by Byron White
The clifftop “landing” on which Stan was now standing was a remarkable piece of engineering. It was called a landing because this was where the wood was landed, brought, and dropped off. At Camp 13 this year, Stan had contracted with Bowater’s to deliver 7,000 cords of pulpwood. Five thousand cords would be delivered to this cliff area. Most of the remaining 2,000 cords would go to the ponds and dam system in on the small brook.
Camp 13 had opened in the fall of 1949. That first year had been a challenge. The weather had turned mild just after Christmas and it had remained that way for the rest of the winter. Stan and Allan had done all they could to get the wood off. Along the bare wood road, the men had cut small trees and boughs and placed them across the trail. Over these, the horses, with partly loaded sleighs, strained to move the wood along. When and where there was a bit of snow, Uncle Ben Mills and the road crew had hauled snow and placed it in the trail. To assist in this work, Uncle Ben had removed a hood from an old international truck. This hood was hitched to a horse and filled with snow. By this means, snow was moved from great distances and spread along the road. It was hard work for both the men and the animals.
In the end, all their efforts proved futile. The ground had not frozen and the men and animals had wallowed around in mud up to their knees. In late January, Stan had closed the camp down and sent the men home. Even the main gravel road leading from the camp to the boat depot on Gander Lake was impassible—the men had had to walk from Camp 13 to the boat, since the road was too soft for the company truck to come and pick them up. Only Hedley Janes and Art Brenton had been kept behind to look after the campsite and tend to the horses. Stan White’s camp was the last to close.
In mid-February, Stan called some of the teamsters back, but the weather did not co-operate. It remained mild and the wood had to be left in the country. Stan was disgusted. He was stubborn, hard-working and pigheaded, and had an iron will. The word “can’t” didn’t exit in his vocabulary. When he set his mind to something it would get done. Now, in his mind, he had failed to reach his goal. He had left wood behind on the hills.
Stan contacted Max Vardy, manager of operations for Bowater’s Glenwood Woods District, which oversaw the Gander Lake operations. Stan knew Max well.
“Max,” Stan had asked, “how did the other camps do?” Stan was competitive and his pride was on the line.
“Stan b’y, it’s been a terrible year all around.”
“Did any of the camps get their wood off?” Stan inquired.
“Not one,” Max replied solemnly.
“Well, well, well. Jingoes,” was all Stan could say.
“If it’s any consolation,” Max said, “Camp 13 landed more wood to the river than any of the others.”
Stan was not impressed or appeased.
“By jingoes!” he said to himself. “If the weather co-operates at all, this will be the last year any of my wood will stay on the hills.”
THE NEXT FALL STAN and Allan returned to Camp 13 before any of the men. They walked over every inch of land. They noted where all the wet areas lay and where the dry knobs stood out. They scouted every small valley and ravine, and they walked the dry ridges. They knew every minute section of land in detail. They surveyed the small ponds that led into the small brooks. They walked the banks of these waterways and decided where dams could be built and chutes erected. Then they scouted the wooded areas and noted which stands could best be cut for shortest transport to those ponds and streams.
Next, they turned their attention to the Southwest Gander River itself. Again they walked its banks and studied it more closely than ever before, examining every little bank and every little gully leading into it. They studied each section of wood and planned which sections could be cut close by. These sections, they reasoned, could be tail-dragged behind the horses if other mild winters occurred.
Finally, the two brothers turned their attention to the area known as the big ridge. This was the large area that extended from Camp 13 back toward Caribou Lake. This was the area that held most of the pulpwood that would be cut during the camp’s thirteen years of operation. It was critical for them to choose the best and easiest path for the horses to pull the wood off this section. The success of the operation depended on it. For days they walked the ridge and scouted the banks of the Southwest Gander River. Eventually, after much head scratching, they decided on a route leading out over the ridge.
