Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

by Byron White

  All the men—the road crew, the teamsters, the landing men, and Stan and Allan—were busily engaged. There was a problem with the final steep section of trail leading down to the river. In fact, the trail here had all but disappeared, replaced by running water, bare ground, and an occasional low stump. Tail-dragging with go-devils could continue for short distances under these conditions. But a few improvements could be made to make it a little easier.

  Now the men cut some stumps even closer to the earth. Channels were dug to divert some of the water and boughs were cut and placed across the trail. Hay was brought to the slope and spread over sections of trail that were now reduced to layers of treacherous ice. Stan surveyed the area and soon the teamsters were again guiding their horses downslope with the wood-filled go-devils dragging behind.

  Over the weekend, the river had risen. The men had built the platform to stand over four feet above the river’s surface. Now the river was racing along scarcely a foot below the men’s feet. Stan shook his head. Jingoes. Fewer than 100 cords of wood remained. Yet, Mother Nature was not going to make things easy. In spite of all the hard work and planning, it would still be a race against time and the river. Stan shook his head again; he couldn’t help but give life a wry smile. What was that quote that Brigadier Hickman had used when they were talking at the forepeak during his visit? The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men go oft agley? The brigadier had been quoting a Scot, he said, a certain Robbie Burns. Stan nodded his head in agreement. Sometimes, in life, things don’t work out the way you plan. Stan decided that he liked this fellow Burns. Burns was no slouch. This man had a perceptive eye. He knew a thing or two about living!

  By noon the water level had risen another six inches and the river was raging. Great sheets of ice and an occasional tree that had been ripped from the river’s bank went sailing by. Stan spoke to the men. There would be no stopping for lunch today. The men reached into their pockets and pulled out a few crumbled buns. Others hastened to their lunch bags and retrieved a piece of cheese or pastry and wolfed it down. Through it all, the wood kept moving steadily downslope to the river. By two o’clock Ben Critch and Kit were delivering the last partial cord of pulpwood to the platform. With a final throw Uncle Walter launched the last of the wood into the air. The water was now lapping at the tops of the outer walls of the retaining platform.

  Stan came down off the slope to join the men. He took a quick look around. Upriver the sound of roaring water had risen in volume. There was no time to stand around and savour the moment.

  “Come on,” Stan said. “Let’s get out of here!”

  The men turned and headed up the return trail. Uncle Ben paused to retrieve his pipe and stick it in his mouth. He was fumbling in his pocket for a match as the others left.

  “Ben! Get off the platform and away from the river!” Stan shouted.

  Uncle Ben struck a match and placed it across the bowl of his pipe. As he hastened forward, his lips smacked twice against its stem and smoke rose from the bowl.

  Stan lingered on the bank of the Southwest Gander River for a few minutes after the men had gone. He just stood and stared out at the raging waters. Slowly he shook his head, then he turned and followed the men as they plodded back to camp through the slush and water. Back at camp the men took the horses to the barn and headed to the cookhouse for a mid-afternoon mug-up.

  Stan did not stop at the cookhouse. He passed on by and entered the forepeak. A few moments later he exited wearing a pair of dry woollen mittens and under his arm was tucked a pair of snowshoes. He paused just outside the door and put on the snowshoes, and then, taking his axe in hand, he started in the road leading away from camp. Stan was heading down to the high landing on the cliff.

  After close to an hour of torturous slogging through the rotten snow, Stan neared the river. His ears alerted him to the disturbance ahead. As he stepped onto the landing, eddies of air and misty vapour swept across his face and threatened to lift his cap off his thick, curly hair. He reached up and pulled the cap snugly down around his forehead and ears. Clutching his axe firmly, he moved forward slowly toward the great pine logs at the edge of the cliff and peered into the canyon. For a time he stood motionless, staring in awe at the beautiful violent madness unravelling below. He opened his mouth to voice his thoughts, but no words formed. He closed his lips again and stared, transfixed.

