by Byron White
“Stan, it’ll never work! First of all, it’s too dangerous, and secondly, that narrow canyon can’t take five thousand cords of wood!” Lester stated.
“It’ll hold it!” Stan replied with more certainty than he felt.
“Stan, if you mange to put five thousand cords of wood into that narrow gorge, the river will plug so tight that it will never come out!”
“Jingoes. My contract calls for me to deliver the wood to the river. That’s what I plan to do,” Stan replied. It had never occurred to him that the wood might permanently plug the river. Lester’s last comments had sowed a small seed of doubt. Stan shook his head to dispel the thought.
“Stan,” Lester growled, “we need every cord of wood we can get delivered to Corner Brook this year!”
“So you said.” Stan remembered their earlier conversation back at the cookhouse.
“And you’re still going to put five thousand cords of pulpwood down there?” Lester gestured over his shoulder.
“It’s all going over the landing!” Stan repeated, holding his ground.
“Well, brother, I can tell you this much.” Lester was furious now. “If you put five thousand cords into that gorge and it plugs, I’ll personally see to it that you won’t get one red cent for your wood!”
“Lester, don’t threaten me! You’ll get your wood.”
Lester shook with anger and headed back to camp. Back at the campsite, he rounded up Greg and climbed into the company truck, slamming the door behind him. Within a few moments he was headed for the company depot at Southwest Gander Lake.
THE SEED OF DOUBT LESTER had planted in November had stuck with Stan. On this cold January morning, Stan was once again standing on the same spot where he and Lester had exchanged words. Stan stared at the pulpwood piled high in the river below. He again noted that much of the wood was stuck fast to the river walls. Only a small central core was still circling in the tide. During his years in the lumber woods Stan had often seen giant logjams, but dynamite and spring runoff had always gotten them moving. Would that happen here? He was more than a little worried. Less than half of the 5,000 cords of pulpwood had been dumped over the side. Another 2,700 cords were to come. Never had he seen so much wood laid up in one place. Was Lester right? Would this huge amount of wood permanently plug the river?
CHAPTER 6
FOR THE REST OF the day Stan’s mind was preoccupied with thoughts of 5,000 cords of pulpwood jammed in the Southwest Gander River. Before he left the cliff area, he had discussed a few safety issues with Uncle Ben Mills. Then Stan had walked up the winter trail. He mentally checked off each massive horse that passed, hauling huge sleds with racks piled high with wood. The teamsters rode along atop the wood. It was a thing of beauty, Stan thought. Quite a picture! At times like this he wished he had a camera.
Farther along, the road crew was busy repairing a soft spot in the road. Stan stayed with them for an hour. It was imperative that the road be kept firm, packed hard and level. These loads of wood were massive and heavy. Some racks contained close to three cords of wood. If one of these sleds were to slide off the trail into the deep, soft snow, it would be trouble. One side of the sled would settle and cause the rack to tilt dangerously. Sometimes the pulpwood would slide off into the snow-covered treetops. It would be very difficult to get the load back on the trail. Usually, most of the remaining pulpwood would have to be removed and then reloaded when the sled was back on track. Often, too, in these circumstances, the shafts or some part of the sleigh or rack would break, and the teamster would have to take his horse and equipment back to the barn until repairs were made. In addition, the trail would be seriously damaged and torn up by this activity.
Where the trail was blocked, other teamsters would be held up and unable to pass. The result would be a serious loss of time and production. It was crucial, Stan knew, to have a good winter wood road that was well-maintained. For this reason he had hired men skilled in their upkeep, men who knew their job and realized its importance to the overall operation. Stan had chosen his men carefully. These men needed little guidance. They travelled the roads continuously inspecting and ensuring that it was well-kept.
Late in the morning, Stan was checking farther up the trail. As he looked up he saw Cyril Cooper come around a bend in the road sitting atop a full rack of wood. Cyril was a young man and new to Camp 13. Stan watched as the horse kept a steady stride as it pulled its heavy load toward him. When the horse was abreast of Stan, Cyril reined the horse in.
“Good morning, Skipper,” Cyril said.
“It is a good morning, Cyril,” Stan replied.
“Yes, it’s a good morning to be alive,” Cyril agreed.
“Cyril, my son, it does my heart good to see you coming out the trail!”
