Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

by Byron White

  Stan had wondered if Gerald would stick it out. It was an awful year in the woods. He gave him 50-50 odds at best of finishing the cut. But to Stan’s surprise, Gerald had stuck it out. Not bad for a young fellow. Not bad for a “homebody.” Toward the end of the cut, Stan had approached Gerald as he was sawing.

  “Good day, Gerald,” Stan said. Gerald placed the piece of pulpwood he was handling on the pile and turned to face Stan.

  “Jingoes, my son, the flies are treatin’ you barbarously, aren’t they?” Stan said, looking at Gerald’s face.

  “Yes, sir. They’re fierce wicked! Fierce wicked!” Gerald replied.

  “How are you finding it up here in the lumber woods?”

  “’Tis the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Gerald said, drawing his arm across his face to keep the sweat and dirt from running into his eyes.

  “Are you going to stick it out?”

  “Stick it? I’m not quittin’. If only I could keep up with Albert Oake over there, I’d be happy.”

  Stan laughed. He liked Gerald’s reply. He respected a man with a bit of pride and competitiveness. “How much are you cuttin’ a day? About a cord and a half?”

  “Yes, about that,” Gerald replied.

  “You could do better, but that’s not too bad for a beginner.”

  Gerald’s young chest puffed out a bit. Stan White was not known for throwing around unearned compliments, but it was what Stan said next that stunned Gerald.

  “Gerald,” Stan said, “I’ve been watching you. You’ve got something inside. Would you like to come back this winter and go teamin’?”

  Gerald’s face lit up and a light glowed through his swollen face and half-shut eyes.

  “Would I? I’d like that! I’d like that a lot!”

  “Good, then. I’ll have a horse for you,” Stan said as he turned to leave.

  As Stan walked away, the remaining pulpwood that Gerald had on the ground was sent flying in rapid succession to the top of the pile. Soon his bucksaw was slicing through another tree. Gerald was grunting and singing and spitting out blackflies. The world was a wonderful place.

  Gerald had returned to Camp 13 on Boxing Day this year, and Stan had given him Scott. Scott was red with a white face and stockings. The horse was even-tempered and a steady worker. The two had bonded and were working well together. Gerald was not among the highliner teamsters like Albert Oake and Art Brenton, but he was pushing them. He was consistently in the top half. Gerald and Scott were moving a lot of wood. True, Gerald had to be straightened out on a few things—like trotting his horse!—but he had settled in now, Stan felt, and he was doing well.

  STAN THOUGHT OF THESE things and more as he plodded up the trail through the snow. He noted where the snow lay deepest on the trail and made a mental note to send part of the road crew out to level off the highest drifts.

  It took him an hour to wade through to the top of the ridge where Allan was working. In on the ridge, the branch roads all led into the main wood road. Each branch was separated from its neighbour by a distance of 100 feet. These parallel roads led back over the cutover. These had all been marked out by Stan and Allan early in the spring before the year’s cut had taken place. When cutters had arrived, they had been placed in on these branches. Each cutter was assigned areas of the marked area to cut. As they cut the wood, they were expected to pile it for scaling. As each cutter finished his section, he then leapfrogged the next cutter on the branch road until the whole area was harvested. Cutters on each branch cut roughly halfway to the adjoining road before leapfrogging their neighbour on their own section.

  Each road had a number, and the brows of wood piled by each cutter were clearly identified. When the scalers arrived, they measured up the wood and calculated the number of cords in each brow. This amount, along with the brow number, was recorded. At the end of the scale the men were paid for the number of cords of wood they had produced. Later, Stan and Allen had all this information transferred to a ledger, which they kept at the forepeak. In it was written the number assigned to each cut road, the assigned number given to each brow of wood, and the number of cords of wood associated with each brow number.

  Now, in the winter, as the teamsters hauled the wood, it was easy to measure progress and to ascertain the amount of wood moved every day by each teamster. As the teamsters hauled, they wrote down the number of the branch they were on and the numbers of the brows of wood they pulled to the river. Each night they went to the forepeak and gave these numbers to Stan and Allan; a quick check of the ledger revealed how much each teamster had moved that day, along with the daily total for the whole crew. In this way, Stan knew how much each man had earned and how many cords of wood had been hauled off the hills.

