by Byron White
Solutions usually arrived in one of two ways. Either there was a moment of sudden insight or there was a gradual evolving of an answer. The solution to delivering the timber cut in the area of the small brook tended toward the latter. It came after much walking, head scratching, and pondering. Strangely, the answer came in the form of more questions. Would it be possible to actually use the small brook to float the pulpwood out to Dead Wolf Brook and beyond? Could the small brook be used in the spring to drive the wood on its way to Gander Lake? Could the brook itself be the means to deliver the pulpwood cut in that area?
Stan posed the questions to Allan and asked his opinion. Allan’s first reaction was shrouded in considerable doubt. He first considered the possibility that Stan might have spent too much time in the bush, that all of his thoughts were not lining up in a rational fashion. Stan persisted. Inside on the small brook there were a couple of small ponds. True they were not large, but they had potential. Could not dams be built at the mouth of these ponds and long wooden and rock dikes extend off into the countryside? Yes, Allan agreed, this could all be done. They had built dams and dikes before up on Twin Lakes, over in the Hampden area, in Hare Bay on the Northern Peninsula, and up in Port Hope Simpson in Labrador. But that was different. In these places there was actually water worth damming! But here on the small brook? Allan shook his head. He had serious doubts. A lot of water would have to be held back if 1,000-1,500 cords of wood were to be driven down the small brook. He was not at all sure that enough water would accumulate in the catchment area to fill the reservoirs created by these dams. But Stan, for once, was more optimistic. He was determined to try this solution. He was at his best when faced with a tough situation. He liked the challenge. The dams would be built.
Once the decision was made, Allan put his doubts aside and joined Stan in detailed planning. The two men worked side by side and shoulder to shoulder. The dams would be built here. The dikes would extend right to the edge of the bog. Chutes would direct the water flow. Rock-ballasted retaining walls would deflect the water and pulpwood surge on the bends, and long, rock retaining walls would confine the water to the channel on the flats. The planning was extensive.
After all was considered, Stan called Uncle Ben Mills and Uncle Walt Cooper. These men had little formal education, but they were engineers in their own right. Stan explained the plan to them and they set to work. Working with them were others: men like Charlie and Don White, Uncle Robert Adams, Ron, Bill, Otto, Levi, Heber Hurley, and Uncle Charlie Ginn. Men skilled in the use of wood and stone. Men who were tough of sinew and quick of mind. These were men who accepted a challenge and worked with a will. In the end, they converted this trickle of water, this small brook, into an efficient system capable of delivering 1,500 cords of pulpwood.
TODAY, ON THIS WINTRY February morning, the teamsters at Camp 13 were busy hauling the spruce pulpwood out onto one of the ponds created by the constructed dams and dikes. Stan and Allan were busy supervising their movements. The first spring, the wood had been driven on the small brook. There had been problems; a considerable amount of wood had left the stream and been deposited among the trees and surrounding bogs. That next fall more modifications had been made. Last spring the system had worked well and the wood had been delivered. Stan had been pleased. Not only had he saved time by shortening the distance this pulpwood had to be hauled, but he had saved money as well. Stan’s contract was for cutting the wood and delivering it to the nearest waterway. By making the initial expenditure and making the small brook a “waterway,” he now stood to save money each year on the haul-off. Also, driving the wood downstream in the spring was extra cash. Stan chose to drive his own pulpwood, which also brought in extra money.
As he stood on the pond today, he reflected on these things. The gamble here had paid off. Things had gone well. He hoped, too, that his gamble out on the cliff landing on the Southwest Gander River would lead to similar success. He hoped against hope that the 5,000 cords of wood piled high in the gorge would move out this spring. He hoped, but he had serious doubts. Dark thoughts again began to crawl out from the deep recesses of Stan’s mind.
“Skipper Stan.” It was Uncle Ben Mills calling. Stan shook his head to clear his mind. There was work to be done here. It was time to focus.
“Can you come over here a minute?” Uncle Ben called.
“On my way,” Stan shouted back as he headed off across the frozen pond toward Uncle Ben.
When Stan arrived, Uncle Ben was puffing on his pipe. He took the pipe from his mouth and used its stem to point in the direction of wood piled nearby.
“Is this where you wanted me to have the men unload the pulpwood?” Uncle Ben asked.