About a mile inside the camp the big ridge sloped down to the riverbanks. By putting a few curves and bends to avoid obstructions, a good winter wood road could be built here. The advantage of this area was that much of the wetter sections outside could be avoided. Above all, when the horses were hauling the pulpwood out, they would be hauling downslope. This was a great advantage as long as the steepest sections could be avoided and level sections incorporated. In the end it meant that bigger loads and more wood could be moved in a shorter time.
Similarly, farther back on the big ridge, Stan and Allan blazed a trail with an eye to ease of access. They chose the flattest and driest land and, wherever possible, avoided areas where horses would have to pull upgrade. If this meant bridging gullies and ravines, so be it. The two men reviewed their choice again and again. Yes, they decided, this was the best choice. Even with very little snow they stood a good chance of getting their wood out. With a normal snowfall, things should go extremely well.
There was only one problem. The banks of the Southwest Gander River, where the winter road would end, presented a challenge. In fact, it was more than a challenge; it posed a darn big problem. At the very spot where the proposed wood road would end, the riverbanks plunged over a high cliff into a narrow gorge in the river. It was a dangerous place. At the top, the banks sloped down for a few feet, and then there was a sheer drop to the river valley far below. It would be a treacherous place for men and horses in the winter. Stan had raised his cap and scratched his head. That fall the matter had been left unresolved. The plan was put on hold.
Now, this third fall—this third year of camp operation—Stan and Allan had returned early once more. Again Stan had lifted his salt and pepper cap from his thick head of curly hair and scratched his head as he surveyed the steep river gorge.
“What do you think, Allan?” Stan asked.
“By jarge, Stan b’y, I don’t know.” It was Allan’s turn this time to raise his cap and scratch his head. Allan’s hair was straight and becoming very thin.
“Do you think it’s possible to put a landing for the wood here at all?”
“B’y, I got my doubts,” Allan replied.
“Jingoes, Allan! There has to be a way!” Stan said. After a long pause, he spoke again. “Let’s take a walk along the edge of the cliff there and size it up a bit more.” He took his axe in his hand and headed downriver, pushing through the thick scrub spruce that matted the cliff ’s edge. Allan took his axe and pushed his way along the cliff heading upriver. Within half an hour the two men had returned to their starting point above the gorge.
“You know, Allan, there seems to be a flattish spot right along the lip of the cliff for a short ways there,” Stan began.
“Yes. There’s a bit of a flattish area along the lip of the bank that way, too. Less sloping at least,” Allan replied.
“Not very wide, though, is it?”
“No, b’y, ’tis pretty narrow,” Allan allowed.
The two brothers stood in silence for a few moments. Stan was deep in thought. His contract was to deliver the wood to the river. The pulpwood drive downstream in the spring was a separate deal.
Stan looked around. There certainly was no room to pile wood here atop the cliff. He stared down into the churning water in the river far below. An idea was sprouting in his mind.
“Allan, do you think it’s possible for us to bring our wood road down and then run it along parallel to the cliff here?”
“B’y, there’s not much room. No place to pile the wood,” Allan replied.
“Forget the wood!” St
an said emphatically. “Do you think it’s possible to run our road parallel to the cliff and then head back up?”
“Well,” Allan began hesitantly, “yes, it might be possible to run a narrow road along the lip close to the cliff, I suppose.”
“That’s all we need, then! We can just have our horses come along here and the men can unload the wood straight over the cliff!”
“What?” Allan exclaimed. “Jingoes, Stan!” He peered gingerly over the cliff and looked down into the Southwest Gander River churning far below. He had serious doubts about Stan’s idea. But Stan had made his decision. The landing would be located right here atop the high cliff!
Once the decision was made, Allan threw his full support behind it. A plan was devised and work was begun. Uncle Ben Mills, Ron and Levi Ginn, Les Peckford, Uncle Walt Cooper, Heber Hurley, and Uncle Charlie Ginn were brought in to work. These men and others would execute the plan. Both Allan and Stan had a lot of faith in them.
