Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

by Byron White

  Ken Hodder, from Gander Bay, had stayed on after the drive. Stan was glad that he did. He was a good worker. Allan had been right in his assessment of Ken. Ken was only a small man but he was averaging two cords a day. This was a good effort, for many men of larger stature were averaging less.

  Stan and Allan were constantly in the woods that year, directing the men to timber stands and checking on progress. Young Les Weir, from Twillingate, was one of these men.

  “It’s getting warm in the woods now, Les,” Stan stated.

  “Blessed Lard, Skipper,” Les replied, pausing for a moment to wipe the sweat and dirt out of his eyes. “’Tis warm enough to melt ya!”

  “Yes, it’s awful warm, all right. By next week I dare say we’ll have to change the work schedule.”

  “Yis. If it gets any more muggy and hot the flies will be in swarms!”

  “Yes, Les b’y, the flies are startin’.”

  “Yis, the flies’ll eat ya alive! You won’t ’ave to worry about meltin’,” Les said.

  “Next week we’ll get off to an earlier start in the morning. I’ll speak to Hedley. We’ll have breakfast an hour earlier and I’ll have the men in cutting by five o’clock,” Stan stated.

  “That’s wonderful early, Skipper, but ’twill be cooler then,” Les replied.

  “That’s the idea. By startin’ at five, the men can be back at camp by early afternoon. Anyway, how are you doing with the wood?” Stan asked.

  “Skipper,” Les replied, “there’s wood out by the Long Point Lighthouse in Twillingate that looks like da Cedars of Lebanon compared to dis!”

  Stan hove back his head and gave a rare roar of laughter.

  “That wood is some small, Skipper. I sawed and I sawed yesterday until I sawed meself unconscious, and when I bilked it up I still only got two cords!”

  Les was smiling too now, but there was obvious frustration in his voice. Stan knew that Les was not alone in being discouraged by the size of the wood. Stan and Allan had pondered the situation and made plans. When Stan spoke he had a sympathetic tone.

  “Les, last year we left wood on the hills. We’re only cutting five thousand cords this year to add to it for the pull-off this winter.”

  “Yes, Skipper, last winter was some mild!”

  “Next year we’re going to cut most of our wood in on the main ridge. The wood is much larger in there,” Stan continued. “We only plan to cut a small amount of wood out here each year. The bulk of our cut will be bigger timber from inside the camp.”

  “We’ll punch at it this year, I s’pose,” Les said.

  “Yes, punch away at it now and come back next year. It should be better cuttin’ then,” Stan added.

  “I’ll keep at her. At times like this I reminds meself that I should be t’ankful to be on this side of the sod.” Les paused to wipe the sweat from his face. He then doused himself with a stinky, sticky liquid concoction reputed to be effective in warding off flies. He picked up his bucksaw again. It was time to return to work.

  Stan moved along to the next cutter, Jed Angel, from Carmanville. Jed’s full name was Jethro Angel, but to all the men in camp he was Uncle Jed. Uncle Jed was a good man. Whatever the work, he plodded along at a steady pace. No one at camp had ever seen him upset or angry. He took whatever life threw at him and kept on going. Stan envied this peace of mind that Uncle Jed exuded. Stan felt that he would never reach such a state of serenity. No, Stan’s mind was always churning: planning for the haul-off, planning for the drive, planning for the cut. Then there were the logistical things: acquiring the items necessary for an operation to function, getting food supplies for the cookhouse, acquiring the necessary feed, harnessing, and sleds for the horses, stocking the van, having the clothing and saw parts on hand. The list was endless. And weighing on Stan’s mind was the constant worry for the men’s safety.

  Up here, across Gander Lake, the men were far removed from emergency medical help. During the cut, the log drive, the haul-off—at any time there were a “thousand and one ways” that a man could be hurt or even killed. Then, like a black umbrella sitting over his shoulders, there was the gamble of contracting. Stan was paid to deliver the pulpwood to the river. The men’s paycheques, Stan’s profit, the success of the whole camp operations depended on the pulpwood being delivered. Stan worried. But as he worried he planned. He was not a person to be defeated by fears or worry. He faced up to each challenge and his mind was always in overdrive.

