After taking care of business, I wandered around. The beach felt like the county fair. By midmorning, just before the contest got started, my folks found me. I waited with Pa and Peter for my turn.
A burling contest worked like this: you had two men, each standing and facing different directions on a log. Each tried to get that log turning, rolling it in the water, so that the other fella couldn’t keep up and fell off into the sink. A good burler could speed a log roll up or slow it down, or even make it change directions.
In the first rounds, I was lucky. My first draw was against a thickset fella from the Knapp and Sons Lumber Company. He was steady, but had slow feet, and I had him off the log lickety split.
Next, I went up against a Danish fella, and he was tougher to shake. He could go fast, but he lost his balance on a direction change.
By my third go round, I was feeling cocky. People were starting to shout my name when it was my turn to wade out into the cold water of Half Moon Bay to belly up on a log.
One man yelled, “I got money riding on you, boy. Don’t let me down.”
And sure enough, I didn’t. For once, it seemed like things were going smooth for me, like I could do nothing wrong.
I watched some of the other fellas have their goes. There were a few who worried me: a German fella with tiny feet who seemed glued to the log, an Ojibwe Indian who was so smooth, he barely looked like he was moving up there, and Roget, of course. But I didn’t watch his rounds.
By midafternoon, they were down to the final twenty jacks. Womenfolk brought food down to the beach. The whole thing was beginning to feel like a party, and I kept winning. I wouldn’t have said that I was better than those other fellas, because I wasn’t. Many were far more experienced burlers, but somehow the rounds kept going in my favor.
“Young legs,” I heard one jack mutter as he sloshed his way out of the lake after coming off. By afternoon, I knew that I had made the finals. I didn’t know who I would be up against. The final rounds weren’t set to start for another hour, so that the judges could get a bite to eat. The folks and excitement were getting to be too much for me. So, Hugh and I moseyed down the beach a piece. I sat on a stump and looked out over the still water of the little bay. Closing my eyes, I tried to remember how it had felt burling in the backwaters, the quiet, my feet flying, my body still. The not worrying, because no one was watching part.
“Nah, Adelaide. Sevy doesn’t want to talk right now. He’s resting up for the finals.”
My eyes flew open.
“Just tell him... Tell him that I wanted to wish him luck.”
I don’t know where the courage came from, but I opened my eyes and said, “You can tell me yourself.”
Adelaide and Kate, who was again with her, stood looking at me, but Hugh got the picture. He winked at me. “Come on, Kate, let’s you and me have a look at that results board.”
For once, she didn’t argue back, and that left Adelaide and me standing there together and sorta alone. She was so pretty, and she was looking right at me. I glanced away, feeling sorta sick down in my stomach.
“This is for you.” She held out a carefully folded bit of paper.
I reached out to take it from her and our fingers touched. I swear I felt a shock coming from her to me. But then she dropped her hand real fast, like she felt it, too. Thinking it was a note, I began to unfold it.
“Be careful, you’ll drop it.”
I slowly opened that paper out the rest of the way and found a dried and flattened bit of plant in it. I looked up at her.
“It’s a four-leafed clover.”
I looked more closely at it, and, sure enough, it was. We’d searched for them in the schoolyard when we were younger, but I’d never seen a real one before.
“I found that one last summer.”
“And you’re giving it to me?”
She glanced back up at me and her eyes were keen. “Now don’t you go getting a swelled head, Sevy Andersen. I’ve found others before. In fact, I have a whole box of them at home. Margaret says that they bring good luck.”
I don’t know what got into me, but then as bold as brass, I said, “But have you ever given one to a fella before?”
Of course, that made her blush. She turned, like she was gonna to walk away.
“It was real nice of you to give it to me.”
Suddenly, I knew that this was one of those times where you have to man up or regret it forever after. I folded that bit of paper back up. “Thank you, Addie.” Now, my heart was pounding fit to pop out of my chest, but I reached out and took her hand and I held onto it. Somehow words came to me. “I’ll keep it. Not on me during the contest, in case I end up in the drink, but in my jacket on the shore.”
“You won’t. End up in the water, I mean.” Her eyes were bright and warm and on me and I was aware of her down to the tips of my toes.
“Hey, Sevy.” Hugh was back now and running up to us. Adelaide dropped my hand. “I know who the other finalist is.”
“I have to go. Find my pa, I mean.” She turned on her heel and high tailed it out of there. I watched her link up arms with Kate and then start whispering to her the way that girls do.
“What did she want?” Hugh asked gesturing at her with his thumb.
“To wish me luck.” He didn’t need to know about the four-leafed clover.
He snorted. “Well, you’re going to need it. It’s you and that Roget fella. I heard folks talking and they say he’s really good, likely, the best in these parts.”
I groaned and tugged my fingers through my hair. Why did it have to be him?