Men like Uncle Ben Mills grew up in small Newfoundland outports. They had to be self-reliant and capable of solving problems in order to survive. Uncle Ben was a fellow without much formal education, but he was intelligent. He had a quick, analytical mind. When it came to roadwork or bridge construction or building dams or wood chutes, Uncle Ben was the best. Many a time he was instrumental in solving a tricky problem. Here on the site for the new landing, Uncle Ben and the men set to work.
First they cut the scruffy black spruce back from the cliff, then they brought horses down and pulled the stumps out. Where a bit of gravel showed, it was scratched out and shovelled into holes and uneven areas. Gradually, a narrow landing began to take shape along the edge of the gorge.
After a week’s work the men paused to survey the construction. Stan was still not satisfied. The part inside was higher than outside near the edge of the cliff—this would not do. Dynamite was brought in and the rock inside was roasted and shattered. For days the men waged war. They attacked the rock with picks and rock mauls and chisels. They pounded until every muscle, sinew, and bone in their bodies ached, and then they pounded some more. In the end, a narrow landing was etched into the rock.
Next, the trees clinging to the slope down over the upper lip of cliff had to be removed. Stan, Allan, and Uncle Ben had the men tie stout ropes to firm trees in beyond the landing. They tied the other end of the ropes under their arms and around their bodies. With this done, they were lowered over the lip of the gorge to remove the offending trees and brush. Then utilizing similar means, Uncle Ben directed the construction of a wooden chute along the edge of the steep upper slope. The pulpwood thrown over the edge would be hurled off the chute and sent flying out into space to join the churning waters in the canyon. Finally, a retaining barrier was placed along the outside of the landing. Huge pine trees were cut and dragged out to the cliff. These large logs—this barrier—was put in place to reduce the likelihood that man or horse would follow the pulpwood into the canyon. Now, all lay in readiness.
CHAPTER 3
AS STAN STOOD ON the landing, waiting for the first horses to arrive, he reviewed the last couple of winters in his mind. The first winter had been mild and a near-disaster; wood had been left behind. Because of that, last year he had only contracted for 5,000 cords. It had been a challenge getting that and the wood left from the previous year off the slopes. Last winter had started off well enough; cold weather and snow arrived in late December. In late January and early February, however, a thaw had hit again. Things had looked bad. Stan feared a repeat of the weather of the first year. However, cold weather and snow had returned and eventually all the wood had been moved. It had been a challenging winter. Not all camps had been as fortunate as Camp 13.
What about this year? he wondered. Would all the planning and hard work pay off? Time would tell!
“Hello dere, Skipper.” Stan’s musings were abruptly interrupted.
He turned and looked along the landing to his left. Uncle Ben Mills was walking toward him, axe and pick in hand. Uncle Ben was the landing man. He was responsible for keeping it safe and in repair. He would do everything possible to see that things went smoothly on this end.
Uncle Ben was a wiry fellow, tall and thin. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. To look at him, you would think that the wind could lift him, body and bones, and deposit him over the cliff. But looks can be deceiving. Stan had seen Uncle Ben work tirelessly for days without complaining. He was supple, too. In the bunkhouse he was known to stand and place one hand on the back of his head, and then, in a series of flips, go the length of the bunkhouse and land on his feet. Yes, Stan was fond of Uncle Ben. One thing that Stan wasn’t fond of, though, was Uncle Ben’s old pipe. Uncle Ben was approaching now, pipe sticking from one side of his mouth, smoke flying behind.
“Ben!” Stan said. “Take that old pipe out of your mouth.”
Uncle Ben took one last puff and then bent down and tapped the pipe against his foot and placed it in his pocket.
“How are things around the landing here this morning, Ben?”
“Well, Skipper,” Uncle Ben replied, “’tis a bit greasy in places, but apart from that everything is good.”
“I can see it’s a bit icy and slippery.”
“Yes, I was just choppin’ off some of the ice farther up on the landing.”
“Good, Ben,” Stan replied. “See what you can do to keep it safe.”
“With me ol’ pick here I been rootin’ out a bit o’ gravel and moss around the roots and spreadin’ it around the landing.”