Stan looked over the area and then spoke. “I meant for you to begin stacking the wood a little closer to the dam first.”
Uncle Ben put his pipe back in his mouth and puffed deeply. A large cloud of smoke rose into the afternoon air. Earlier, in the morning, Stan had pointed to this general area and Uncle Ben had directed the teamsters here.
“I’ll have the men continue piling the wood toward the dam from here, then,” Uncle Ben continued.
“Yes. Do that, Ben,” Stan said. “The deepest water lies there toward the dam.”
“Yes, the water is deeper there, for sure.”
“The wood needs to be stacked there and not strewn all over the pond, Ben b’y.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Uncle Ben replied. The two men had worked together for years now. He thought he knew what Stan was thinking.
“Yes. When the ice goes in the spring, I want the pulpwood to settle where the most water lies,” Stan added.
Uncle Ben nodded. He would direct the teamsters to unload near the dam. Once again, Ben stuck his pipe in his mouth and puffed contentedly.
“Ben! Put that old pipe away,” Stan ordered, half-smiling. “That old pipe will be the death of you yet.”
Ben grinned and tapped his pipe against his boot and stuck it in his pocket. Then he turned to direct the two teamsters who were hauling his way. Within a few moments, Ben Critch and Herb Hurley came across the pond; their horses were straining to pull great wood sleds piled high with pulpwood. As they stopped to unload, Stan and Uncle Ben gave them a helping hand. It took over twenty minutes for the four men to unload all the wood. This was longer than Stan would have liked. Out on the high landing the wood could be unloaded in half that time. But the time lost in unloading here on the pond was more than made up for by the short distance the wood was being pulled.
By the time Ben Critch and Herb Hurley were heading back up the trail, two more teamsters, Uncle Aram Freake and Les Weir, were coming out on the pond. Stan stayed with Uncle Ben and again gave the teamsters help in unloading their wood. This done, Stan hitched a ride with Uncle Aram Freake.
Stan wanted to go back to the cutover to talk to Allan. He wanted part of the road crew out on the pond helping the teamsters unload. In addition, he wanted another man in with Ed Layte to help speed up the loading there. The haul-off road was only short in here near the small brook; half the normal road crew could do the maintenance.
By noon on the first day, the wood was flowing smoothly out onto the pond. The steady stream of big horses heading out with their sleds piled high was a joy to Stan’s eyes. On top of each load of wood sat a happy teamster holding the horse reins loosely as the animal plodded steadily forward.
At night, back at the forepeak, the men brought in their numbers and the tally was done. One hundred and forty-five cords of wood had been moved that first day. Not bad. Not bad at all. But Stan thought they could improve.
“Tomorrow, I think we can do a little better,” he said. And by week’s end they were averaging 160 cords of wood a day. That first week, from Thursday to Saturday, they had hauled 480 cords of wood out to the small brook waters. If this pace continued, the next week would see most of the small brook wood hauled off the land.
By Wednesday of the following week the weather had turned a
little milder, and from time to time large, fluffy flakes fell silently from the sky. Stan had just come out on the pond where Uncle Ben and Ron Ginn were busy helping Les Weir and Cyril Cooper unload.
“Ben, ’tis getting a bit warmer,” Stan began.
“Yes, I knowed it was goin’ to,” Uncle Ben replied.
“That so?”
“Yes. Last night the moon was right gizzy,” Uncle Ben said.
“What did youse say?” Les Weir wanted to know.
“I said the moon was right gizzy last night.”
“Youse fellers up da bay talks right cramped,” Les stated.
“Youse fellers! Youse fellers!” Cyril repeated. “Ol’ man, you Twillingaters talks a bit cramped yerself,” Cyril added with a laugh.
Stan was smiling too. He had heard Uncle Ben talk about a “she moon,” to refer to a crescent moon lying on its back! But a gizzy moon, this was new to Stan, too.
“What do you mean by a gizzy moon, Ben?” Stan asked.
“You knows a gizzy moon, ’don’t ya?” Ben replied.
“No. Can’t say as I do,” Stan said.
“Well, a gizzy moon has a circle around it. It means that some weather is coming,” Uncle Ben explained.
“Oh yes! I know what you’re talking about now, but I never heard it called a gizzy moon before,” Stan said, smiling.
