The Northwoods

by Jane Hoppen

  “What about you, Whiskey?” she asked. “How long have you been logging in these woods?”

  “Longer than I can remember,” Whiskey Jack said. “Started coming up as a kid, just like that greenhorn. Came from a big family, and my father was a brute. I escaped the day after he nearly choked me to death for talking back to him. I was fourteen. My mother couldn’t save me. Hell, she couldn’t save herself. I took off and never looked back.”

  “That’s harsh,” Evelyn said.

  She imagined him as a young boy, scrawny and frightened, striking out on his own. That took a lot of gumption, and she knew that more than one of these men had stories of abuse and strife. As she and Whiskey Jack moved deeper into the woods, a rabbit bolted across their path.

  “That would make a tasty dinner,” Whiskey Jack said. He pointed at the two jacks ahead of them. “See those two up there?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Stay clear of them. The one on the left is Stinky Joe. He’s a known troublemaker. He abandoned his wife and children early on and spends most of his time working in the woods, avoiding the law. Don’t trust him, especially not with your life. The other one there, on the right, we call Stumpy. He starts most of the fights—him and Poker Pete. He has only one toe on his left foot. He was attacked by another jack with an ax about four years back. He felled a tree without giving a warning shout. As you know, that’s some damn serious business up here. The jack who attacked him was the one who had to jump out of the crashing tree’s way just in time.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Evelyn said.

  The rest of their trek was silent, and as the loggers moved deeper into the woods, they began to fan out within the boundaries marked by the cruiser, targeting the pine and hemlock trees that were light enough to float downriver. Evelyn took in the magnificence of the trees as she and Whiskey Jack walked. When they were about a mile in, Whiskey Jack stopped and examined a tall pine before them.

  “This one’s leaning a bit west, into the wind,” he said. “Should be easy enough to take down.”

  Wanting to take the lead to prove herself, Evelyn swung her ax and began to cut a V-shaped notch about waist high on the tree’s west side. When she had chopped through nearly a third of the way, Whiskey Jack took over and cut another notch about a foot above that, on the opposite side. They worked back and forth until they had created a hinge that held the tree in place as it began to fall. Whiskey Jack and Evelyn let out a warning shout and quickly backed away from the tree in the direction opposite from which it would come down. They continued like that, tree after tree, and halfway through the day, Evelyn thought she might collapse. When she wasn’t chopping, she would look at the snow longingly. It looked like a soft bed of feathers, and she longed to lie down. After what seemed like an endless amount of time, dusk finally began to descend like a gauzy veil over the woods. By the time the men started to head back to camp, Evelyn felt as if she was in a daze of bone-deep weariness and numbness.

  That night Evelyn didn’t think she would be able to last another day. When she finally stretched out on her bunk, she realized how much her body ached in every place. As strong as she wanted to be, she had never felt weaker, and under her covers, she silently cried. She wanted her own bed, her home, her children, and they seemed a world away.

  Chapter Four

  Sarah had cried herself to sleep every night her first two weeks at camp. Sorrow over her loss of Abigail still coursed through her, and she could not help but think that only one month earlier, her life had been full of hopes and prospects—love. Now her life seemed only to echo loneliness and despair. By the end of November, with all the loggers in place and ready to work, she had determined that she would never return to the camp again and would find some other way to support herself. The loud gruffness of the jacks made her jittery, and she dreaded every day that she awakened.

  Her fears about being surrounded by so many jacks were substantiated on the third night that the loggers were in camp, with the men huddled into the crowded cook shanty. On that night, the jack named Poker Pete firmly planted a hand on her buttocks as she filled his coffee cup. For a moment, she was startled, her body prickling. The jack sitting beside him had defended her and smacked Poker Pete’s hand away just as Sarah instinctively poured steaming coffee on it. Poker Pete released a deep grunt and promptly removed his hand from her.

  “Don’t get in my way again, Bauer,” Sarah had heard Poker Pete snarl at the jack who had intervened.