“Good. Keep at it. This can be a dangerous spot if it gets too icy.”
“I’ll do my best, Skipper.”
“I see you were workin’ at that little icy patch where the wood road approaches the landing,” Stan said.
“Yes, I worked on that as soon as I got here. I slipped on it there in the dark this morning and went arse over kettle.” Uncle Ben chuckled.
“Jingoes. Shake yourself up?” Stan inquired.
“No, me cap went flyin’ and me ol’ bald ’ead got scratched a bit. Fer a moment there I thought me pipe was broke.”
“Too bad your old pipe wasn’t smashed to pieces,” Stan said with mock sternness.
Uncle Ben grinned. “Well, must get back at it, Skipper.” As he moved along the landing, he retrieved his pipe and placed it in his mouth.
As Uncle Ben moved away, Stan heard the first of the horses coming off the ridge and down the wood road. Minutes later Albert Oake and Paddy swung into sight and proceeded up the landing. Stan noted with satisfaction that Albert was walking by Paddy’s side, reins in hand, guiding the horse and its load of wood along the lip of the cliff. Stan had instructed his men to get down off the load of wood before approaching the cliff area. If there were to be an accident, and he prayed there wouldn’t be, he didn’t want any of his men going over the cliff. Stan shook his head to rid his mind of the thought. Where Albert was guiding Paddy, the landing was hardly wider than the width of the sled. Farther along, it was a little wider and in a pinch a horse with an empty sled could squeeze by on the inside. Alb moved on up and stopped on the edge of the cliff at the far end.
“Jingoes, Alb, you’ve got an awful load on there this morning,” Stan said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, Skipper b’y. ’Tis a wonderful load o’ wood, a wonderful load!”
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to break the rack,” Stan added with a smile. It did his heart good to see a big load of wood moved to the river. He knew that Alb and Paddy were the ones to do it. There was no doubt about it; Alb was the highliner among the teamsters. Stan did not interfere with Albert Oake. This man knew what he was doing.
“No. No,” said Albert, “I’m not goin’ to break the rack, Skipper. No, I won’t do that.”
“How much wood do you think Paddy is pullin’ there this morning, Alb?”
“A good three cords for sure,” Albert replied.
“Yes, Alb b’y. ’Tis all of that. ’Tis
all of that.”
Stan turned and headed up the landing just as Art Brenton and Jim swung into sight. Stan knew Art would not be far behind. Alb was older than Art, but the two men were good friends as well as being hard workers. They worked together and helped each other out. Also, when Jim followed Paddy down the trail, the horse was calmer and less wild. Yes, Art and Alb worked in tandem. Both pulled a lot of wood at camp. Art, too, was walking by the side of the load of wood, guiding Jim along the narrow icy landing. He came to a stop behind Albert and Paddy.
“How is Jim doing this morning, Art?” Stan inquired.
“He’s a bit high-strung and wild now first this mornin’. Sometimes, I can hardly hold ’un,” Art replied.
“Yes, he’s a spirited horse, all right. A bit wild and unpredictable,” Stan said.
“That’s for sure. But he’ll settle down some now as the day goes on.”
“Art, you’re the man for that horse, though.”
“He’s a good horse in lots of ways, Skipper. But you can’t always trust ’un somehow.”
“No, b’y, I know what you mean, but he’s calmer with you now than he was first when he came,” Stan replied.
“Yes. He’s calmed down some. Remember when I took him first, he almost killed me.”
“Yes, you almost had it. Jingoes!” Stan said, shaking his head.
“Still, there’s something about him. I like him, you know, and he’s a hard-working animal,” Art continued.
“Yes, he’s a fine animal for pulling wood. You and Jim, along with Alb and Paddy there, haul more wood than anyone else.”
Art smiled at these words. It was true what the skipper was saying. He knew from the nightly tally sheets that he and Albert were leading the pack.
“Well, I must head back up the trail and check on the others,” Stan said as he turned to leave.