  This morning as Stan reached the ridge, he could see where Ed Layte and Dick had been going in over the branch roads breaking a trail through the snow. The snow was deep; most of the brows of wood were barely visible above the blanket of white. Some brows were buried completely.

  “Jingoes,” Stan said aloud. “This’ll slow things down.”

  He had desperately wanted a good snowfall this winter. He needed it to move the wood. For the last two years lack of snow had been a problem. Now? Now there was too much snow! Stan lifted his cap and scratched his head. He always did this when he was giving a matter serious thought.

  “Oh well, better too much snow than not enough,” he said.

  He hoped it would stay cold and sunny for a while. In time the snow would settle down. In the meantime, though, the men would have to do more digging to get the wood and then throw it up to the sleds. This would take more effort and time. The haul-off would likely progress more slowly. He lifted his cap and scratched his head again before moving farther along the ridge.

  Looking up, Stan saw Allan coming toward him.

  “How are we doing in here?” Stan asked as Allan approached.

  “Be jarge, Stan, ’tis slow going! ’Tis slow going!”

  “Yes, b’y, a lot of snow fell since Saturday.”

  “Ed is in breaking the next branch road there now,” Allan added.

  “How’s Ed making out?” Stan asked.

  “B’y, ’tis hard work. Dick is ploughing through a lot of snow.”

  “Yes, I can see where he went in on the branch roads farther out,” Stan said.

  “Ol’ Dick is working hard at this. Ed won’t be able to pull much wood with him today.”

  “No. I’ll go in and have a word with Ed now, after we’re finished,” Stan stated.

  “Stan, I got Ed to do those roads outside there first. That’s where I plan to start Albert Oake and Art Brenton.”

  “Good idea, Allan. Always get them on the go first. We don’t want them tangled up behind the slower horses,” Stan added in agreement.

  At the start of the haul-off, Stan had taken Alb and Art aside. He had told them to keep ahead of the other teamsters if at all possible. The two men were first at the cookhouse for breakfast and were always first out of the barn in the morning. In the barn stalls, they simply threw the harnesses over their horses’ backs. Outside the barn, at the watering hole, they buckled up while the horses were drinking. Art, against all odds, had trained Jim to allow him to do this. No small feat! By the time the other teamsters were out of the barn, Alb and Art were well in the road.

  “I’m going to size up what else needs to be done before the teamsters arrive,” Allan continued.

  “Yes. Okay. Where’s Gerald and Scott?” Stan asked.

  “Didn’t you see ’em?” Allan replied.

  “No.”

  “Well, they were in here and have gone out toward the river again.”

  “They must have been stopped out there adding the back sled when I came in the return road,” Stan said.

  “Yes. I s’pose that’s where they are.” Allan agreed.

  “Well, I’m going to go and see Ed before I head back out to the landing.” Stan added.

  “Yes, and I’ll check those branch ro
ads there to see if they’re ready for Alb and Art and the crew,” Allan said.

  As Stan moved forward, he could see Dick pulling the sled through the snow across the cutover. Ed was not far behind. When the pair reached the main road, Ed reined Dick to a stop. Great clouds of steam were rising from the horse’s back. Ed took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. Both were sweating profusely on this cold winter’s morning. It was hard going breaking trail in this snow.

  “Mornin’, Ed,” Stan began.

  “Mornin’, Skipper.”

  “You’re getting the branch roads broke there, I see,” Stan continued.

  “Yes, Skipper, but ’tis slow going.”

  “Yes, Ed b’y, I can see that.”

  “’Tis hard goin’ with all this snow down.”

  “Yes. But you’re doing okay. You’re gettin’ the job done.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s takin’ a while, but we’re gettin’ ’er done, Skipper.”

  “How many more branches do you have to go over?”