  Stan studied Uncle Jed as he approached. Jed had four-foot pulpwood cut and strewn around the ground. He was busy now picking up the wood and stacking it for scaling.

  “Good day, Jed.”

  Jed placed the piece of wood he was handling on the pile and turned to face Stan.

  “Jingoes. The flies are treatin’ you bad already, aren’t they?” Stan was looking at Jed’s face.

  “Yes, Skipper. There’s the odd fly about,” Uncle Jed replied as he waved a cloud of blackflies away from his face.

  “Do you have any fly oil?” Stan asked.

  “No. I left mine in the bunkhouse this morning, but I borrowed some off Les Weir,” Uncle Jed replied, swiping at the flies.

  “Here, I’ve got a spare one. Take that,” Stan said, stretching out his hand.

  “Thanks, Skipper. I ’preciate it.”

  “Put some on, Jed. Your eyes are almost swollen shut.”

  “I knowed I couldn’t see very well. I thought it was from the sweat pourin’ in me eyes.” Uncle Jed smeared the vile-smelling fly repellent over his head and hands.

  “How are you finding it cutting this black spruce here?” Stan asked.

  “Oh, not so bad, Skipper b’y. Not so bad. I just dodges along and does me best.”

  “You’re averaging what? About a cord and a half to two cords a day aren’t you?” Stan asked. He knew exactly what each of the cutters was doing. He made it his business to know, to keep on top of things.

  “Yes, I s’pose. Somewhere’s about dat,” Uncle Jed replied.

  “You’re doing okay, Jed. You’re doing okay.”

  “Skipper, ’tis like this. ’Tis work and I gets paid. I’m glad to be workin’.”

  Stan nodded and turned to walk away. Within a few minutes, Uncle Jed had the remaining wood piled. Soon his bucksaw was slicing through another black spruce.

  Stan smiled to himself. He liked Jethro Angel. True, his swollen face didn’t look very angelic today, but his attitude was uplifting. Stan shook his head and grinned again as he recalled what Al Springer from Random Island had said when he first met Uncle Jed.

  “I t’ought I’d seed it all when I seed a jet plane!” Al had said. “And I t’ought I’d ’eard it all, too. But dis is da first angel I ever seed!” Al was a comical fellow.

  Stan was in a good frame of mind as he approached the next cutter, Albert Oake. Alb was bent over and his strong body was sending his bucksaw singing through the tree he was cutting. Alb already had two cords of wood cut and piled. Stan knew he would be pushing three cords by day’s end. Alb glanced up. He was covered in sawdust and flies, along with fly oil, dirt, and sweat. He was quite a worker!

  “Alb, I’m not going to stop and interfere with you,” Stan said. “You know what you’re doing. I’m not meddling with you.”

  Alb nodded, wiped the sweat out of his eyes, and kept on sawing.

  As Stan moved along, he reflected on the men he had cutting pulpwood. Most of them were not highliners, not three- or fourcord men. True, he had a few good men who cut three cords each day, but high production wasn’t the only quality Stan looked for in a man. Attitude was the essential ingredient. Attitude combined with effort made the man.

  Last year for the initial cut Stan had hired some highliners recommended by the Glenwood office. Never again, Stan had vowed. Yes, these men could put up the wood, but there were other factors to consider. They wanted to be placed where all the good wood was; they kicked and grumbled and complained. They were constantly complaining. When they did
cut, they drove themselves, but they did not last. Their bodies could not take the pace. They only lasted for a few scales and a few quick bucks. Then they were on their way. Others had to be hired to replace them. It wasn’t a good way to run a woods operation and it wasn’t fair to the men who worked steadily and took the wood as it came.

  This year Lester Shea had phoned up from the Glenwood office.

  “Stan, I got two men here in the office. Three-cord men. I’m sending them up to 13.”

  “No! Lester, I don’t want to see ’em. I’m not takin’ ’em. Don’t send ’em up!” Stan had said.

  “What? Why not?” Lester inquired, surprised by Stan’s blunt refusal.