“Well, that’s what it was last night. The moon was right gizzy, so we’re in for a spurt of bad weather,” Uncle Ben said with finality.
“Let’s hope there won’t be much to it,” Stan said. “The wood is moving off the country at a fair rate now.”
That Wednesday night, six inches of fresh snow fell. The next day, the snow stopped and the haul-off continued under an overcast sky. Out on the pond, a thin layer of slob lay on the ice in the area where the wood was being stacked. In on the lunch ground, the men relaxed in the relative warmth and drank hot tea and ate food from their lunch bags. Lew Cull and Cecil Cooper did not come to this area to prepare the fire and kettles for the teamsters. The distance to the small brook was too far from the camp for that. Here, Ed Layte and Uncle Charlie Ginn had constructed a lunch area in by the edge of the trees. It was these two men who took care of the fire and boiled the great slut kettle for the men.
On the lunch grounds on Thursday, Gerald Head, Cyril Cooper, and Bertie Fudge from the Comfort Cove-Newstead area were yarning with Les Weir and Howard Parsons from Twillingate. They had been talking about Uncle Ben Mills and the gizzy moon. Good-naturedly, the two groups of men had been exchanging verbal jests about the other’s language. The conversation had run its course, when Howard changed the subject.
“I’ll say one thing for youse,” Howard began. “You grow some good sheep up there in the bay.”
“We don’t grow sheep, Howard! We raise ’em,” Gerald said with mock indignation.
“Okay, okay. You raise good sheep,” Howard replied.
“Yes, and that we do!” Gerald said, then added, “But how do you know about that? Have you been up our way?”
“No. A couple of falls back, a feller from Newstead came down to Twillingate with a load of sheep,” Howard said.
“Do you know his name?” Cyril Cooper asked.
“Not sure, but I think it was a feller Gannins or something like that,” Howard said.
“Yes, I remember that,” Les Weir stated. “I believe his name was Archibald Gannins.”
“Archibald Cannings, not Gannins,” Bert Fudge jumped in. “Arch Canning.”
“Yes, that must have been Uncle Arch Cannings,” Gerald agreed. Though Uncle Arch was much older than Gerald, the two were friends. Uncle Arch, Gerald knew, was a good storyteller and a shrewd businessman.
“I knew Arch sold lamb down in Change Islands sometimes, but I didn’t know he sold some in Twillingate, too,” Gerald added.
“Well, he did, me son, and that’s a candid fact!” Les affirmed.
“Oh! I’ve no doubt that he did,” Gerald continued. “Uncle Arch is pretty shrewd.”
“Geraldie,” Bert interjected. “You said Uncle Arch sold his sheep in Change Islands sometimes?”
“Yes, Bertie, he did.”
“Well, how did he get his sheep from Newstead out the bay to Change Islands?”
“In boat, of course, Bertie,” Gerald replied. “In boat.”
“I figured that much Geraldie, but how? On the coastal boat? In his punt? Or did one of the fishin’ crew take the sheep out?” Bert persisted.
“Bertie!” Gerald said. “Haven’t you heard Uncle Arch’s story?”
“No, Geraldie, I haven’t,” Bert replied. “But then again, I haven’t spent as much time courtin’ out on Cannings Point as you have,” Bert added with a mischievous grin.
“Well, Bertie,” Gerald began, “if you can be quiet, I’ll tell you how the sheep got to Change Islands. I got the story right from the horse’s mouth, from Arch, himself.”
“From Arch himself, Geraldie! From Arch himself!” Bert repeated. “Geraldie, you do know your facts.”
“Yes, Bertie, from Arch himself. Now close your gob and open your big ears and harken unto my words,” Gerald chastised as he prepared to relate the tale.
“I’ll listen, Geraldie. I’ll listen,” Bert affirmed.
With everyone listening, Gerald related the story of Uncle Arch’s exploits.
The Cannings lived on what became known as Cannings Point, Newstead, Notre Dame Bay. There the early arrivals had cleared land, farmed, and raised sheep. When Arch was still a young man he decided to sell his sheep in the larger communities farther out the bay. There were more businesses there, and therefore, Arch reasoned, more competition, and so better prices. He decided he would take his sheep out to Change Islands, where he hoped to get a good price and stock up on provisions for the winter. So that first fall, young Arch slaughtered and dressed his sheep, hove them in his skiff, raised the sail, and set off. He crossed the bay, headed down through Dildo Run, passed Joey Chins, and arrived safely in Change Islands.
