Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

by Byron White

  CHAPTER 5

  STAN STOOD ON THE edge of the cliff and looked down into Southwest Gander River. Here the river had worn deep into the surrounding bedrock. The cliffs on both sides of the canyon approached 200 feet in height. The river itself ran deep here, and it was confined and narrow. Upriver, above the rapids and the canyon, the water was frozen and covered with ice. Similar conditions prevailed downstream. In the canyon itself, the water was in a state of confusion: the water boiled and turned and eddied. Great rushes of water heading downstream slammed into great walls of water eddying back against the flow. Great plumes of water shot heavenward and fingers of spray and mist rose to the lip of the canyon.

  Five thousand cords of pulpwood were now being added to the mix. According to Stan’s calculations, 2,500 cords were already being stirred into this witch’s brew churning far below his feet. Stan had watched each day as the pulpwood was thrust into the river. As the days passed, the mass of pulpwood had coalesced into a big circular churning ball, which circled continuously day and night in the giant eddy. All the outer bark was stripped from the wood, and its light features contrasted with the dark water.

  Now, as more wood was added, only the centre of the mass continued to rotate. The outer edges were rafting up against the sides of the cliff and congealing and freezing into a solid mass.

  As Stan studied the picture below, a deep frown was etched on his face and a tight knot began to form deep down in his stomach. Something Lester Shea had said in the fall was now surfacing in his mind. Lester Shea was the district woods superintendent, the walking boss for Bowater’s Glenwood Operations. Besides office work, it was Lester’s job to go out into the field and oversee the woods operations at the various lumber camps now operating on the south side of Gander Lake. Lester was second only to Max Vardy, the district manager.

  Stan knew both men well, having worked in the lumber woods for most of his adult life. For much of that time he had been with Bowater’s. Stan had gotten to know Max when he had worked in the Indian Bay woods operation. The two men had gotten along. In the late 1940s, when Bowater had decided to open up woods operations in the Glenwood area, Max had approached Stan and asked him to become district superintendent, which he seriously considered.

  Stan had married Dorothy Arnold of Traytown, Bonavista Bay. She had relocated to Comfort Cove and they had built a new home there. They had started their family and were now the proud parents of a boy and a girl, Harry and Joan. Stan’s brother, Allan, had also started a young family. Allan had married Clementine Hillier of Campbellton. She, too, had relocated to Comfort Cove and the couple had a new home built next door to Stan. They were the proud parents of a daughter, Gloria. Stan’s father and extended family also lived in the community.

  If Stan were to take the job of district superintendent, he knew he would have to move, to relocate his family to Glenwood and start over. He had discussed the matter with his wife, Dorothy, and they had looked at the offer from all angles. In the end, Stan had talked to Max and told him of his decision. He did not wish to uproot his family. He turned down the offer. Max had respected Stan’s decision and the two remained on good terms.

  Stan later requested the chance to operate a camp in the Southwest Gander Lake area and Max agreed. Stan had gone up Gander Lake to see what was available. He had not chosen Camp 13 by accident—he saw opportunity in this camp’s location. Some other contractors were superstitious about the number thirteen. Not Stan. He had been born on September 13 and had always considered thirteen to be his lucky number. Camp 13 would be his.

  Stan had come to know Lester Shea well over the last couple of years. The two men did not always see eye to eye. Lester, at times, could be gruff and bellicose and given to rough language. Stan, being religious, and brought up in the old Methodist tradition, did not appreciate being involved in coarse conversations, despite his being hard and tough. But there was more to the divide between the two men than language. In some ways both were a lot alike: both were straight talkers, no-nonsense men, not given to small talk or bandying around niceties. If there were expectations or differences, the talk was blunt and straight to the point. Also, both were self-made men and fiercely proud. There was also the issue of Stan being offered the job which Lester now occupied. Stan knew it and Lester knew it. Stan was able and quite capable of doing the job Lester now held with the company, handling most any aspect of the woods operations. He would not be ordered around by, or be subordinate to, Lester. For his part, Lester knew how Stan felt. It chafed and made his job more difficult. For as long as Camp 13 operated, there was tension between these two men.

