Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

by Byron White

  Already today each of the eight teamsters had made several runs. At the beginning, Jim had wanted to follow close behind Paddy, but Art had held him back. Jim had learned the routine, and now as Stan waved, he moved forward without Art having to tell him to proceed.

  As Jim headed Stan’s way, Stan studied this large red horse with the long legs. Stan knew horses and he judged that this was a fairly young animal. Somewhere in its short life, Stan thought, Jim had been treated badly. Stan looked at his eyes as he passed by. The horse was focused and staring downslope at what lay ahead. That wild look that had been in the horse’s eyes when Stan had bought him was less evident now. With Don’s use—and now under Art’s firm, gentle care—Jim was developing into a fine animal.

  “Easy, Jim. Easy,” Art directed in a low, caring voice. Jim advanced cautiously. “Careful, Jim. Careful, b’y,” Art continued, offering words of encouragement.

  They were at the final section now.

  “Back, Jim! Back!” Art commanded. Jim sat back on his rear and let the pulpwood propel him down the slope. At the bottom, Jim hove himself back onto his feet and hastened forward. As before, Allan and Uncle Walt grabbed the horse’s bridle and unloaded the wood. Soon, Art and Jim were heading back for another load of pulpwood.

  At twelve noon the men stopped for dinner. It had been over six hours since breakfast and the men were hungry. No one had stopped for a proper lunch break. Some men carried a few molasses or tea buns in their pockets and had munched at these during the morning when an opportunity had arisen.

  Now, as they trooped into the lunch grounds, they were happy to take a break. Ron Ginn and Bert Fudge had cut logs for the men to sit on. Small trees had been placed behind the logs to form a barrier to protect the men from the wind. Above the men’s heads, a large piece of mill canvas was stretched out and tied to some standing trees.

  When the men arrived, two large slut kettles were steaming above a fire of burning birch junks. But as the men rooted around for a place to sit, they soon discovered that the accommodations were too small. No matter. Six men sprang into action and the lunch area was soon renovated and all found a place to sit.

  Soon the tea was readied and poured, and the men dug deeply into their lunch bags. It was good to sit back and sip strong tea, eat, and relax. There was not much time to relax at Camp 13. They were in the woods before daylight in the mornings and it was dark before they returned to camp in the evening. Sundays were the only times the men saw the campsite during the light of day. The men worked long hours, but that was part of the routine. That was just the way it was and they had come to accept it. They did not mind. When they received the opportunity to relax, the reward was all the greater. They enjoyed each moment they were able to savour and revel in it.

  At first the men ate lustily with ravenous appetites. Many loaves of bread were eaten and many mugs of sweet tea chased it down. Outside the lunch area, away from the fire, a light mist was falling. Fingers of fog and low grey cloud moved across the river valley. Here by the fire the heat was soothing, and steam rose from the men’s damp clothing.

  After the men finished the rough grub—cold salt beef, bologna, and bread—they dug into their lunch bags again. This time they sought the finer things: the pastries or a few more tea buns. As they became satiated, conversation took over and laughter and jesting filled the air.

  “Allan,” Stan began, “wasn’t it around here somewhere that you found those young crows a couple of springs ago?”

  “Eh?” Allan replied. He had been staring into the fire, deep in thought, wondering if he had made enough splits, small wood, for his wife, Clemmie. She would use those to light the wood stove back home in the morning. He hoped he had enough prepared.

  “I said, wasn’t it around here that you found those young crows?” Stan repeated the question.

  “Crows?” Allan began. “No! My worlds. No. Not here. Not here, I don’t think.”

  “Yes! ’Twas here somewhere,” Stan said emphatically.

  “Was it?” Allan replied. He was trying to remember. “No. ’Twasn’t here, sure. ’Twas out the road farther.” He was focusing now.

  “Yes. I remember those crows,” Alb joined in. “You got them out near Dead Wolf Brook.”

  “By Dead Wolf Brook, was it?” Stan asked.

