostrils flared and its eyes wide, frantic, and angry.
Stan was still crouched by the head of the cow. For a moment he looked up into the flared nostrils and straight into the wild eyes. Then the 30-30 spoke again; the great beast staggered and then toppled sideways. Stan dug in his heels and propelled himself backwards through the low fir. The moose’s great rack ploughed into the fir trees and dug deeply into the ground where Stan had been crouching only an instant before.
Stan, still on his back, pushed another bullet into the chamber and crawled out onto the animal trail. The bull was flouncing around in the low growth nearby. Stan slowly advanced and fired again. All became silent and still. Stan stood there looking down at one of the largest bull moose he had ever seen. One side of the giant antlers dug deeply into the ground where Stan had been kneeling. A shiver passed over his body. It was not caused by the late autumn cold. He raised his arm and wiped perspiration from his brow and realized that his cap was missing. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out some more ammunition, which he loaded into his rifle. He stepped back into the bush to retrieve his cap.
There was work to be done. Two moose had to be prepared. By the time Stan was ready to leave, darkness had fallen. Slowly, he picked his way along the animal trail, out onto the cutover, and headed back to camp. From time to time, Stan fancied he saw movement, but when he stopped to listen and peer into the surrounding darkness, all was quiet. When he walked into Camp 13, comforting lantern lights were shining from the cookhouse window.
NOW TONIGHT, FEBRUARY 6, in the dead of winter, Stan and Allan sat around the small table in the forepeak. The lanterns were lit and wood was cracking in the nearby stove. The two men were discussing camp business.
“Allan,” Stan said, “how did it go, breaking trail in by the small brook?”
“Oh, fairly good, b’y, I s’pose,” Allan replied.
“Will all the teamsters be able to pull wood in there tomorrow, do you think?”
“Yes, I don’t see why not,” Allan said. “We’ve got two main roads broken and several branch roads ready.”
“Good,” Stan said. “Did the four teamsters you had with you this afternoon haul any wood over the trails?”
“Yes, I had Gerald Head and Cyril Cooper in on one section, and Uncle Aram Freake and Les Peckford on the other. All of them went over the trail with at least a part of a load of wood.”
“That should do it. Tonight the trail will harden up and it should be good haulin’ tomorrow,” Stan said.
“Yes, but the wood is wonderful small in there. It’ll take longer to load the wood on the sleds,” Allan replied.
“That’s true. And it’ll take longer to unload and stack the wood out on the ponds,” Stan added.
“It won’t be as fast as unloading on the high landing,” Allan agreed.
“No, but it will be less dangerous,” Stan said with a note of relief in his voice.
“Yes, b’y, that worry is over for this year.”
“Allan, in there by the small brook, we’ll be haulin’ a shorter distance, so we’ll save a bit of time.”
“Yes, Stan, and maybe we can have some of the road crew help with the loading and unloading.”
“Allan, I was thinking the same thing. The road is less rugged in there and won’t require as much upkeep.”
“No. I think we can get by with half the road crew,” Allan said.
“I agree, and Uncle Ben Mills can direct the teamsters out on the pond and help them unload the wood, too,” Stan said, and then added, “And Allan, you look after the teamsters hauling from the inside cutover, and I’ll handle those outside.”
“Okay.”
“When we get a chance we can help out with the wood,” Stan continued.
As usual, the two brothers were busy planning. They were always looking for ways to ensure that the wood operations at Camp 13 ran efficiently.
/> After a short silence, Stan spoke again.
“Around two o’clock, after I got Bill and ol’ Min straightened out, I walked back over the ridge again,” Stan said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I wanted to have one final look around,” Stan continued.
“B’y, I checked every road to make sure all the wood was out,” Allan replied.
“Yes, I know, but I wanted to take a final look myself.”
Allan said nothing. He wasn’t offended by Stan checking things over. That was Stan’s nature.
“Allan, that old broken wood rack in there, do you think it’s worth fixing?”
“It will take a lot of work, but I s’pose Uncle Walt could do it,” Allan replied.
“If we get a chance later on, maybe we’ll pull it out.”