  “Allan told me to do one more there. That should be enough to get the other teamsters started.” Ed replied.

  “Good!” said Stan. “Slow down a bit now. Don’t push Dick too hard or he’ll be useless the rest of the day.”

  “Oh, he’s a strong horse, Skipper. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Jingoes. I know he’s strong, but don’t push him too hard. You can ruin a good horse that way. Just let him haul at a steady pace when it comes time to haul wood.”

  “I’ll watch him, Skipper. I won’t work him too hard today. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Yes, do that. Nobody will get many cords of wood out today. Tomorrow we’ll have our numbers back up.” With that, Stan turned to go.

  “Oh, Ed.” Stan paused and turned back. “Allan says you’re living in Campbellton now. I thought you were still in Birchy Bay.”

  “I’m from Birchy Bay, but I’m living in Campbellton at the moment,” Ed replied.

  “Must be some attraction there?” Stan said with a grin as he turned and headed out the road.

  Ed smiled and clicked the reins on Dick’s back. The horse headed off through the snow. It was 9: 00 a.m. by the time Stan started out the ridge. Halfway down he passed Alb and Art heading in.

  “Haul just a half-load on the first trip till you see how it’s going,” Stan shouted as the men passed by. Both men nodded. They were experienced teamsters. They knew what needed to be done.

  CHAPTER 15

  BY MID-AFTERNOON, THE HORSES were coming out to the river with sleds fully loaded. Stan White was a happy man. True, the morning had not been very productive and the wood had only trickled out to the high landing. But it had been necessary to haul small loads until the road had been worked on and worn in. No horses had gotten stuck and no loads had gone off the trails; there had been no long delays. Now, in the afternoon, the wood was fairly flowing down off the ridge.

  Stan was in constant motion. He was out on the landing with Uncle Ben, checking each team as they arrived. He watched to ensure that the men led their horses along the cliff edge inside the pine log barrier. It was imperative that the men not be on the loaded sleds when they entered the landing and that they lead the horses along the lip of the great gorge. But the men needed no reminding. Most of the teamsters entered the area with trepidation. One glance over the lip revealed a sheer drop into a boiling cauldron of churning wood and water. The scene rebuked the foolhardy and spoke of the need for caution. The site was a dangerous work area.

  Often the landing, in spite of Uncle Ben’s best efforts, was a slippery place. Uncle Ben was constantly at work spreading hay in front of the sleds and horses. But the steady repetition of arrivals and departures made it a challenging task. When unloading, most teamsters stood on the inland side of their loaded sleds and simply pushed the pulpwood from their racks. The wood flew forward and gravity pulled it down, down, down into the gaping belly of the gorge far below. In ten to fifteen minutes, the teamsters were unloaded and leading their horses away up the return trail. Some refrained from even looking over the precipice—no one chose to linger atop the cliff.

  Les Weir had summed up the feelings of many, after Christmas, when he had first arrived for the haul-off. “Skipper,” he had said, “when I first looked down into dat hell, I taught I was going to swallow me asshole!” Yes, the high landing was a treacherous place, but, paradoxically, it was a grand place. If used safely, it would be a key factor in the success of Camp 13. Here wood was unloaded in a fraction of the time needed elsewhere: teams entered the landing, unloaded, and returned to the ridge in rapid succession. Stan knew this, and he had planned for it. Safety. Safety. Safety. That was the concern.

  This afternoon, if Stan wasn’t on the landing he was on the trail working with the road maintenance crew. He helped shovel snowdrifts, cut small trees to place in the road to fill in the soft areas, and pile snow on top of these trees to harden it down. He directed them to places on the road that he’d earlier observed needed repair. Here a retaining wall needed rebuilding; there on the slope more hay needed to be spread to ensure the loaded sleighs did not rush ahead and drive the horses forward. There was constant motion as there were constant needs to be addressed and constant work to be done.

  When Stan was satisfied that the road maintenance was proceeding apace, he was off to check on the teamsters. One moment he would be on the return trail, watching to see that no one was trotting their horses as they went back up the ridge. Moments later he would be pushing through the deep snow and trees to appear in the parallel down-ridge trail that ran close by.