  “Lester, I had three-cord men last year. Most of ’em are more trouble than they’re worth!”

  “When Lew Hill ran his camp, he wanted all three-cord men,” Lester argued.

  “Yes. And did Lew get all his wood cut, Lester?” Stan asked.

  “No. Not quite all of it,” Lester had to admit.

  “No! And do you know why, Lester?” Stan replied.

  “Why?” Lester was not liking where this conversation was going.

  “Because those fellows don’t know how to work.”

  “They can cut three cords a day! That’s work!” Lester answered, his voice rising.

  “They tear into things and go all out for a short while, but their bodies can’t stand it,” Stan continued.

  “That’s their problem,” Lester growled.

  “No, brother, it’s my problem. Because then those big cutters want to go home for two or three weeks to rest up!”

  “Everyone needs a break, Stan!”

  “At Camp 13, Lester, we don’t take extended vacations in the middle of our cut!” Stan stated, somewhat angrily. He did not like explaining his actions to the district office.

  “So you don’t want these men?”

  “No! Don’t send them up,” Stan replied with a tone of finality.

  Lester had slammed the phone down and Stan had gone away muttering to himself. The two men mixed like oil and water.

  CHAPTER 13

  THERE WAS A STRONG breeze blowing across Gander Lake. The Crystal Stream was awash as she battled her way across to Glenwood. After the first couple of seasons, it was replaced by the larger Pine Lake. Stan had fished for a while when he was younger and had experience being bounced around in a boat. He rather enjoyed this part of the trip. If nothing else, it helped take his mind off the reason for going to the Glenwood District office.

  As the boat tied up to the wharf at the Glenwood depot, Stan refocused on the task in front of him. He had come down the lake to meet face to face with Max Vardy and Lester Shea.

  The pulpwood that the men had cut in the early spring while waiting for the drive to begin was the issue. Stan had gotten the men to cut 200 cords of wood and pile it. He had phoned and asked Lester to send up a scaler to measure the wood. Each pile of pulpwood had a number, and the scaler, the man scaling the wood, would measure up the stocked pulpwood and determine how much each man had cut. When that was done the cutters could be paid for their work.

  However, no scaler had been sent at the time, so Stan had waited. Three times he had phoned the office. The wood needed to be scaled! The men needed to be paid. The drive was well under way before the scaler reached Camp 13. By that time, the snow under the stacked wood had melted. Some of the piles had fallen down and the scaler could not measure the wood. Stan had no choice but to have the men restack the cut. Finally, the wood was scaled, and the cutters paid for their work.

  Stan was not a happy man. First of all, the late scale meant that the cutters were late in being paid. This was not a reputation Stan wanted attached to Camp 13. Secondly, he had had to pay twice for that wood. In addition to the cutters, he had had to pay men good wages to restack. If the wood had been scaled when he requested it, the extra expenditure would not have been necessary.

  Stan had done up a bill itemizing the extra cost and sent it to the Glenwood office for reimbursement. Lester had been none too happy to receive the bill. He had phoned Camp 13 and informed Stan that there would be no extra money. Words had been exchanged and Stan had taken his complaint to Max. As regional manager, Max was Lester’s boss. Max had been more diplomatic than Lester and had explained that there was no money in the budget to cover such a circumstance. He was not optimistic that Stan’s bill would be paid.

  This was where the issue now stood as Stan stepped off the Crystal Lake and headed for the Glenwood District building. When Stan entered he headed straight for Max’s office. The door was ajar, so Stan tapped and walked in.

  “Good afternoon, Stan,” Max said looking up from some regional cutting maps he was studying.

  “Good afternoon, Max,” Stan replied still standing.

  “Have a seat.” Max indicated a chair by his desk, then added, “Do you want a mug of tea?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Stan replied.

  “There’s hot water there in the thermos bottle, help yourself. I’ll go get Lester.”

  While Stan was stirring his tea, Max re-entered with Lester close behind.

  “We didn’t think you were going to make it today with this storm of wind on the lake,” Max said as he settled in behind his desk.

  “Nothing was going to keep me from this meeting,” Stan said as he looked in Lester’s direction.