“Well, is he as good as they say?” Hugh demanded, pulling my hands away from my face. You woulda thought he stood a chance to win a hundred dollars.
“Yup, he sure is. And then some.”
* * * *
It was near sunset by the time Roget and I stood side by side on the beach eyeing the log. It was getting cooler now and I shivered in the evening breeze that was coming up off the lake. Folks were gathering around the bonfires that had been built on the beach. Everyone looked like they were having a real good time, everyone, that is, but me.
I felt sick, not pukey sick, but bone cold and tired. I was tired from all of it, from the winter spent lumberjacking, from the river drive. I knew I wasn’t gonna win. Roget was just plain better than I was and probably ever would be. All day long, I’d caught glimpses of my friends from the logging camp. Most of them had been cheering me on. I wondered who they’d be rooting for now. I closed my eyes, clearing my head.
While we waited standing there on the little beach, some big wig from one of the lumber companies that had put up the prize money gabbed on. I just wanted to get it over with. I closed my eyes, clearing my head.
“Sevy.”
I opened my eyes.
“Sevy?” Roget said just loud enough so that only I could hear him.
“What?”
To my surprise, he held out his hand.
I stared at it. It was huge with black hair on the knuckles and scars that stood out against the tan of his skin. They were a real lumberjack’s hands, big knuckled and scarred. I glanced down at my own hands, which were pale and unmarked, in comparison, but near as big.
“So, it comes down to us,” he commented with one eyebrow arched. “You have done well to get this far.” Still, he held his hand out to me, waiting
I exhaled slowly and then I took it, but not for him, for me. We shook. He gripped my hand hard, the way he probably gripped an axe handle. But I didn’t give him any quarter.
“May the best man win,” he said.
Hearing that, something sorta snapped inside me. He probably thought I had no chance, but I was done taking it.
I looked away from him and fixed my eyes on that thick log of white pine floating in the bay. Neither of us said another word. I wish I could paint a picture of how it was. There was a hint of the moon in the sky, the sunset was beginning to set but it was still bright enough to see.
The water was smooth and dark.
When that lumber company fella was done chatting up the crowd, we waded out into the icy water, moving slowly to the log. At a signal from an official, we both bellied up to it, from opposite sides. Now, Roget sized me up. But I eyeballed him right back and we waited.
The eerie cry of a loon broke the stillness.
“Gentlemen, are you ready?” the official called from the shore.
Moving slowly and carefully, the way I’d done in the backwaters of the Chippewa, I turned and stood. Roget did, too, though we were facing in opposite directions. I could hear someone breathing real loud, then I realized it was me.
There was a gunshot, the signal to begin, and I stopped thinking.
Roget moved first and I just followed the roll of the log. My knees were bent, my feet, light, my arms, extended out to help balance me. Despite the pounding of my heart, I forced my breathing to be slow and controlled. Burling was about rhythm and control. It wasn’t about going as fast as you can; it was about staying within yourself and not fighting either the motion of the log or of the other man.
As we rolled the log, ripples began to move out from it. And, to my amazement, I wasn’t running or fighting for balance. I wasn’t even afraid of losing. I was dancing. My legs were moving smoothly and easily, and I felt like I could keep on forever. My balance was as good as if I was walking down the center of Barstow Street. I laughed out loud.
“Eh boy, let’s see what you got.” Roget took my laugh as a challenge.
“Fine, old man,” I taunted.
He grinned back at me.
Now I made my feet fly, forcing the speed of the turning log faster. Roget kept pace, as I’d known he would.
After a few moments, I felt some resistance to the speed I was setting. Roget was slowing the log down. Using the strength in his legs, he suddenly forced it to turn in the opposite direction. Then, he pushed it faster and faster still. Then, he started mixing things up, giving me all he had, throwing in a lot of changes of direction, slowing down and speeding up. But I kept my eyes fixed on that log and I went with it. He controlled the motion of that log for several long minutes.
Sure, my legs were burning and my lungs were pumping like a bellows, but I knew he had to be hurting as well. It was then that I made my move. I forced my legs faster, pushing the speed back up.
Roget kept up with me. And now the duel began in earnest. Back and forth, each of us using our strength and balance to control the roll of that pine. Roget didn’t hold back or go easy on me. He gave it all he had, and I took it and came back for more.
But I was flying. As if from a long distance, I heard people shouting, calling my name and Roget’s. But I focused on my job, staying upright on that log. I could do it! I knew I could. He had to be tiring. I was going to win! I just knew it. Then, I looked up. For a second, I glimpsed my family, standing on the shore, waving and cheering.
It was then that I made my mistake. My right foot slipped, probably because I’d gotten distracted for just that second. I tried to catch myself, but I was tipping forward. Then, the oddest thing happened. In my panic, I looked over to Roget. He saw that I was in trouble, and then he slowed the speed of the log roll. He slowed that log so I could regain my balance. Now folks on the shore couldn’t see it, but I knew what he’d done. He’d saved me.