  At Camp 13 many a new teamster had been startled by the sudden appearance of a snow-cloaked figure. Seasoned teamsters had become accustomed to the unexpected. They accepted the fact that Stan might show up anywhere at any time. Stan, they knew, was skipper here. He knew first-hand what was happening. He was boss and he was on top of things. If you accepted that fact, things ran smoothly. If you challenged that fact, well, that was a different matter, and your stay in camp was short-lived.

  This afternoon, as Stan checked the teamsters passing with their great loads of pulpwood, he was pleased. He knew each man and each of their horses, he knew what each was capable of, and what to expect from each team. There were few surprises.

  Stan ran through the list of teamsters hauling at camp: there was Uncle Aram Freake from Boyd’s Cove; Hedley Janes from Salt Pond-Embree; Phil McCarthy from Grates Cove; Cyril Cooper, Gerald Head, and Billy Ginn from Comfort Cove; Art Brenton and Albert Oake from Newstead; Ed Layte from Birchy Bay; Howard Parsons and Les Weir from Twillingate; Herb Baker, Ben Critch, and Jack Soper from Trinity Bay; and the Potters, Walt and Les, from Little Burnt Bay. These were all good men. Some, to be sure, rose above the others and pushed themselves to be highliners, but all were steady, hard-working men. There were no loafers in this group.

  The horses, too, Stan knew by name. Horses like Paddy, Jim, Scott, Dick, Min, Ned, King, Old Bess, Harry, and Kit, to name a few. Unlike the other contractors working in Glenwood District, Stan owned his horses; he had bought them outright through the Glenwood office. Most of the animals had been brought to Glenwood by Bowater’s Woods Division. A few of the horses had been bought locally, including Scott, who had been purchased from Lew Hill, a former contractor turned restaurateur. Although Stan owned the horses, he did not charge the teamsters a fee for usage. This was not the case in the other wood camps.

  Other contractors leased the horses from Bowater’s and, in turn, leased the horses to their men, deducting the fee from the teamsters’ earnings. As Stan thought of these things, he remembered a recent conversation he had had with Max Vardy.

  Max had been making a tour of the camps. One afternoon last week he had arrived at Camp 13 and spent the night with Stan and Allan at the forepeak. Max and Stan had gone to the cookhouse for a mug-up before turning in for the night. As they snacked, they discussed the winter haul-off.

  “S
tan,” Max said, “you’re getting your wood to the river at a good pace this year.”

  “So far so good, Max b’y,” Stan replied as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea.

  “The office is pressuring us to get every stick of pulpwood off and to the mill,” Max stated, referring to the Bowater Office and Pulp Mill in Corner Brook.

  “Jingoes. They can put on all the pressure they want, but if the weather turns mild and we lose the snow . . .” Stan shook his head and left the thought hanging.

  “Apart from that, though, everything possible has to be done,” Max continued.

  “It will be. Allan and I have walked every inch of our contract area; if we get the weather we’ll do our best to deliver the wood.”

  “I know, Stan b’y, I know,” Max replied. “Just the same, Lester and I like to see how things are going.”

  At the mention of Lester’s name, Stan’s mood changed. He remembered their conversation on the high landing last fall.

  “Speaking of Lester, did he discuss the pulpwood we’re dumping into the gorge on Sou’west?” Stan asked.

  Max took a long sip of tea before answering. “Yes, we discussed it,” he said, “but we’ll leave that for another time.”

  There was a pause in the conversation as Stan bit into his molasses bun.

  “Stan,” Max said, changing the topic, “if you get your wood off, you’ll make a good dollar this year.”

  “I’ll do okay, I guess,” Stan replied, not anxious to discuss his financial affairs.

  “Yes, you’ll do well, but you’re losing a lot of money this winter nonetheless.”

  Stan was surprised. “How do you figure that?” he asked.

  “You own your own horses, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You let the men use them and you don’t charge a fee,” Max stated.