  “Yes. I remember it because me and that fellow from Laurenceton . . . I can’t mind his name now . . . we used to walk all the way out there every morning to cut wood and walk back every evening!” Alb stated.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Allan affirmed. “And that’s where I found those four young crows on the ground.”

  “Yes, they must have been in a nest up in one of those trees we cut down,” Alb added.

  “Yes, b’y, I think that’s what happened,” Allan agreed, slowly nodding his head.

  “You brought them back to camp, didn’t you?” Art Brenton asked.

  “Yes,” Stan said with a chuckle. “He brought them back to camp and gave them to Hedley and Lew Cull to look after.”

  “Two very good ones to give the crows to!” Cyril Cooper said with a grin. The rest of the men were listening now; they sensed that a good yarn was coming.

  “Yes. I gave ’em to Hedley and Lew,” Allan said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how foolish I was! I wasn’t thinking very well, I know.”

  “Why? What happened to the crows?” Gerald asked. He had not been at camp that year, and he had not heard the story.

  “Goodness!” Allan exclaimed. “You heard about that, didn’t you, Gerald?”

  “No,” Gerald said. “This is the first I’ve heard about the crows.”

  “Well, Gerald b’y, I brought the poor little things back to camp and gave ’em to Hedley,” Allan began, “and the first thing he asked me was how much salt meat I wanted in my crow soup.”

  “He must have been talking to Uncle Arch Canning,” Gerald said, laughing. “Uncle Arch told me that he ate a lovely crow one time.”

  “Yes. So he did. I heard that, too,” Allan agreed.

  “Did Uncle Arch cook them with rice like he did with the sheep’s heads?” Bert Fudge asked from his seat nearby.

  “No, Bertie. No,” Gerald replied and continued looking at Allan. “Anyway, what happened to the young crows?” Gerald asked, trying to get the story back on track.

  “Oh, the crows? Well, anyway, I gave the poor things to Hedley and told him to fix up a spot for them in the pigpen we were building,” Allan said.

  “That’s where he kept them, then?” Gerald asked.

  “Yes. Hedley fixed up a fine place, and he and Lew fed them scraps from the cookhouse and before long they were almost full grown,” Allan continued.

  “So it ended all right, then?” Gerald questioned.

  “Yes, I s’pose it did,” Allan said.

  “What do you mean, you suppose it did?” Gerald asked, confused by Allan’s reply.

  “Hang on now, Gerald. Let Allan finish his story,” Stan said with a big smile. He raised his mug and took a long sip of tea. “Allan, tell Gerald what happened.”

  Allan shook his head and chuckled. “Well, I came back to camp one day to get something, so I decided to dodge out behind the cookhouse to see how the crows were doing,” Allan began. “And there was Hedley and Lew in their aprons standing in the young spruce behind the pigpen.”

  “What were they doing there?” Gerald wanted to know.

  “Well, be jarge! They were up to no good! That’s what they were doing!” Allan said harshly. Remembering still made him mad.

  “Go ahead, Allan, tell Gerald what Hedley and Lew were doing,” Stan said, laughing. For once he was relaxed and enjoying the moment.

  “Well, sir! Hedley was bending down the top of a young, slender spruce and Lew was placing a crow on top of it,” Allan said sternly. “Then Hedley let the bent spruce go and the young crow was catapulted through the air; it flapped its wings, squawked, and fell to the ground in a crump, all hunched over, like.”

&
nbsp; The men were laughing now.

  “I didn’t think it was very funny at the time, I can tell you!” Allan continued. “I scravelled down and asked Hedley what he thought he was doing.” Allan paused and shook his head. “Hedley said he was trying to teach the birds how to fly.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Cyril Cooper said, suppressing the urge to burst into laughter.

  “Well, I gave them a piece of my mind and that put a stop to that!” Allan said.

  “Jingoes, Allan!” Stan interjected. “You should have known better, giving those crows to Hedley!” Unlike Allan, Stan thought the whole incident was quite funny.

  “But the crows were all right in the end?” Gerald asked innocently.