  The melting snow and rain of the past week had followed the small streams, brooks, and tributaries into the Southwest Gander River. The runoff from thousands of square miles of land was now channelled into this river and was blindly thundering forward on its journey to Gander Lake. Some of the ice that had covered the river’s surface along quiet stretches upriver had now broken loose. This ice mixed with uprooted trees and sundry debris now slammed savagely against the pulpwood dam that blocked its passage.

  The surging mixture of water, trees, and ice could not escape the river’s channel here in the gorge. Instead it backed up and fumed and roared and eddied and boiled and gained in height and fury. A cauldron of white twisted and spiralled and shot heavenward toward the canyon’s edge.

  The sound reaching Stan’s ears was that of continuous thunder. The maddening din rose and shook the vapour-filled air that surrounded him. The water had risen high up the canyon walls, and water was now pouring over the top of the pulpwood barrier and plunging down onto the river’s downstream surface. Here and there fingers of pulpwood still pointed upward through a maelstrom of churning fury.

  But still the dam stood unmoved. The 5,000 cords of pulpwood that had been dumped into the gorge remained firmly in place. The river had broken out in full flood in mid-winter, and the incalculable force of this pounding wall of ice and debris and water had not shattered the pulpwood plug. The pulpwood remained stoic and battered, but it stood unbowed. The pulpwood barrier still stretched across the gorge, firmly wedged and cemented between the canyon’s walls.

  How long Stan stood there staring he could not say, but gradually his body got his brain’s attention. Stan had been working outdoors in the cold and dampness since before daylight. All of his clothing was wet. The air had turned a little colder, and now as he stood motionless the late afternoon chill penetrated into his body. It was time to head back to camp. For the third time this afternoon, Stan stared at the river and simply shook his head. He paused and took in a deep lungful of air and slowly exhaled; then he turned and began the long, hard slog back to camp.

  It was after dark before Stan reached the campsite. That night he was quiet and brooding. His mood stood in sharp contrast to the festive air that surrounded him. The men in the bunkhouse were ready to celebrate. Most of them would soon be heading home to their communities, their children, and their women. They had reached their goal, had claimed their prize. They were ready to blow off a little steam.

  Billy Ginn was sitting on the edge of his bunk as Albert Oake came by. Suddenly, Alb’s big hand shot out and grabbed Billy’s pants and made a quick rip. In an instant, a dozen men fell upon Billy, tearing strips from his much-scunned trousers. Hands shot high in the air displaying their pillaged trophies. Billy stood up. His belt and a slight circle of attached pants material were hanging around his waist—everything else had been torn away. His pants had been ravished.

  “My, oh my! My good pants!” Billy cried in mock anguish as he retreated to the confines of his bunk. “My good pants ruined!” A great roar of laughter shot up from the men.

  Gerald Head had been changing from his work clothes when Albert had first assailed Billy. Gerald had hastened forth to join the merrymaking, decked out only in his size forty-eight combination winter long johns. After wreaking havoc on Billy’s raiment, the men now turned as one and fell upon Gerald. The trapdoor was ripped from his underwear as he turned and attempted a hasty retreat. As he sped away, a dozen hands grabbed at his number forty-eights and buttons popped from the frontal chest opening. Gerald made his escape, surging forward with the last of the long johns hanging from his ankles.
Great hoots and raucous laughter filled the bunkhouse air.

  After a while things quieted down and most of the men busied themselves preparing for their journey home. Some shaved off their winter beards. Others sat getting their first haircut since coming to camp after Christmas. Over in the communal washroom, personal hygiene had suddenly become a priority. Water was produced and body parts that had long been neglected now received a thorough scrubbing. Jack Soper was anxious to get back to his family in North West Brook. He was looking forward to taking his accordion and heading around Trinity Bay to play at community dances. Bert Fudge splashed on liberal amounts of a vile-smelling aftershave lotion and the strange odour wafted around the bunkhouse. Much risqué jesting was hurled in Bert’s direction.

  Back in the forepeak, Stan’s mood was sombre. The Southwest Gander River had broken out and a flood of boiling water was heading for Gander Lake. Yet the 5,000 cords of wood that had been thrown into the gorge remained unmoved. It was a desperate situation. Until now Stan had held out hope that the pulpwood would go downriver when the spring runoff occurred. Now that hope was but a thin dream.