  Now, as Stan looked down into the canyon, he again recalled a conversation he had with Lester last fall.

  In early November, Gregory Broderick and Lester Shea had arrived at camp. Gregory was the driver who operated the company truck on this side of Gander Lake. When Sandy Parsons brought the men up the lake from Glenwood to the company wharf and depot on Southwest Gander, it was Greg who drove them up the old narrow gravel road to the various lumbering camps. The farthest of these was over twenty miles from the depot. It was Gregory, too, who delivered the hay needed for the horses during the winter. In fact, it was his job to keep the camps supplied.

  That November, Gregory had brought Lester to Camp 13. Lester was making his rounds of all the lumber camps. He wanted to see what preparations were being made for the winter haul-off—to see for himself if the barns and camps were properly stocked and prepared; to talk to the contractors; to hear their side of things; to air any complaints; to discuss the contractors and the Glenwood district needs and expectations; and to help out where possible.

  There was already a few inches of snow on the ground. Lester wanted to reach all the camps since it would be difficult, and at times impossible, to reach the camps once winter set in. In visiting the camps now, he felt he was doing his part to ensure a successful year of winter operations.

  Stan had been advised that Lester was coming. Lester had stayed at Camp 9 the night before, Uncle Frank White’s camp. Lester had rung the cookhouse: a long, a short, a long. This was the ring for Camp 13. Hedley Janes, the camp cook for spring, summer, and fall operations, had taken down the earpiece from the big brown box phone screwed to the cookhouse wall and answered the call. It was Lester.

  “Hedley, tell Stan I’ll be over to 13 after breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  Hedley had relayed the message to Skipper Stan.

  “Jingoes. What time will he be here, I wonder? I dare say I’ll have to hang around here half the day to see him,” Stan had muttered to no one in particular.

  Stan was not always pleased to have fellows from the district office visit. It was not that he disliked them or was apprehensive; rather, he saw these visits as distractions. They interrupted his work schedule and there was always work to be done! Still, deep down, Stan knew they had a job to do. If he were in Lester’s shoes, he would want to know every detail of the camp’s operations. He would be very hands-on. That was certainly his style at Camp 13 and it would have been his style running the district.

  Reluctantly, Stan decided to stay at the campsite and wait for Lester. There were only a dozen men working in camp now in the fall. They would be out stumping the winter roads, repairing bridges, fixing up the dams on the small brook and generally getting things in order for the teamsters who would arrive after Christmas. Allan knew what needed to be done. He would supervise the work crews until Stan arrived later. Yes, Stan would stay in camp in the morning and meet Lester. There was paperwork to be done at the forepeak and Uncle Walt could use another hand repairing sleds near the barn.

  It was almost noon when Greg drove Lester into the campsite and pulled to a stop in front of the cookhouse. By this time, much of Stan’s goodwill had dissipated. In fact, Stan was starting to feel downright contrary. By the time Stan had walked back from the barn and entered the cookhouse, Lester was sitting at the table having a cup of tea.

  “Look here, Lester! You
told Hedley that you’d be here after breakfast,” Stan began.

  “This is after breakfast, isn’t it?” Lester shot back.

  “Jingoes, it might be after breakfast for you, but around here we usually have a day’s work done by now!” Stan replied.

  Lester looked up and saw a large grin on Hedley’s face. Lester’s blood was getting hot, but he decided to let it pass for now.

  “Look here, Stan,” Lester said. “Uncle Frank asked me to walk in over his cuttings this morning before I left. I didn’t know I was going to have to do that last night.” Lester was referring to Frank White who operated Camp 9 near Caribou Lake.

  Stan decided to let the matter rest.

