Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

by Byron White

  “You knows those two fellows from Campbellton cutting on the branch road next to Gilb?” Allan continued. “Well, they were smoking in the woods!”

  “Smokin’? This is the fire season!” Stan was dumbfounded.

  “Yes. Gilb said they were smoking on their walk out to the lunch grounds and smoking on their way back in the woods,” Allan added.

  “By jingoes! That’ll stop!” Stan stated emphatically.

  “Yes, b’y, Gilb and the other men are upset and worried. Something has to be done.”

  “Jingoes, what’s wrong with them fellers smokin’ in there? The woods are tinder dry. A single spark could set the whole country ablaze!” Stan said.

  “And they knows the difference,” Allan agreed.

  “Knows the difference? Yes! The Company told them. Lester and Max make it a point of telling the men before they come across the lake.”

  “And we told them,” Allan added.

  “Yes, we told them! We met with all of them. Absolutely no smoking in the woods!”

  “B’y, ’tis a worry,” Allan said.

  “’Tis more than a worry. Half of Newfoundland island is afire. There are a dozen forest fires burning right now and several camps have been shut down,” Stan continued.

  “And if we don’t do something, I’m afraid we’ll have a fire here at 13.”

  “We’ll do something! I’ll call Greg Broderick down at Sou’west tonight. I’ll have him here in his truck the first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “What do you want Greg for?” Allan asked.

  “I’m firing those two smokers. I’ll ask them to meet me here at the forepeak after the other cutters are gone in the woods. I’ll fire them in the morning,” Stan said.

  “Yes, I guess there’s no choice,” Allan replied. He knew that Stan didn’t like dismissing men, but there were times when it had to be done.

  “If there’s any trouble, I don’t want the other cutters exposed to it. Greg will be here around then, and they’ll be sent on their way out to Sou’west and down to Glenwood on the boat.”

  “Do you want me to stay behind with you in case they give you a hard time?” Allan asked.

  “No, I’ll handle it. You’ll be needed in placing the cutters.”

  Allan nodded.

  “Allan,” Stan continued, “double-check to make sure that the men have their water cans and fire extinguishers on site with them.”

  “They’ve got them in there, Stan b’y. But I’ll double-check tomorrow.”

  The next morning the two smokers were called into the forepeak and dismissed. Harsh words were exchanged and threats were made. In the end, they boarded Greg Broderick’s truck and were driven out to the Southwest Gander dock. There they boarded the boat and were sent down the lake to Glenwood. They had gone to the regional office and complained. When the facts were made known, Lester had supported Stan’s decision. Stan, for his part, didn’t much care if Lester agreed with him or not, but somehow it felt good knowing that when it came to toughness, the two were on the same page.

  CHAPTER 14

  STAN AWOKE AT 5:00 A.M. on this January Monday morning. He sat up quietly in his bunk. Something was different! He listened intently. Silence . . . Silence! That was it! The wind that had been punishing the forepeak all weekend was gone, and the storm that had forced a halt to the haul-off at midday on Saturday was abating.

  Stan dressed quickly and opened the forepeak door. A wall of snow reached halfway to the top. Snow was still falling and a light breeze brushed his face. He looked heavenward through the opening above. The sky was dark, but here and there he could see occasional patches of stars. Stan shivered. The weather had turned colder overnight. The storm that had forced the teamsters back to camp on Saturday was nearly over.

  Stan shut the door and rubbed his hands together for warmth. Turning to the stove, he opened the door and poked the glowing coals. He had gotten up during the night and added wood to the fire. Now he added birchrind and some of the small pieces of wood drying by the stove. These burst into flame; he added more wood and shut the door. The water in the kettle on the stove was warm. Stan lit the lantern and poured some water into the white enamel wash pan. He washed and shaved.

  Allan had arisen just as Stan finished his morning ritual. He appeared from his room next to the stove.

  “What’s it like out this morning?” he asked.

  “The storm has blown itself out,” Stan replied.

  “There one time last night, I thought the roof was goin’ to lift right off us!” Allan said.

  “Yes, it was howlin’. It was a good old-fashioned blow.”

  “But ’tis over now, you say?” Allan continued.

  “Yes, I looked out. It seems that the worst has passed.”