  “I s’pose, b’y,” Allan replied.

  Gerald said no more. He just sat there. He knew that Allan would finish the tale eventually.

  “Allan means that he’s not quite sure what happened to the birds,” Stan stated, sensing Gerald’s curiosity.

  “Oh?” was all Gerald said. He was getting anxious to find out how this story ended.

  “Well, Gerald, when I got back to the camp a few evenings later all the crows were gone,” Allan said. “Hedley told me that they just hopped up on the railings in the pigpen, flapped their wings, and flew away.”

  “So that’s what happened to them,” Gerald said.

  “Well, we’re not quite sure,” Stan said. “We had soup that evening for supper. Some of the men fancied it tasted a lot like crow!”

  A great roar of laughter took wing and rose from the lunch grounds and echoed across the river valley. The men finished their last few sips of tea. The horses tethered nearby had finished their meal of hay and were ready to start down the slopes again.

  CHAPTER 24

  ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE cords of wood were moved to the river that Friday.

  “Well done!” Stan had said. And the men had echoed the sentiment. Well done indeed! There was a sense of accomplishment, a sense that they had struggled through, had claimed the prize.

  Here on the river slopes there was a great feeling of camaraderie. All the men were on wages now. Everyone was on equal footing. The individual rivalries and competitiveness inspired by contract work were now replaced by a collective will to reach a common goal. The men worked as a team and joked and laughed as they struggled on. Even the moist, wet weather didn’t dampen their spirits. They could see the end of the haul-off! Fewer than 300 cords of pulpwood remained. Soon, most of the men would be heading home with good money in their pockets!

  Saturday was much a repeat of Friday’s efforts and 161 cords of pulpwood were moved. The mild weather continued and by Saturday evening a steady rain was coming down. The men were wet and tired and happy to be heading back to camp. It would be good to change into some dry clothes and sit down for supper in the warm cookhouse. And the grub! Oh, the food! They couldn’t wait to sit down to a hot meal with lots of salt beef and spuds with bread and jam, and raisin pies and prunes! Oh, the prunes! Large bowls of prunes would be waiting adorning the cookhouse tables. Life was hard, but life was good.

  Sunday was a welcomed day of rest. The men needed this day to rejuvenate both body and soul. These men were tough and rugged, lean and strong. Still, in the end, they were just flesh and bone—and flesh and bone wear out. The day of rest was needed for the body to repair itself, to ready itself for the coming week.

  On this weekend, as usual, some men played cards while others lay around and read, or smoked and yarned. This Saturday, Billy Ginn was again sitting on the edge of his bunk repairing his work pants. Billy’s needle and yarn were in constant motion. He was always “scunnin’.” Albert Oake made a grab for Billy’s pants, and Billy, as always, yanked them to safety just in time. This, too, was part of the dance, part of the routine at camp.

  Card playing at camp was restricted to weeknights. Cards were frowned upon on Sundays and were not normally a part of camp life. Stan, for his part, disapproved of the pastime entirely. Cards conjured up dark images of time wasted and, in extreme cases, of money lost. No. Card playing was a frivolous and useless activity. It had no place in the value scheme of Stan’s strict Methodist upbringing.

  On this Sunday evening in late February, someone produced a mouth organ and an old accordion was brought out. The accordion was given to Albert Oake and soon the music was in full swing. They sang hymns and a chorus of male voices rose heavenward. Just as soon as one hymn finished, another was requested.

  “Play ‘We Have an Anchor!’” someone shouted out, and the male choir ripped into another old favourite. Men hove back their heads and sang with great gusto.

  “Will your anchor hold in the storms of life?

  When the clouds unfold their wings of strife;

  When the strong tides lift and the cables strain,

  Will your anchor drift or firm remain?”

  Then the question was answered as the men swept on into the refrain.

  “We have an anchor that keeps the soul

  Steadfast and sure while the billows roll;

  Fastened to the Rock which cannot move,

  Grounded firm and deep in the Saviour’s love!”