“It feels good, too. I’ve had no trouble this morning and the weather feels a little warmer,” Cyril continued.
“Yes, b’y. You’re a fine sight to see. I wish I had a picture of you to send home to Uncle Mart.”
Uncle Martin Cooper was Cyril’s father. Uncle Mart, Stan thought, would appreciate viewing such a scene.
There was a pause in the conversation and Stan grasped his axe and prepared to move on. He was not given to a lot of small talk and he certainly didn’t wish to delay any teamster unnecessarily. He wanted the wood off the hills this year!
As Stan prepared to move on, Cyril spoke again.
“Speaking of home, Skipper,” Cyril began with a touch of unease in his voice, “today is Thursday. Do you think I could leave tomorrow evening and go home for the weekend?”
Stan froze in his tracks.
“What?”
“I got married there before Christmas, Skipper, and I’d really like to get home for a weekend,” Cyril hastened to add.
Not on your life, Stan thought. But when he spoke he released his words slowly and clearly.
“Yes, Cyril, you can go home for the weekend, but if you do, take your bags with you.”
Cyril understood the finality in Stan’s voice. There was nothing more to be said. He slapped the reins on the horse’s back and headed off down the trail.
Stan was fuming! He could not believe what he had just heard. Here they were in the middle of the winter haul-off, with 7,000 cords of wood to move, 5,000 here on the ridge, and another 2,000 in on the small brook and by the river across from the camp. Stan remembered the big mild of the previous haul-off. He still had bad dreams of the wood left in the country. He thought of all the planning and hard work he and Allan had done to improve the chances for success. He thought of the risk they were taking in using the new landing and the worry it entailed. And now in the middle of all this a man wanted a weekend off? Jingoes! What next? He could see it perhaps if there had been a death in the family or someone was seriously ill, but to ask for time off simply because a fellow had gotten married? Unbelievable!
By lunchtime, Stan had calmed down somewhat. Cyril, he supposed, was only a young man. He didn’t know any better. Stan decided to dismiss the request as youthful foolishness. Over time, Cyril would learn. He would become more sensible.
Stan joined the teamsters for their midday break. The winter wood road crossed the gravel road about a mile inside Camp 13. Here, near this intersection, Stan and Allan had the men clear a place and erect a large canvas tent. The tent afforded the men some shelter from the elements and it was here that they gathered and ate lunch.
After supper each evening the men carried their empty lunch bags to the cookhouse. The cook and cookee would then stock each bag with food for the noonday meal. After breakfast each morning, the men would gather their lunch bags and head out for the day. This midday lunch was their only break and it was not a long one. They usually lingered for as long as it took their horses to eat the hay that was readied for them. Cecil Cooper and Lewis Cull would come in from the cookhouse an hour earlier and have the fire lit and the big old slut kettles boiled. The men drank large mugs of steaming tea that warmed their bodies and helped tow dow
n the grub.
Outside, the horses, still in their shafts, munched contentedly on their hay. Only Art Brenton’s horse, Jim, was confined in a rough, makeshift stall. Even out here on the lunch grounds, he could not be fully trusted. No one knew when the devil in him would manifest itself. Jim had wreaked havoc on the lunch grounds before. These days no one took any chances around him.
Stan sat beside Alb Oake as he ate a bit of lunch. The two men respected each other, and the conversation was easy. As Stan savoured a mouthful of strong tea, he looked around at the men seated nearby. Gerald Head, Bert Fudge and Cyril Cooper were seated together in one area.
“How are things going today, Cyrilly?” Gerald asked.
Cyril said nothing.
“What’s wrong with you, b’y? Cat got your tongue?” Gerald persisted.
Cyril took a long sip of tea and shot a menacing glance at Gerald.
I know what’s troubling him, Stan thought, but he said nothing.
Finding Cyril not talkative, Gerald turned to Bert.
“S’pose you heard about Aunt Lizer Fudge and Uncle Jarge Pryor, did ya?” Gerald started.
“What about Aunt Lizer and Uncle Jarge?” Bert asked.
Stan smiled slightly and looked at Alb. Stan knew the story, Alb knew the story, Bert knew the story, everybody in camp knew the story! But no one said so. The story wasn’t particularly funny, but they wanted to hear Gerald and Bert relive it. The two men were great storytellers, and the others enjoyed their yarns. Bert was a perfect foil for Gerald.