  “She deserves some respect,” the jack named Bauer had said.

  “No talking in the shanty,” Sam had yelled from the other side of the room.

  Sarah was surprised that the jack had stuck up for her. She never would have expected that from any of the men. At least I know one of these men has a decent streak, she thought. From that point on, she moved past the men as quickly as possible, always keeping her eyes on those nearest to her. She did feel somewhat protected by Sam. He watched the loggers closely whenever she was around, but the way he sometimes looked at her made her uncomfortable and self-conscious. A part of her wished that he knew what her relationship with Abigail had been. She thought she might feel more able to confide in him and feel some sense of trust. She also knew that might make matters even worse, as she thought that perhaps Abigail had been right in thinking that Sam had his sights on her.

  The living conditions were no consolation to Sarah, either. The constant manual labor made her feel as if she might lose her mind. Her hands were sore, with cuts and bruises from her daily chores—collecting the wood and starting the fire, carrying buckets of water from the river to the shanty in the freezing cold, and the endless chopping and cutting of food. One of her worst dreads, the one thing she thought might push her to the edge of insanity, was the lice. She found herself checking for them during any idle moment, scratching itches that weren’t even there, and each night she took down her hair and rigorously brushed it before putting it back into a tight bun. She would then scour herself for any sign of bites in the dim kerosene light. On Sundays, she would make sure the water she washed her clothes and bedding in was boiling, hot enough to scald the insects. Even with that, she had the constant feeling of the creatures scaling her skin.

  Sarah’s life with Abigail had been a docile one, free of the drudgery she now faced daily. They didn’t live in luxury, but they’d had all the comforts that anyone could desire and a sense of solitude that was never present at the camp. Their days were spent sewing and tailoring, and their evenings were quiet times—cooking dinner and settling in the parlor to read to each other. That world seemed a lifetime away, and Sarah didn’t think she would ever adapt to the logging camp.

  Without anyone to confide in or befriend, besides Annie, Sarah was isolated among the many men. Mack kept Annie close to his side, which Sarah understood, but she wished the young girl could provide some kinship, someone to whom she could speak. Their conversations were short-lived, though, and clipped—partly because of the young girl’s shyness, and partly because the endless work left little time for chatter. Her conversations with Sam, beyond the needs of the kitchen, were strained and stilted. He never really spoke of Abigail, and the few times that Sarah brought up her name, he grew even quieter.

  Besides meal times in the cook shanty, Sarah had the most exposure to the jacks on Sundays, the one day the loggers didn’t go into the woods. At the camp, every day was the same day, and the days seemed to blur together—Monday, Thursday. The only different day, the one day that stood out, was Sunday. Sarah and Annie did their laundry on that day, and the jacks devoted the day to cleaning the bunkhouse, and washing and boiling clothes in huge iron kettles that sat atop fires outside. Some of the jacks would give each other haircuts and others tried to mend their clothes as best they could. The roughhousing was endless, as a good number of the lumberjacks were obnoxious brutes, while the others were just loud and raucous.

  The quietest of the loggers, the man named Bauer, who had stuck up for her in th
e shanty, did catch Sarah’s attention. She had seen him outside alone in the evenings, smoking his pipe, when she had gone out to gather wood for the next morning or taken a peek out of the small window in her shed. On Sundays when she was outside boiling her clothing, she had noticed him being rather aloof, interacting with only a few of the other men. He seemed different somehow, more subdued than the others. Sarah had heard some of the other loggers call the man George.

  She had never before had any interest in any man, but this one in particular…Besides the fact that he had defended her, he also had a certain quirkiness about him. He had striking features—a nose with a prominent bridge, jutting cheekbones, and a sturdy jawline. She had observed early on that even though he kept his distance from most of the men, the others seemed to like him well enough. He was, without a doubt, the best darner among the loggers, and she often witnessed some of the other jacks asking him to do a mending job for them. He was quick, nimble with his fingers. That piqued Sarah’s curiosity even more, for she knew few men would be as comfortable as he was with a needle and thread, especially those who boasted being lumberjacks, though this man didn’t seem to take to boasting. The darning was her one opening with the jack.