  The men sang with conviction and great enthusiasm. At times, the roof of the old bunkhouse threatened to lift from its walls and sail off into the “great beyond.” There were times when Albert, caught up in the excitement of the moment, came dangerously close to ripping the accordion in twain.

  The singing continued until nine o’clock, then the music was put away and the men drifted off to their bunks. To an outsider it might have seemed strange for these men of the woods to be singing hymns of the sea. But these selections were perfectly natural, for all of these men came from small Newfoundland outport fishing villages. Many were fishermen, who fished for a living when not in the lumber woods. All had close ties to the sea, and salt water ran in their veins. To sing “We Have an Anchor” by Priscilla Owens was as natural as breathing. The men knew and loved these old hymns and singing them buoyed their spirits.

  By ten o’clock the men had washed and retired for the night. Only one lantern remained alight, and the only sound was the clomp, clomp, clomp of Bertie’s old leather boots moving across the bunkhouse floor. Bertie was on his way outside to relieve himself one last time before retiring for the night. Soon Bertie returned and the clomping resumed.

  “Bertie!” Alb called. “Turn out the lantern and go to bed!”

  “Yes, Albert,” Bert replied, and the light was doused and all became quiet. Soon the sound of snoring could be heard around the bunkhouse. It was time to sleep and rest. Another workweek would soon begin.

  COME MONDAY MORNING, FEWER than 100 cords of pulpwood lay on the slopes. The weather had stayed mild all weekend and Saturday’s rain had continued unabated until late Sunday evening.

  “The snow is takin’ a cutting!” the men said. And indeed a great deal of the winter’s snow had now disappeared.

  Since the previous Thursday, when the mild weather had set in in earnest, most of the snow had melted from the roofs of the camp buildings; and around the exterior walls the snow had retreated and settled low. The entrance to the cookhouse, which had resembled a snow tunnel, now lay wide and gaping.

  The snow trails used by man and horse had been packed hard and firm. Now in places these stood high above the surrounding landscape. In other places the trails had disintegrated altogether, and deep stretches of slush and water made walking wet and difficult. On the slopes rivulets and small streams had invaded the trailways in a mad downhill rush to the river.

  Stan had talked on the cookhouse phone over the weekend. Most of the camps had suspended haul-off operations. It was all but impossible to haul wood under these conditions. To attempt to do so would destroy whatever was left of their winter wood roads. The camp contractors had little choice and had sensibly decided to suspend operations and confine the men to camp. A winter mild spell had hit central Newfoundland again and a great deal of concern and c
onsternation had settled over Bowater’s Glenwood Woods Division.

  This concern was not limited to the contractors and the men in the lumber camps. District Office was worried as well. Lester Shea had called up to the camps and discussed matters. He knew the contractors had been faced with a difficult situation and he respected their decision to suspend operations. Still, it was imperative that the wood be delivered this year! Without it Bowater would be short of raw material and would have difficulty meeting its market obligations.

  “Don’t send the men home!” Lester had ordered. He made more phone calls and checked with the weather forecasters and meteorologists. Lester had contacted the contractors again. A cold front was expected to move through during the coming week. Hopefully, colder weather would soon move back in and the haul-off could resume.

  “Hang on!” Lester said. “Keep the men up the lake!” Lester hoped against hope that the mild spell would soon be over.

  AT CAMP 13, THE men were not in their bunkhouse on this February Monday. Early morning found them on the slopes waiting for daylight to reluctantly drag its way through the low covering of cloud and fog and mist. A grey half-light spread slowly across the land.

  Camp 13’s men were down by the river again. They were moving slowly but steadily about. The activity to and fro helped to accomplish their tasks and generate heat that shielded their bodies from the cold, bone-penetrating dampness. Early on, no wood moved. Instead the horses stood tethered and still near the brows of stacked pulpwood. From time to time they bent down and mouthed a small pile of hay that lay at their feet. The horses weren’t hungry. They had only recently been fed breakfast. Mostly, they stood and watched and patiently waited.