“Go on with ya! You know you’ve heard about Aunt Lizer and Uncle Jarge!” Gerald said, grinning at Bert.
“No. Never heard a word about it,” Bert lied with a grin.
“It was in the mid 1940s. Uncle Jarge had lost his missus and Aunt Lizer had lost her man,” Gerald began.
“They both lost their spouses, their partners, their better halves, you mean,” Bert interrupted.
“Yis! Yis!” Gerald continued. “Anyway, they were both single.”
“You already said that,” Bert interrupted again through a mouthful of food.
“Will you shut up and let me tell this story!” Gerald demanded, half laughing.
“Okay. Okay!” Bert said. “Continue on. Just don’t go repeating yerself.”
“Anyway, they were both single and . . .” Bert opened his mouth to speak, but Gerald raised his hand, glared at him and bade him be still. Bertie sat back and let Gerald continue.
Gerald and Bert had centre stage now. The other teamsters were listening and there was general laughter all around. Even Cyril gave a small smile.
“. . . And Uncle Jarge was sneaking up across the garden, over there in Newstead, see, to romance Aunt Lizer. Submarines had been seen off the coast, ’twas wartime, see, b’y, and no one was to have lamps showing through their window at night.”
“What yer sayin’, Gerald, was that it was dark, then,” Bert couldn’t resist interjecting.
“Yis! Yis! Bertie, it was pitch-black!” Gerald continued. “Anyway, Uncle Jarge got to Aunt Lizer’s house and opened the porch door and crept in closing the door behind ’un. He knowed Aunt Lizer was in the kitchen.”
“How’d he know that, Gerald?” It was Bert again.
“Bertie! He jest knew, that’s all,” Gerald said with a mock sigh.
“Anyway, Uncle Jarge is in da porch now, and he knows Aunt Lizer is dere in the kitchen, and he’s all excited and he can’t wait . . .”
“Gerald, dis is some love story. ’Tis hard on we fellers who have been in here away from the women for a month now,” Bert said with a pained look on his face.
A roar of laughter went up from the men sitting around the lunch ground. Gerald cast a scornful look Bert’s way.
“Anyway, Uncle Jarge is in Aunt Lizer’s porch and he’s all excited and he can’t wait and . . .” Gerald paused and looked at Bert. Bert was biting his lip and grinning, but he remained silent. “And he can’t wait to be in Aunt Lizer’s embrace!”
“In her embrace, Gerald? In her embrace!” Bert said, smacking his hands together.
“Yis,” Gerald continued, “in her embrace! So in one mad rush, Uncle Jarge scravels for Aunt Lizer’s door.”
“Gerald,” Bert interrupted again, “if Uncle Jarge don’t get out of dat porch he’s never goin’ to get in Aunt Lizer’s ’brace!”
Roars of laughter rose from the men.
“And Uncle Jarge makes a livin’ bolt for Aunt Lizer’s door, but in the dark he trips over her slop pail and goes flyin’ in across the kitchen and pitches under Lizer’s table!”
“Is Lizer on the floor too, Gerald? Is Uncle Jarge in her ’brace?”
“No, Bertie. Lizer is not on the flippin’ floor! Aunt Lizer is sittin’ in her rockin’ chair knittin’ when Uncle Jarge busts in.”
“Blessed Lard. The poor dear!” Bert said, shaking his head in mock sorrow.
“Yis! And when Uncle Jarge came sailin’ in across her kitchen, he nearly frightened the living daylights out of her.”
“’Tis, no wonder, Gerald. ’Tis no wonder!” Bert added.
“No. ’Tis no wonder indeed, sir!” Gerald laughed. “’Tis no wonder!”
“Anyway, there’s Aunt Lizer in the kitchen frightened half to death and dancin’ around screeching her head off!”
Bert opened his mouth but closed it again without speaking.
“Screeching her head off, sir!” Gerald was laughing now. “And Uncle Jarge pokes his head out from under the table and says ‘Lizer, ’tis I! ’Tis I!’ Aunt Lizer halts her screechin’ and peers down under the table. ‘Jarge?’ she says, ‘Is dat you, dere?’ ‘Yis, Lizer, ’tis I, Jarge, ’ he says, and Aunt Lizer took a long hard look at ’un. ‘Cripes, Jarge, ’ she said, ‘I t’ought da war was comin!’”