  “I guess we’ll get moving, then.”

  “Yes, we’ll get a couple of fellows to go in and break the roads first,” Stan said.

  “Yes, with all of that snow this weekend the roads will be blocked,” Allan replied.

  “I’ll get Gerald Head on the go with Scott to start breaking the main road from the ridge to the river,” Stan said. “And you get Ed Layte from Birchy Bay to harness up Dick and start breaking the branch roads in on the ridge.”

  “Okay, I’ll go in with Ed,” Allan replied. “I believe he’s moved to Campbellton now, though.”

  “Yes, you get ready to go in with Ed,” Stan replied. He didn’t much care this morning where Ed was from. “I’m going over to the bunkhouse now to get things organized. I’ll get Gerald and Ed under way and have Uncle Walt feed the horses. I’ll speak to Cec, too. There’s no need for him to rouse the other fellows out yet.”

  “No, we’ll need a couple or three hours for sure to get in there and break the roads,” Allan replied.

  “All right, I’ll arrange for the rest of the men to start heading in with their horses around nine o’clock,” Stan added, heading out to shovel snow from the door to exit.

  Cecil Cooper, the bunkhouse man, would clean the snow from the buildings later in the day. By 6: 00 a.m. Stan, Allan, Gerald, and Ed had finished eating breakfast. By six-thirty Gerald and Ed had the horses ready and were heading in the road. Hardly any snow was falling now. Stars were twinkling across the sky.

  The horses plodded along in the road ploughing through snow, which reached to the tops of their legs. Gerald and Ed followed behind on snowshoes. Stan and Allan had left earlier and gone ahead. On Saturday, the teamsters had left their sleds near the intersection where the road from camp met the wood road coming off the ridge. Allan and Stan were busy digging a couple of wood sleds out of the snow when Gerald and Ed arrived with their horses.

  “’Tis a wonderful lot of snow on the ground this morning, Skipper,” Ed said.

  “Yes, b’y, an awful lot of snow fell this weekend,” Stan replied.

  “It’ll take the good out of the horses breaking these roads,” Gerald stated.

  “Yes,” Allan said. “After you break the road, take it easy on them horses there.”

  “Yes. You fellows won’t pull a big lot of wood today,” Stan added. “Even the highliners won’t get much of a tally.”

  Stan’s words didn’t sit too well with Gerald. He was competitive. He knew he couldn’t compete with the top wood haulers, but he did his best and he pulled a lot of wood. He didn’t appreciate having to use his horse, Scott, to break the road for the likes of Alb Oake or Art Brenton or Ben Critch from Trinity Bay, or Walt and Les Potter from Little Burnt Bay, for that matter. No, he didn’t like it at all. In fact, he was pissed! But he kept his mouth shut and said nothing. He was only young and Stan was boss here at Camp 13. Stan didn’t take much complaining, and men who grumbled didn’t last long.

  “Hitch only the front sled up to the horses this morning. That’s enough for them to pull through this snow,” Stan said, directing his comments to Gerald and Ed. Since the snow was deep, he had considered putting the specially designed round horse-snowshoes on the animals, but he had deci
ded against it.

  As the two teamsters finished digging out their sleds, Allan turned and headed in over the snow-covered ridge road. Stan turned and headed down toward the river. It was tough slogging for both men. Even though they were wearing snowshoes, each step sank deeply. By day’s end both men and horses would be exhausted.

  “Jingoes!” Stan said as he plodded along. “I meant to tell Allan that the road crew would be along shortly. Oh well, no difference. Allan knows what to do.” Stan trusted Allan, who was a pillar and dependable.

  Before leaving camp, Stan had spoken to Uncle Ben Mills and told him to be down by the river on the landing within the hour. There would be lots of work to do there before the teamsters arrived. Stan had also spoken to the road crew made up of the Ginn brothers, Levi and Ron, Bert Fudge, Heber Hurley, Les Peckford, and Uncle Charlie Ginn. These men would be on the job soon, going behind Ed and Gerald, helping to get the road ready for the teamsters to haul wood.

  Before Stan reached the cliff above the Southwest Gander River, Gerald and Scott caught up to him. Even though it was not yet light, Stan could see great streams of vapour exuding from Scott’s nostrils as he pushed himself forward through the deep snow. Gerald was behind Scott shouting words of encouragement.