  He had planned to tie bundles of dynamite together and attach the bundles to long ropes, lighting a fuse on these bundles and swinging the dynamite out over the cliff and placing it into the pulpwood dam below. Stan had taken similar actions in other situations on other rivers. He had thought to place the dynamite and weaken the dam before the surge of spring flooding hit. But now all seemed hopeless. If this flood, if this great roaring wall of water and ice, had failed to move the wood, then nothing would. Lester had been right. Once again Lester’s words rang in his ears.

  “Stan,” he had said, “if you manage to put five thousand cords of wood into that narrow gorge, the river will plug so tight that it will never come out!”

  Tonight there was a deep, sinking feeling way down in the pit of Stan’s stomach.

  By ten o’clock the lanterns were all turned out or burning low. Most of the men had drifted off into peaceful sleep. In the forepeak, Stan lay awake in the stilled darkness, deep in thought. From time to time great sighs escaped his lips. After midnight he tossed and turned and finally drifted off into fitful sleep.

  In his dreams he was down by the river standing on the high landing. Ed Layte was moving toward him preparing to unload some pulpwood. And now Dick was there plunging over the pine logs and falling, falling, falling down into the churning water off the flooded gorge. The horse was wild with terror and the whites of his big black eyes were staring accusingly back at Stan. Ed was reaching, stretching out into the void, his hands clutching futilely for Dick’s reins. Stan was yelling at Ed to stay back, but no sound came from his throat. Again and again Stan shouted, but no sound passed his lips.

  Then Allan was shouting, “Stan! Stan! What’s happening?”

  Stan sat upright in his bunk and gave his head a violent shake. He had been having a bad dream. But Allan’s voice came again. “Stan? Stan? What’s going on?”

  “Go back to sleep. It’s only me, Allan b’y, I was having a bad dream,” Stan answered.

  “No. Stan, no! Don’t you feel it? The whole place is shakin’!” Allan was shouting now.

  Stan sat still for a moment trying to clear his mind. Was he awake or was he still dreaming? He swung his legs out of his sleeping bag and sat up on the edge of the bed. The whole floor was vibrating beneath his feet.

  “Allan! The forepeak is shaking!” Stan shouted.

  “Yes! That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you! What’s happening?” Allan shouted back.

  “Jingoes! I don’t know. We must be having an earthquake!” Stan shouted his reply.

  “My worlds!” Allan exclaimed.

  Near the washstand the mirror fell from the wall and crashed to the floor. Outside the forepeak the deep sound of distant thunder rolled across the land. Stan got to his feet and moved cautiously, fumbling to light the lantern. Allan was up too now and moved to the outer room to join Stan. The mirror lay broken on the floor and pieces of moss had fallen from the log walls, and still the shaking and the distant rumbling continued.

  “Jingoes, Allan! I don’t think earthquakes last this long,” Stan announced, wide-eyed. Allan just shook his head and strained to listen. Stan was silent and listened intently, too. He was wide awake now, and the reality of what was happening slowly dawned on him. A broad smile began to creep across his face.

  “Allan!” Stan exclaimed. “The river has broken out and the pulpwood has let go in the gorge! The wood is on the move!”

  “Be jarge!” Allan said. “Be jarge!”

  “Yes. Jingoes, Allan. ’Tis movin’! The wood’s movin’!” Stan quickly pulled on his pants and reached for his heavy coat.

  “Where are you going?” Allan asked.

  “I’m going down to the river!” Stan stated, excitement ringing in his words.

  “What?” Allan asked in disbelief.

  “Grab your lantern and let’s go down to the landing to see what’s happened!” Stan answered.

  “Stan!” Allan replied. “We won’t see anything down there tonight!”

  Stan stopped. He had been swept up in the excitement of the moment. Allan was right. Nothing would be gained by going down to the gorge tonight.

  “No, b’y. I guess you’re right,” Stan said. Reluctantly, he undressed again. For once in his life Stan had bowed to Allan’s advice.