Again there was a pause in the conversation, and again it was Stan who broke the silence.
“Allan, this afternoon I was thinking about all of the moose that was taken here at Camp 13 last fall.”
“By jarge, we did awful good with the moose, didn’t we?” Allan said with considerable enthusiasm.
“Yes, b’y, it was quite a fall,” Stan said, echoing Allan’s sentiments.
“Do you remember Jack Soper?” Allan asked.
“Yes, Jack Soper,” Stan said with a laugh.
The men had finished work on that December morning, the last day before the Christmas break. They had returned to camp, washed, and prepared for the journey home. The twelve men who were at camp preparing for the winter haul-off were excited to be returning to their wives and families. All their bags were packed and placed outside on the bunkhouse step. Twenty-four quarters of moose meat were piled on the ground near the cookhouse. Bill Broderick would soon be there to take the men with their luggage and moose out to the lake.
While they waited the men sat at the table in the cookhouse sipping tea and munching on freshly baked tea buns. Six of the seven moose licenses had been filled. Jack Soper from Trinity Bay was the only man with no animal. Jack had wanted to get his moose himself, but had been unsuccessful. During the last week at camp, he had asked Stan to knock one down for him if he had a chance. Stan had looked around but had seen nothing. Jack had waited until it was too late before asking for help. As the men waited for the company truck to arrive, they talked of Jack’s bad luck. Heber Hurley and Uncle Ben Mills offered Jack a quarter of their meat, but Jack refused.
“Jack, did you get a moose last fall?” Uncle Ben inquired.
“No, b’y, I didn’t have any luck last fall either,” Jack replied.
“Are there any moose out around where you live?” Uncle Ben asked.
“Moose! Yes, there’s lots o’ moose around North West Brook!” Jack said.
“Well, how come you didn’t get one last fall, then?” Uncle Ben continued.
“Yes, how come you didn’t get one out there in Trinity Bay last fall, Jack?” Hedley asked, joining in on the conversation.
“Hedley, it wasn’t because I didn’t try,” Jack said and shook his head sadly.
“Did you hunt much?” Uncle Ben asked.
“Did I hunt much? Did I hunt much?” Jack replied, half-shouting.
“Yes, Jack,” Hedley joined in, laughing. Jack was getting excited now and Hedley was beginning to enjoy this conversation. “Did you hunt much last fall?”
“Did I hunt much?” Jack said, pained at the remembering. He turned toward Hedley and stabbed the air with his finger. “Hedley, last fall the wife made ninety-eight loaves of bread into bologna sandwiches and I never got me moose!”
“Ninety-eight loaves, Jack?” Hedley asked with a broad grin.
“Yes, ninety-eight loaves and not a slice less,” Jack replied.
Hedley roared with laughter and headed for the kitchen to get a few more tea buns for the men. A moment later, Hedley came back and ran across the cookhouse with a rifle in his hand. The men looked at each other and smiled again. Hedley was having some more fun now at Jack’s expense.
“Shh!” Hedley said, half-whispering and half-shouting.
“Shh! Shh!” the men repeated, enjoying being a part of Hedley’s joke.
Hedley opened the cookhouse door and crouched, resting his rifle on the water barrel. An instant later the air was shattered by the rifle’s report.
“Good shot, Hedley! Well done! Well done!” It was Stan White’s voice coming from outside the cookhouse.
What was this? Was Stan a part of Hedley’s elaborate joke? The men in the cookhouse drifted to the door and looked outside. Stan and Hedley were hurrying out the road toward the barn. There lying in the centre of the road was a lovely cow moose. Hedley had spied the animal through the window when he had gone back for more buns.
Hedley was staying in camp to look after the horses over Christmas. He didn’t mind getting himself dirty. So, while the men held the animal’s legs, Hedley quickly quartered the moose. When Bill Broderick drove in to camp thirty minutes later, Jack Soper’s moose was ready. Twenty-eight quarters of meat were loaded on the truck and shipped down Gander Lake. Jack Soper now had plenty of moose meat. There would be no more need for bologna sandwiches.