With the story told, Gerald threw back his head and roared with laughter. When he quieted down, Bert posed one final question.
“And Gerald, did Uncle Jarge fall into Aunt Lizer’s embrace?”
“You know he did, Bertie! You know he did! She clasped him to her bosom and they fell back across the daybed!”
Bert let out a long, low whistle as he turned to gather up his lunch bag. The break was over. It was time to return to work.
CHAPTER 7
BY FRIDAY MORNING, THE temperature had risen considerably. The old thermometer outside the forepeak door read twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Earlier in the week it had been below zero on the Fahrenheit scale. Cyril Cooper had been right yesterday when he had said it was feeling warmer.
I certainly hope it doesn’t go above freezing, Stan thought. We don’t want a big mild to come and melt the snow now.
This morning, after checking the landing and the outside wood road, Stan headed in on the high ridge to see Allan. Allan was in charge of this section. He knew where the stacks of pulpwood were piled and knew each branch road and where to place the teamsters. Also, Allan checked each branch road after the teamsters had taken the pulpwood out to the big landing. His job was to ensure that all the wood was hauled out in an orderly, efficient fashion. When rechecking the side road, if he found a brow of wood had been missed, or if he found pulpwood left down in the snow holes where brows had been moved, he ordered the teamsters back in to get every stick. There was no room for slovenliness here, no place for men who didn’t take pride in doing the job right. For their part the teamsters did not like being sent back to pick up a partial load. This was time lost; it delayed their production and cut back on the number of cords they would get to the river. This resulted in a loss of money and a loss of pride. The seasoned teamsters at Camp 13 made sure that no wood was left on their branch roads. New teamsters soon learned to do a thorough and efficient job.
As Stan walked in over the cut over area, he met Hedley Janes coming out the main road with Old Bess. Old Bess was a big animal. She was supposed to be a young horse, in her prime, but Stan knew the difference. Bess was well past her prime; she was getting old. Still, if handled right, she co
uld haul a good amount of wood. Hedley, Stan thought, was the man for Old Bess. Today Hedley had a full rack of wood and Bess was plodding steadily along.
“Hedley, which road is Allan on this morning?” Stan called out.
“He’s in on Branch 10,” Hedley called down from the top of the rack of wood as he passed by. He didn’t want to stop Old Bess—he knew if she got contrary it might take half an hour to get her going again.
Stan found Allan halfway in on Branch 10 road. At first, all he saw was Allan’s cap and shoulders. He was down in a deep snow hole tossing up pulpwood to Billy Ginn. In the summer the men had cut and stacked the pulpwood, but now in places the snow was over halfway up the wood. As the teamsters loaded the pulpwood onto the racks on their sleds, they dug deeper and deeper until, eventually, they had to jump down into the holes and use their pulp hooks to throw the wood up on the branch road. Then they had to climb out and move the wood from the branch road up onto the rack. It was hard work, and time-consuming. Only iron men could do this from early morning to late evening, day in and day out, for six days a week. Only the tough and strong-willed survived.
Allan was giving Bill a helping hand. Bill was having trouble with Old Min. This morning she wouldn’t leave the barn, and when she did, she dawdled along. She stopped often and turned a deaf ear to Bill’s encouragement. Many a “Click, click, get up, Min” had been used to entreat her to move along. Morning was getting on before Bill had coaxed Min up to the brow of pulpwood.
Allan had observed Bill’s troubles as he had gone about directing the other teamsters to their work areas for the day. Now most of the teamsters were loaded and headed out the trail. The highliners had even returned for their second load. With the rest situated, and a steady procession of horses heading to and from the river, Allan had turned to help Bill. How could any man have the patience to use that horse? Yet, Billy did. When things were going well, Bill could be heard singing away from atop the load of wood. When things were going badly, great sighs and many an “Oh my! Oh my!” could be heard. Yet Bill never got mad at Min or mistreated his horse. Bill worked like a dog, and when Min was co-operating he moved wood that competed with the best teamsters. Usually, though, using Min, Bill barely made wages. Stan hadn’t said it, but Allan knew that Stan paid Bill a little extra for using that horse.