  One Sunday afternoon when the sun glared off the snow and almost seemed to warm the air, she saw George sitting on a stump, mending socks and mittens. Sarah, who had her own articles of clothing she needed to fix, walked over to him and observed his stitchery. She had to admit he did surprisingly fine work.

  “You’re really quite good at that,” she said. “Who taught you how to darn?”

  George looked up at her and cleared his throat.

  “I often helped my wife with the children’s clothes back home.”

  “How many children?” Sarah asked.

  “Three.”

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Two boys and a girl,” George said, dropping his eyes to focus on his darning.

  “I can’t imagine many other men do the same,” Sarah said.

  George shrugged.

  “She helped me plenty with the farm. On the farm you learn to fix whatever needs fixing.”

  Sarah found it odd that he spoke in the past tense when he mentioned his wife, but she didn’t want to pry. As much as she wanted to keep the conversation going, she could think of nothing else to say, and George kept his eyes focused on his darning. As Sarah left his side to return to her kettle of boiling water, she saw Sam watching her and averted her own eyes.

  * * *

  When the flunky walked away from Evelyn that day, she realized that as curious as she was about the flunky, she was leery of her and her questions, fearing that she might somehow sense that Evelyn was not as she appeared to be. I should never have started with the darning, she thought. Her next encounter with the older flunky was a day in mid-December when the greenhorn Henry Jankowski, who had ridden into camp on his horse, paired up with Poker Pete. Evelyn had her concerns about Henry working with that jack in particular, as he was every bit as nasty as Whiskey Jack had said he was, and Evelyn already had a soft spot for Henry. As a greenhorn and the only Polish logger at the camp, he was the butt of most of the German and Norwegian loggers’ jokes and pranks.

  Poker Pete and Henry were working a tree within sight of where Evelyn and Whiskey Jack were that day. At one point Evelyn looked over their way and noticed that Poker Pete had left Henry alone. Ten minutes later, when she looked again, she realized that the tree Henry was working on had begun to topple earlier than he had expected. Backing away as quickly as he could, the boy hollered out a warning to the other loggers. The tree went down with a boom and a crash, with Henry still not fully clear of it, and then a piercing scream rose from Henry and rang through the woods.

  “Jankowski’s down,” Evelyn told Whiskey Jack.

  She dropped her ax and made her way to him as fast as she could, trudging through snow that was almost knee-deep. When she reached the young jack, he was crouching over, his face, neck, and hands covered with the quills of a porcupine that had been nesting in the top of the tree. It had charged Henry after the tree came down. Evelyn quickly looked around. Poker Pete was still nowhere in sight, and Evelyn suspected that he had known the porcupine was in the tree all along.

  “What’s going on over there?” Whiskey Jack yelled out.

  “Porcupine,” Evelyn hollered back. “We’ve gotta get him back to camp. We need to get these quills out or he’s going to have trouble.”

  Whiskey Jack joined her, and they helped Henry up and walked him back to the camp. When they reached it, they helped him into the bunkhouse and sat him on the deacon’s seat.

  “You’ll need to stay calm, Henry,” Evelyn said. “If you move around while I’m doing this, the quill tips might break off and lodge deeper.”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing, George?” Whiskey Jack asked.

  “My eldest tried to chase down a porcupine last summer,” Evelyn said. “Reckon he learned his lesson.”

  “All right, then,” Whiskey Jack said.

  “I need some kind of tool—flat head pliers or something of the sort,” Evelyn said.

  Whiskey Jack rifled through the small box of tools kept near the grindstone, pulled out a crude pair of pliers, and handed them to Evelyn.

  “I’m going to have to clean these before I use them,” Evelyn said, examining the pliers. “I’ll head to the cook shanty. They’ll at least have some boiling water, maybe a little whiskey on hand. Keep him calm while I’m gone.”