  Stan held up his axe when they came abreast of where he was standing.

  “Whoa, Scott,” Gerald said, and the big horse snorted to a stop and shook his harness.

  “Gerald, when you get out to the landing area, turn and make a couple of passes there before you go back in over the ridge.”

  “Okay,” Gerald replied. His mood was improving now that he had gotten under way.

  “Then take Scott and break the trail back in on the ridge until you meet Allan and Ed.”

  “Yes. I’ll just have Scott pull this single sled until then,” Gerald added.

  “Yes, b’y, that’s enough until you get around once,” Stan agreed.

  “There’s snow up to Scott’s gut in places,” Gerald said.

  “But after you’ve made the round trip, go back and hook on the back sled and the rack, and go around once with that empty.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” Gerald replied.

  “After, if there’s time before the other teamsters arrive, go in on the ridge and put a layer of pulpwood on the rack and have Scott come out to the river with it.”

  “I’ll give it a try. It’s downslope from the stacked wood to the river, so I’ll see how he does,” Gerald said.

  “Yeah, okay, then, but don’t push him too hard. Just go at a steady pace.”

  Gerald slapped the reins and Scott strained forward with Gerald and the sled coming behind. At the landing, Gerald reined the horse to a halt and walked ahead to have a look around. In the half-light of early morning, it was difficult to make out where the edge of the landing ended and the cliff began. Gerald pushed himself forward through the snow. The whole area was filled with a deep layer of powder. Even the large horizontal pine trees that had been laid along the edge as a retaining barrier were under snow. He would have to be careful getting Scott to break a trail through this. One false step and the horse could be over the cliff. He returned to where Scott was patiently waiting and took the horse’s bridle, slowly leading him through the snow. It was hard going; with each forward stride, Scott was almost forcing Gerald back under his side. Gerald hung firmly to Scott’s bridle and the horse lifted him forward with its motion. At the far end of the landing, they paused.

  “Good horse,” he said. “Good boy.” Gerald reached up and patted the horse on the neck. Scott shook his head and chewed on his bit.

  After a short rest, Gerald led the horse back across the landing making sure that they kept well inside of where the large horizontal pine lay beneath the snow marking the edge of the gorge. He was taking no chances. This done, they turned once more and headed back across the landing to start breaking the return trail leading back up the ridge.

  The landing was empty when Stan arrived. The sky had lightened, and he could see where Scott had moved back and forth. Stan moved slowly toward the edge of the gorge, kicking the snow with his boot as he went. Eventually, his boot hit something hard— the large pine log along the edge of the cliff. Three feet of snow lay on the landing. Most of the logs were buried under close to a foot of snow, Stan judged. He looked back to where Gerald had passed with Scott, about two feet inside of the barrier. The teamsters and their horses would need to have a clear view of the pine log when they arrived.

  As he waited for Uncle Ben Mills and Ron Ginn, Stan took his axe and started pushing snow off the log. He didn’t have to wait long. He could smell the tobacco smoke from Uncle Ben’s pipe before the two men pulled into view. Each man entered the landing with a shovel swung over his shoulder.

  Uncle Ben seemed to be over the worst effects of the bug that had made him ill.

  “You seem to be feelin’ a bit better, Ben,” Stan said as the two men approached.

  “Yes. I was feelin’ wonderful bad there the weekend, but I’m feelin’ awful good now,” Uncle Ben replied.

  “You’re still puffin’ on that old pipe, though,” Stan said in mock anger.

  “Yes, Skipper, me old pipe is a wonderful comfort. A wonderful comfort.”

  “Jingoes, Ben. I thought that Hedley reading you the Bible might make you a changed man,” Stan said with a hint of a smile.

  Uncle Ben grinned and said nothing.

  “’Tis like Uncle John Godden back home says, ‘nothing but being hit by a thunderbolt pig will make Uncle Ben quit smokin’.’” It was Ron Ginn talking now.

  “No, I s’pose,” Stan said. “I guess having Hedley reading the Bible to Uncle Ben was miracle enough for now. We’ll work on Ben’s pipe later.”

  Having enough of the small talk, Stan turned to the work at hand.