We kept on, for a while longer, but the next thing that happened was even crazier yet. I felt that log slow down even more, and then Roget’s arms began to wave, like he was losing his balance. Astonished, I watched as he slipped down into the water with a splash. And just like that, I’d won.
Folks were yelling and screaming as I slid in after him. I came up gasping against the cold water and I stared in astonishment at him. He was grinning and he raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute.
Someone plunged into the water beside me, grasped my hand, and held my arm up. “Our winner!” People were shouting and clapping, but I broke away and ran through the water after Roget.
I grabbed him by the shoulder and I spun him around. I gripped his shirt in both of my fists. “Dog-on-it! You let me win. That’s cheating!”
Even though I was in his face and yelling at him, that fool Frenchman grinned at me, his teeth big and white against his black beard.
“You can’t let me win. You can’t just do that. I coulda beat you fair and square. This ain’t the way it’s supposed to go.”
“Sevy, the best man won. It is as it should be.”
Then, he just turned and walked away from me. Immediately, I was swallowed up by my family and other well-wishers. My pa pounded me on the back, as proud as could be. My brother and sister were all over me. Folks were congratulating me. I tried to tell them all that Roget had let me win, but no one listened.
In all the confusion, I didn’t even see where Roget went to. I wanted to talk to him, to make sense of what he’d done and said. Turns out, those were the last words I’d ever hear him say.
We celebrated that night until late. Everyone was there, my family, friends, and most of the fellas from the camp. It was near dawn before things settled down.
A few days later, when I was sorting through my gear from the logging camp something heavy dropped to the floor. Thank goodness, it missed my feet. It was a knife and one I’d seen before. I reached down and picked it up. It was a Jim Bowe blasé, Roget’s knife. He’d left it for me.
Final Thoughts
With the hundred dollars from the logrolling contest, my earnings, and the money my folks had saved up, we finally had enough money to buy a nice piece of land just outside of Eau Claire and a team of horses, too. Buying that land meant the world to Pa. He’d finally achieved his dream.
That summer we were real busy with planting and building. All of us kids had to pitch in. Pa was a hard worker, but the leg slowed him down some.
Even with the new farm, I went back to school that fall, and to my surprise, I found it tolerable. It was a heck of a lot easier than lumberjacking or setting up a farm.
With the first frost that fall, I felt an itchin’ for the fresh cold air of the Northwoods. I saw jacks shopping for their gear, strutting through town, and I felt a hankering to be one of them again.
Some folks say that the pine will run out one day, that lumbering is wasteful and that the way that we do it ruins the land. I’ve seen it with my own eyes and I’ll be the first to admit that it’s a shame to cut down those giants and leave nothin’ but scrub in their places. This may sound crazy, but when you walk into virgin timber, it’s like being in a church, and there isn’t anything sadder than a cutaway.
I expect the great pines will be gone one day and so will the jacks who took them down. Those fellas, good or bad, were real and alive in a way that other folks just don’t understand. When a cool wind blows out of the north, my heart still beats a little faster. I’ll never forget Dob, Bart, the Push, the Swedish brothers, all the others and but especially not Fabien Roget. Other folks can come and go from your life, but you never forget legends.
THE END
Glossary of Terms
À bientôt—French, See you soon
amen corner--corner of a logging bunkhouse used for talking and storytelling
black tar—coffee
bluebacks—ticks
caulks—studs on a horse’s shoes that provide traction
cookee—cook’s helper
cootie cage—bunk
Dia duit—Irish Gaelic, God to you, a greeting
doorknobs—dinner rolls
Gabriel horn—four or five foot long horn used to call lumberjacks to the cookshack for meal times
graybacks—lice
kroppkakor—a Swedish potato dumpling in this case filled with salt pork
Sacré bleu—French, a cry of surprise or anger
snabbare—Swedish, faster
togs—clothes
toque—hat
union suit—one-piece long underwear suit generally made of red flannel
&nb
sp; About the Author
Caroline Akervik has been an avid reader since the fourth grade when a nun named Sister Dorothy introduced her to the magical world of Narnia. Caroline read anything and everything and was a particular fan of Marguerite Henry's horse stories and, especially, of King of the Wind.
Most of her early adulthood was spent as a professional horsewoman. She competed through the Grand Prix level of Dressage and worked with and trained many horses. Then, Caroline was blessed with a wonderful husband and three incredible children. Spending time with her own children motivated her to return to school to become a library/media specialist.
Now, Caroline shares her love of story and of the magic and power of words with the children she teaches. In her own work, Caroline seeks to write from the heart and to transport her readers and give wings to their imaginations. Caroline writes for young people, but agrees with C.S. Lewis that "A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest."
Blog: http://carolineakervik.blogspot.com
Other books by the author with Fire and Ice
A Horse Named Viking
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