Young Arch jumped ashore and strode confidently up to the merchant’s establishment. Were they interested in procuring some prime lamb? Yes, indeed they were! Down to the boat they came and surveyed young Arch’s goods. How much per pound, they asked? Arch told them. Too much, they said. At the other merchant’s, the story was the same. What to do? Arch couldn’t take the lamb back home; it would surely spoil before then. In the end, young Arch sold the lamb at the reduced price, shook the dust of Change Islands from his feet, and headed back home in a foul mood.
The following fall Arch had learned his lesson. That fall when Uncle Andrew, Arch’s father, came out on the wharf, he found young Arch busily employed aboard his skiff. Strewn about amidships were the tools of a carpenter: a saw, an axe, a hammer, and a few old nails. As Uncle Andrew approached, young Arch was busy nailing on a piece of board.
“What be you doin’ there, Arch?” Uncle Andrew asked.
“I be nailin’ on a piece a board, Fadder,” Arch replied.
“Yis, yis. Sartainly, I can see that, Arch,” his father remarked, “but what be yer purpose? What be yer plan?”
“Well, Fadder, it be like this. This fall I be takin’ me sheep on the hoof!” Arch stated firmly.
“You be takin’ them down alive?”
“Yes, Fadder. That be me plan! I be nailin’ up a bit o’ cribbin’ in the skiff. I be takin’ them down to Change Islands alive,” Arch asserted.
That fall, Arch was in a strong bargaining position. The sheep were still alive. The merchants had to pay a fair price or Arch could take his animals elsewhere. Young Arch had won this battle of wits. He left Change Islands, his boat loaded with food and supplies for the winter. Arch was whistling as he headed in the bay.
That night Arch stayed in a shack at Joey Chins, at the mouth of Dildo Run. He lit a fire and put on a big pot of water with a piece of salt beef. Then, taking his knife, he skinned one of the sheep’s heads he had kept, and threw it into the broth. After thi
s had boiled for some time, Arch decided to add some store-bought ingredients to the mix. Searching through his supplies, he came upon a package of rice. Uncle Arch had later related the story to Gerald.
“Yis. Searching around there, me eyes spied this rice!” he said. “Now sartainly, see Gerald, at the time this rice was all new to we fellers. So anyway, I added the rice to me pot, so much accardin’ to. And after a while, see, the rice begins to plim and swell and the cover comes off me pot and pitches on the floor, be me feet. I scravels over to the pot and there’s me sheep’s head stickin’ up through the rice with those big eyes starin’ at me and the rice still goin’ ‘Pip! Pip! Pip!’ Well, me son, ’twas some sight to see! ’Twas some sight to see, I tell you!”
When Gerald had finished telling his story on the lunch grounds, Bert just smiled and shook his head.
“Rice and sheep’s head, Gerald? Rice and sheep’s head?”
“Yes, Bertie, rice and sheep’s head, indeed. Arch said ’twas a fine bit of grub, ” Gerald stated.
“You don’t suppose Hedley will have rice and sheep’s head for supper tonight, do you?” Bert asked with a grin.
“No, I doubt it,” Gerald said, laughing. “Not tonight.”
“He’s cooked just about everything else, then,” Les Weir added with a laugh.
The men were still chuckling as they took a last sip of tea. It was time to close up their lunch bags and head back to work. Albert Oake and Art Brenton were already heading out to the pond. The other teamsters would not be far behind. Soon a steady procession of men and horses would be heading to and fro along the trails.
CHAPTER 20
WHEN THE MEN RETURNED to camp that Saturday evening, 340 cords of wood remained on the cutovers near the small brook. The teamsters had experienced some delays. A few sleds had broken and had to be taken out to the campsite for Uncle Walter Cooper to effect repairs. Also, with the temperature a little warmer, a layer of slob had formed on the pond. This made it harder for the horses to pull the heavy piles of pulpwood. The teamsters had had to reduce their loads and pull less wood each trip. Still, the men had done well. By early the next week, all the wood in by the small brook would be out on the pond.