  “Hedley, get me a mug of tea, too,” Stan said.

  Stan sat down at the table across from Lester and the two men got down to business. Greg, who had been standing nearby, moved into the kitchen with Hedley.

  Lester got to the point. He laid out the overall expectations for Glenwood District Woods Operations: he discussed the total number of cords to be delivered by the lumbering camps; he gave the district’s best estimate of the amount of pulpwood that would be lost during the spring drive downstream to Gander Lake; and he elaborated on the calculated supply of pulpwood that would be boomed and towed down the lake to Glenwood. At Glenwood the pulpwood would be taken by crane from the river and hoisted onto waiting railway cars and shipped across Newfoundland to the Bowater’s Mill in Corner Brook.

  Stan listened to Lester’s speech and nodded appropriately between sips of tea. Little of this information was new; Stan was well-versed in the overall district operation. One point intrigued him, though.

  “Lester, how does the company arrive at their estimate of wood loss during the drive?”

  “Well, Stan, we know how many cords of pulpwood are cut by the lumber camps and we know how many cords are loaded onto the trains in Glenwood.”

  “And the difference is what you calculate is lost in the drive,” Stan added.

  “That’s it. Of course, a few cords are lost while the wood booms are towed down the lake, and perhaps the odd bit of wood might be left somewhere else,” Lester continued.

  “Makes sense,” Stan agreed, “makes sense.”

  Lester took a deep breath and gave a deep, gravelly cough. “Stan, the last two years were rough years for Glenwood District, bad years.”

  “How so?” Stan asked, but he already knew the answer.

  “We only delivered a fraction of the wood we contracted for to the mill in Corner Brook. They had to shut down for a period and had trouble supplying their customers.”

  “Yes, Lester, the last couple of winters were terrible. The first winter it turned mild right after Christmas and we had no real winter after that. There was grass sprouting around the barn in early March.”

  “Bowater International was not happy with their Newfoundland Division and the Newfoundland Division was not happy with Glenwood District,” Lester continued.

  “Jingoes, Lester! There’s nothing Glenwood can do about the weather.”

  Lester mumbled an oath. “That’s right. That’s right. But this year we’ve got to get our wood out of the country.”

  “Jingoes! We got every stick of wood we could to the river the last couple of years,” Stan stated.

  “I know. In fact, you fellows did better than the rest, but this year all the wood in the camps has to go!” Lester asserted.

  “Listen, Lester, you don’t have to lecture me. I didn’t come to Camp 13 to lose money. Neither did my men.”

  “No! No! I’m not blaming anyone. It’s just that the pressure is on all of us,” Lester continued.

  “I can tell you one thing. If it’s humanly possible, not one stick of wood, not one chip will be left in the country this winter,” Stan said emphatically.

  “That’s why I’m going around to the camps now, Stan. I’m checking on the contractors and getting an idea of their state of readiness.”

  “Well, Allan and I have completely overhauled our layout for getting our wood out. If the weather co-operates at all, we hope to get all our wood off.”

  “Can you take me in for a quick look?” Lester asked.

  “Lester, it’s nearly dinnertime now. We’ll have a bite to eat before we leave, ” Stan said, then added, “After dinner we’ll dodge in.” He would humour Lester. He saw no reason not to show him their layout.

  “Damn good idea,” Lester replied. “I can use a bit of grub.”

  The smell of food being readied emanated from the kitchen area. The two men went into the cook’s sleeping quarters to wash up. Within minutes Lester, Stan and Greg were seated at the long table in the cookhouse. Hedley placed their meal on the table in front of them. Freshly sliced bread, dessert pastries, and a large, steaming jug of tea were added.

  The men in the woods had taken their lunches with them for the day. Hedley fetched a plate of food and joined the three men at the table. They exchanged small talk between mouthfuls of food. Hedley questioned Greg about the happenings at the other camps he visited. Hedley liked to know what was happening, and he was a great source of information for Stan.