  “Well, let’s get started, then,” Max continued in a more formal tone.

  “You fellows know the facts,” Stan began. “I’ve discussed it plenty with both of you.”

  “Yes. You want to be reimbursed for the cost of repiling the wood,” Max stated.

  “Yes,” Stan replied. “If the wood had been scaled when I requested that it be done, there would have been no extra cost.”

  “If the wood hadn’t been piled when there was snow on the ground, it wouldn’t have fallen down!” Lester interjected in a gravelly voice. Up until now he had remained quiet, but Stan’s reference to the late scale, Lester felt, had been directed at him.

  “Jingoes!” Stan retorted. “If! If! If you had done your job, Lester, we wouldn’t be here now!”

  “Gentlemen!” Max cut in. “There’s nothing to be gained by adding more heat than light to the situation.” He had put on his mediator’s hat. He was trying to find a solution.

  “Stan, Lester and I have talked. We think we can free up the money to cover half of your bill. How does that sound?” Max asked hopefully.

  Stan leaned across Max’s desk and stared him squarely in the eye.

  “Max, I didn’t come down here to argue with you or get on bad terms with you, but know this: I left ninety men for Allan to supervise so I could come down here and meet with you fellows.”

  “Yes. I can appreciate what you’re sayin’, Stan,” Max replied.

  “And brother, I didn’t leave ninety men just to come down here to be told that I might get half of my bill paid.”

  “Half is a fair payment,” Lester interjected.

  Stan ignored Lester’s comment and continued addressing Max.

  “This isn’t some charity you’re paying me. This is a bill for hard-earned cash I paid out to cover off a mistake made by this office. It’s a bill the company owes for services rendered.” Having said his piece, Stan sat back in his chair.

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  “Stan b’y,” Max began. “Half the bill is a reasonable compromise. It’s the best we can do right now. We’ve got the cheque drawn up. You can pick it up before you leave.”

  Stan bit his lower lip, deep in thought.

  “No, Max b’y. Right is right. This is not a matter for compromise. I’m going to have all the money I’m owed, even if I have to go to Corner Brook.” By Corner Brook, Stan was referring to the head of Bowater Operations for all of Newfoundland.

  The meeting was over. Stan placed his cap on his head and turned to go. At the office door he stopped.

  “Max,” Stan said with a trace of
a grin, “would you mind if I get a loan of the A. N. D. walking boss the next time I want to get some wood checked?”

  With that, Stan turned and walked out. As he was going through the door he could hear Lester behind him.

  “I’ll have ’un fired yet! I’ll have ’un fired!”

  By jingoes! Stan thought to himself. The way things are, one of us will have to go.

  STAN SMILED NOW AS he recalled these past events. Stan had followed up on his word to contact Bowater’s Corner Brook office and had written a letter outlining his grievance. This he had followed up with phone calls. The dispute had gone on for months. This past fall, he had made arrangements to travel to Corner Brook by train to meet face to face with the managers. But just before he was to visit, he had received a call. A cheque was being sent, they said. They had reviewed the file, and yes, he would be paid for the extra cost he had incurred by having the wood restacked. They added that Stan had been with Bowater’s for many years and they appreciated his contribution and hoped he would continue contracting with the company. Stan was elated. What the letter didn’t say was that Bowater’s was experiencing some discontent among the men in some of their woods camps. Stan was aware of this. The company didn’t want any unnecessary disputes with its contractors. They were happy to get this affair with Stan behind them. Stan was happy, too.

  STAN HAD NOT BEEN so happy, however, the day he had returned to Camp 13 after his meeting with Max and Lester. He had stayed in Glenwood that night; he had been away from camp for a day and a half. Early summer was the busiest time of the year, and ninety men were in the woods cutting.

  That night in the forepeak, he and Allan had discussed the progress of the past couple of days. Things had gone well, Allan reported, and a good bit of wood had been cut—but there had been one unsettling incident.

  “Yesterday,” Allan began, “Gilbert Pryor came to see me.”

  “What did Gilb want?” Stan asked.

  “Well, Gilb was upset.”

  “What about?”