  “Will do, but then you’re on your own,” said Whiskey Jack. “If I don’t head back, we’ll all be in trouble with Johnny.”

  “All right,” Evelyn said.

  She looked at Henry, who sat statue still, with a pained and terrified look on his face.

  * * *

  Evelyn hesitated outside the cook shanty and then knocked. She didn’t want to barge in. She wanted to respect the little privacy that the women who worked in the shanty had. She toggled from foot to foot and rubbed her hands together as she waited at the shanty door, the cold biting at her. The door finally opened and Evelyn stood face-to-face with the older flunky.

  “Yes?” the woman said, her voice quiet compared to all the booming voices Evelyn was usually surrounded by.

  Evelyn suddenly felt self-conscious, standing before the flunky while dressed as a man.

  “One of the loggers disturbed a porcupine. We need to get the quills out. We’ve got pliers, but they’re awfully dirty. Could you boil some water for us?”

  “I’ve got some on the stove right now. It should be ready shortly,” the flunky said. “You might as well come in and wait, and then you can take some back in a pot.”

  Evelyn stepped aside.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You can sit,” the flunky said. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

  “We could use some whiskey, too, if you’ve got any,” Evelyn said. “Just to clean the wounds.”

  “As you know, whiskey’s not allowed in camp,” the flunky said. “Though I do suspect Sam has a bit stashed away for himself somewhere, I’d have no idea where to look.”

  “Then we’ll do with what we have,” Evelyn said.

  She took a seat at one of the long tables, empty of food and men. She was grateful for the warmth, and her fingers and toes began to tingle as it seeped in.

  “I didn’t introduce myself when we first spoke,” the woman said. “I’m Sarah. I’d offer you something to eat, but I’m just about to start putting dinner together.”

  “No need. I’ve still got my lunch pail waiting for me in the woods,” Evelyn said. “I’m George Bauer.”

  “You up here every winter, George?” Sarah asked.

  “Only when necessary,” Evelyn said. “A couple bad years of farming does the trick.”

  “Where is the farm?” Sarah asked.

  “Outside Maple Grove.”

  “I’m from Pine Creek. This is my first time in a logging camp.”

 
“You taking a liking to it?”

  “I think I need to find another line of work,” Sarah said.

  Evelyn released a low chuckle.

  Sarah hoisted the pot off the woodstove and poured some water into a smaller pot.

  “The water’s ready,” she said. “Is there another jack to help you?”

  “Whiskey Jack helped me get him here, but he’s heading back to the woods as soon as I return.”

  “You’ll need another set of hands, then,” Sarah said. “I can help.”

  Evelyn grabbed the pot of boiling water and they headed to the bunkhouse. Inside, Whiskey Jack politely nodded at Sarah and promptly left. Evelyn put the pliers in the bucket and rested a hand on one of Henry’s shoulders.

  “You’re going to have to sit on this crate here, Henry,” she said. “We’ll need to have a second set of hands on you while I do this.”

  Henry moved from the deacon’s seat to the crate, and Evelyn stationed herself before him.

  “Take a hold of his shoulders,” she told Sarah. “Make sure he stays still.”

  “Okay,” Sarah said.

  She positioned herself behind Henry and pressed down on his shoulders.

  Evelyn began to carefully remove the quills. She grabbed each one as near to the skin as she could, carefully pushing down the skin around it. She pulled each quill out as firmly and quickly as possible, trying to extract them at the same angle at which they had entered. Every time she removed one, she examined that patch of skin to make sure the tip hadn’t broken off. Sarah watched closely as Evelyn worked.

  “You’ve done this before,” she said.

  “I told you I’ve got three children back home.”

  “That’s right,” Sarah said. “The children whose socks you darn. Your wife’s alone with them for the winter?”

  Evelyn hesitated, then said, “Wife’s dead. Died this past autumn.”