Tonight, Stan and Allan were reliving the story of Jack Soper’s moose—it was still a fresh and pleasant memory. What were the odds of that moose showing up there by the camp at that precise moment? And Hedley? What were the odds of Hedley seeing it? And what a shot! Hedley had dropped the moose right on the road.
“Jingoes, Allan, that Hedley can do it all,” Stan stated with certainty.
“Yes, b’y, there’s almost nothin’ that he can’t do,” Allan agreed.
It was getting late and time to retire for the night. Soon the two men had washed and blown out the lanterns. They knelt to pray and then climbed into their sleeping bags. Tomorrow would soon be here and they would begin pulling the pulpwood out to the small brook.
CHAPTER 19
THE SMALL BROOK LAY outside of Camp 13 toward Dead Wolf Brook. It was referred to as “the small brook” because it had no name. It was not large enough to be referred to as a river. Indeed, it was stretching the English language to call it a brook at all. For most of the year it was a mere trickle, a tiny stream that wound its way through the countryside and out into Dead Wolf Brook. The small brook, as it became known at Camp 13, was a tributary of Dead Wolf Brook, just as Dead Wolf Brook was a tributary of the Southwest Gander. All the waters in this great drainage basin eventually poured into Gander Lake.
While the camp was still being constructed, Stan and Allan had surveyed the timber stands assigned to it. With axe in hand, they had walked untold miles. Every valley, every gully, every knoll, every ridge, every bog, every pond, every section of running water; all the geographic features were studied, analyzed, and dissected. In the end, the men knew every section of land and water in minute detail. Stan could close his eyes and call up a detailed mental picture of every topographic feature within Camp 13’s jurisdiction.
It was through this detailed, painstaking surveying that the possibilities of the small brook were unveiled. Stan had walked its length many times. He knew where it murmured peacefully among the trees. He knew where it gathered speed and sped forward after being squeezed between rocky knolls. And he knew where it became lazy as it wandered aimlessly through alder beds and along flat, boggy edges. Stan studied this seemingly insignificant stretch of water and made plans.
The forest in this area was a dense growth of slender, tall black spruce. Cutting it would be time-consuming, loading it would be time-consuming, and hauling it out to the Southwest Gander River or Dead Wolf Brook would be time-consuming. Yet, as part of Camp 13’s contract area, the wood here had to be harvested and delivered. The problem presented was clear. How could Stan, as contractor, harvest and deliver this small wood and still maintain a reasonable profit?
The harvesting component was the first to be addressed. Men cutting wood on contract did not like harvesting small timber. Using a bucksaw, it took Herculean eff
ort to make a reasonable day’s pay. At Camp 13, there would be a revolving door of cutters coming and leaving if they were given stands of small timber for the duration of the cut. For the duration of the cut! That was the key! After some initial hiccups during the first two years, a plan was devised. Men cutting at Camp 13 would harvest a fraction, one quarter of their assigned cut, in the small timber near the small brook. The remainder of their efforts would be concentrated in the larger timber stands, such as those in on the high ridge. By assigning the cut this way, the men took the good with the bad, and the good prevailed. Cutters who came to Camp 13 soon understood their assignment. Those who wanted special favours and only good timber were disappointed and soon left. Those who remained were treated fairly and soon a core of good men, mainly from Notre Dame and Trinity Bays, were regulars for the spring and summer cut.
With the harvesting problem solved, the question of delivering the small wood had to be tackled. This problem proved to be somewhat challenging. Many a time, Stan raised his cap and scratched his head as he pondered a solution. He and Allan gave the problem much thought. To have the teamsters haul the wood a considerable distance to the Southwest Gander or Dead Wolf Brook would not only be costly, but it would be time-consuming. The cost was an issue, but an even greater issue was the time. Winter weather could be notoriously unpredictable in Newfoundland. Some years snow would arrive in October and remain until late spring. In other years, lengthy mild spells would set in, necessitating that the horses remain in the barn and the teamsters be idle in the bunkhouse, or be sent home. How best to deliver the timber out near the small brook was a real concern.