  When dawn arrived the next morning, though, the two brothers were standing on the high landing. As the full light of day slowly crept in, the two men peered down over the lip of the canyon and stared in amazement. Yesterday, 5,000 cords of pulpwood had been firmly wedged between the towering cliff walls. Today, a turbulent river still in flood surged forward unimpeded. The change was mind-boggling, almost beyond comprehension. It was as if the giant mass of wood had never been there at all.

  But high on the canyon walls the story was plainly written. There the rocky face of the sheer cliff was polished and shining. Not a hint of life—no moss, no shrub, no tree, nothing—remained. Not a vestige of earth or soil or vegetation was left behind. The whole area was scoured clean. Still higher up the cliff walls, trees hung by their roots suspended in space, their tops pointing downward. Here and there pieces of pulpwood could be seen driven in among the vegetation a hundred feet above the canyon’s floor. Below this upper limit everything had been uprooted, snapped off, and swept away. When the monstrous pile of pulpwood had broken loose, it had thundered forward like a runaway plow clearing all that lay in its path. Camp 13 was situated downriver and a mile back from the banks of the Southwest Gander. Yet the mass and force of the movement had caused the campsite to shake and vibrate.

  Stan and Allan had not stopped to eat breakfast that morning. After an hour, Allan headed back to camp. Stan lingered behind on the high landing. It had turned a little colder and a few inches of snow had fallen overnight. After a while, Stan headed off on snowshoes. He was going to go a little farther downriver. He wanted to see a little more of the awesome pathway left behind by the moving wood.

  Back at camp, some of the men had left to walk out to the depot on Southwest Gander Lake. The mild weather had caused the gravel road to go soft and Greg could not reach Camp 13 by truck. The men could wait no longer. They had been away from home for over a month and a half. They were anxious to get moving. At the depot the men would board the Pine Lake and go down Gander Lake to Glenwood. From Glenwood they would travel by train, truck, or foot. Whatever the form of transportation, they were happy to be heading home.

  Some of the men had decided to stay at camp for another night. One good, cold, clear night would harden the roads. Greg would be able to reach camp and they would load all their gear, their clothes packs, and their sleeping bags onto the truck. The men who had left earlier had chosen to leave some of their gear behind.

  Stan knew that some of the men were leaving. They had met the night before. Stan had checked to see that the men had left forwarding addresses. Things
had gone well at camp and an extra day’s pay would be given to each man. He had also advised them to check in with the Bowater’s office in Glenwood. Their final cheques would be mailed after the last settlement was complete.

  A few of the teamsters were not going home. Albert, Art, and Les Weir were going over with Charlie at Camp 12. Gerald and Cyril were headed for Uncle Frank White’s camp. Cyril would have to wait a little longer to see his new bride!

  Around 9: 00 a.m., while Stan was still down by the river, a big blue snow machine crawled in the road and stopped near the cookhouse. The doors opened and two men exited. It was Greg and Lester. Lester was restless; he had been unwilling to stay at the Glenwood office. Work in the lumber camps was at a standstill. He just had to come up the lake and assess the situation for himself.

  Albert Oake was just leaving the cookhouse as Lester arrived. Albert had been at Camp 13 since it had first opened. Lester waved him over.

  “Where’s Stan?” Lester inquired.

  “He’s down by the river somewhere,” Albert replied. “Left early this morning.”

  “I passed some of 13’s men walking out to the boat,” Lester continued. “They said that Stan has all his wood off!”

  “Yes. We finished the last of it yesterday,” Albert replied proudly.

  “You worked on through?” Lester inquired. “It’s been mild for a week and it’s been raining since last Thursday.”

  “Never stopped a day except for Sunday,” Albert stated with his head held high.

  “So, you fellows got all of your wood off!” Lester’s voice indicated that he was both surprised and impressed by this news.

  “Yes, we worked hard, but somehow it wasn’t just the work, you know,” Albert stated.

  “No?” Lester inquired.

  Albert paused before he continued. “’Twas more than just work. Somehow we wanted to get clear of it. We didn’t want to leave the wood on the land.”