  “Before the horses haul wood onto this landing, I want the snow cleaned off the pine logs along the edge there.” Stan pointed to the barrier.

  “Yes. ’Tis dangerous the way it is there now,” Ron replied.

  “We’ll get right at it,” Uncle Ben said as he smacked his lips against the stem of his pipe. “And we’ll shovel off the top layer of snow for a couple of feet back from the barrier.”

  With that Ron and Uncle Ben set to work. Great puffs of smoke rose from Uncle Ben’s pipe as the snow flew from his shovel. Stan felt confident that these two men knew their work. He turned and headed up the trail that Gerald and Scott had cleared earlier. He would walk in the return trail to the top of the ridge where the pulpwood was stacked. He wanted to talk to Allan and see Ed Layte and Dick breaking a trail to the wood on the branch roads. Afterwards, he would walk back down the trail to the landing to see if the haul-off road was ready for the teamsters. It would be a long, hard slog, but it needed to be done. His mind would not rest until he had a clear picture of how things stood—he wanted the roads ready as soon as possible to get the haul-off back on track and the train of wood moving from the ridge to the river.

  Stan sighed. He knew that the flow of wood would not be great today, but he wanted to get a start. The horses could only pull partial loads in the morning, but by afternoon he hoped that the teamsters would be coming out the trail with full loads on their racks. Stan smiled at this last thought. If things went well, tomorrow the haul-off would be in full swing again.

  As Stan headed in over the ridge his thoughts turned to Gerald Head. Gerald was young and new to Camp 13, this being his first year. Stan had been wondering how he would make out.

  Gerald, like Stan, was from Comfort Cove in the Notre Dame Bay area of Newfoundland. The Heads were good people, but they generally worked at business close to home. Before coming to the lumber woods, Gerald had worked with his uncle Stanley Head canning lobsters. Other Heads were carpenters, boat builders, farmers, or retail stores owners. They were solid citizens, but generally they had a reputation for being homebodies.

  Earlier this past spring, Gerald had approached Allan and asked if he could work a
t Camp 13 cutting wood. Allan, generally a quiet man, had replied with uncharacteristic bluntness.

  “What? You, work in the woods? You’ve got soft businessman hands.”

  Gerald had gone away miffed and disappointed. Later, when Allan had relayed the request to Stan, Stan had decided to give Gerald a chance to prove himself. It was not just Gerald that Stan was thinking about.

  Stan was good friends with Gerald’s father, Lewis. Though Lewis was older than Stan, both men held the other in the highest regard. Both were community-minded men and both were involved in their local church. Lewis had strayed from the “homebody” label and had gone overseas during World War I. He and Stan’s cousin Willis White had joined the Royal Newfoundland Regiment. They had spent time in North Africa and in Egypt, and had served in various campaigns including the Dardanelles and in France. Lewis had been one of the few to survive the slaughter at Beaumont Hamel in France. Willis had not. After the war, Stan and Lewis had become close friends. It was partly out of respect for Lewis that Stan had given Gerald a job.

  This past spring, Gerald had started working at Camp 13 cutting wood. Cutting four-foot pulpwood with a bucksaw was tough business. It was no place for the lazy or the weak. To survive here you had to have a deep well of inner strength. After the spring log drive, the weather had turned hot early. Great clouds of blackflies and mosquitoes surrounded the cutters, feasting on them as they sawed, and at day’s end the men would stagger into the bunkhouse covered in myrrh and dirt, and coated in blood. Their hands and their faces were grotesquely swollen. The swelling had reduced their eyes to mere slits.

  To make things a little easier, Stan arranged for the men to go in the woods at 5: 00 a.m., when it was a little cooler. This improved conditions a little, but life in the lumber woods was cruel and harsh. Most of the seasoned cutters stuck it out, somehow managing to adjust, and reconciled themselves to this way of life. Besides, it was one of the few ways that a man could make a real dollar in Newfoundland.

  For the new cutters it was different, and there was a high turnover among the men. Many lasted for one scale, got their pay and left. They would try their hand at fishing, they said. The fishery might be bad, they reasoned, but at least they wouldn’t be eaten alive. As quickly as the young cutters left, new men came up the lake to replace them, eager to cut and earn some cash.