  Halfway through the meal, Lester pushed his plate back. Stan looked up.

  “Don’t tell me you’re full, Lester,” Stan said.

  “Full! Cripes no!” Lester growled. “Stan, there’s not one cook up here in the camps who knows how to prepare food properly!”

  Jingoes! There he was again! Lester was being a proper pompous ass. Stan knew Lester’s background. He was no better than the rest. Yet here he was lording over the workers, talking down to Hedley. It made Stan’s blood boil.

  “Listen here, Lester,” Stan began, “the only reason you’re not eating is you don’t do work enough to be hungry.” Stan looked Lester squarely in the eye. A tension hung in the air.

  Greg and Hedley finished their food quietly.

  After dinner, Stan and Lester put on their outer clothing and headed in toward the location for the winter road. For the most part they walked in silence. Here and there Stan pointed out some significant feature for Lester to see. The two men walked in on the ridge to where the pulpwood was piled in rectangular piles ready for the teamsters. Lester noted the main road and the side roads that cut perpendicularly across it at 100-foot intervals. He was satisfied that everything was laid out and ready for the haul-off. Next, Stan and Lester headed out over the road and down toward the river. Lester took note of how all the stumps had been removed from the trail. He noted that the wet trouble areas had been corduroyed by placing logs horizontally across the path. Where the road turned, retaining walls had been built. Bridges forded small brooks along the way. Lester could see that the men at Camp 13 knew what had to be done. After a couple hours’ walking, he was ready to leave.

  “Stan, I’ve seen enough. Everything seems in order,” Lester finally said.

  “There’s one thing more I want you to see,” Stan replied.

  “What? What else do you want me to see?”

  “I want to show you our new landing down by the river.”

  “Landing? You want me to see a landing?” Lester asked.

  “Yes, I want you to see this one.”

  “Why? If you’ve seen one landing you’ve seen ’em all.”

  “This one is different.”

  As they neared the river, the men could hear the roar of water.

  “Stan,” Lester said, “I’ve studied the topographic maps, and I don’t recall this section of river being suitable for a wood landing.”

  Stan said nothing. The wood road took a long, sweeping turn, and he and Lester came out on the edge of the cliff.

  Stan turned to Lester.

  “What do you think of our spot?” he asked.

  Lester’s eyes widened. An incredulous look swept over his face. Before him a narrow strip, barely the width of two wood sleds ran approximately eighty feet along the very edge of a canyon. At the far end, the trail again turned and headed inland. At the outer ed
ge of the strip, huge pine trees had been placed horizontally to serve as a low retaining wall. At the highest point it was perhaps three feet high. In most places it was half that. Lester stepped to the edge and peered over. He closed his eyes and backed away.

  “This is it?” Lester was almost shouting.

  “This is it,” Stan said.

  “You’re going to bring five thousand cords of wood down here?” Lester roared.

  Stan had not expected this reaction. He and Allan had long ago reconciled themselves to using this location.

  “You’d better believe it, brother!” Stan stated emphatically.

  For a moment the air grew hot with rough language.

  “Stan, you’re out of your flippin’ mind,” Lester barked. “Half your men and horses will be over the cliff this winter!”

  “Not if we do it right!” Stan retorted.

  “Not if we do it right, my ass!” Lester replied.

  “Listen, Allan and I run this camp and we’ve made our decision,” Stan stated flatly.

  Lester just stood there staring at Stan in disbelief.

  “Stan, even if you use this spot, there’s no place here to put your wood,” Lester muttered, stroking his head.

  “Jingoes, Lester. The pulpwood is not staying here. It is all going over the cliff.”

  “All over the cliff?” Lester repeated.

  “All five thousand cords,” Stan added.

  “All five thousand cords? Down there in that narrow gorge, all at once?” Lester asked, almost unable to fathom what he was hearing.

  “Yes. All five thousand cords are going directly into the river down there.”