Effect of Discovery of Iron Ore on Timber Industry.
During the same year that the United States government offered its lands
in the northern counties of Minnesota at public auction, new interests
effecting the market for pine timber were created by the discovery of
iron ore of a marketable quality, near the south shore of Lake
Vermilion, where now is the city of Tower, Minnesota.
Historically, the first mention of iron ore in northern Minnesota dates
back to the report of J. G. Norwood, made in 1850, in which he mentioned
the occurrence of iron ore at Gunflint Lake, but claimed no commercial
importance in his discovery. The Geological and Natural History Survey
of Minnesota, Volume 4, page 583, records the following: "H. H. Eames,
state geologist of Minnesota in 1865 and 1866, was the first to observe
and report iron ore on both the Vermilion and Mesabi ranges, and to
consider it of any value. In his report for 1866, he describes the ore
outcroppings near the southern shore of Lake Vermilion, and in his
report, published the following year, is an account of the ore at
Prairie River Falls, on the western end of the Mesabi, and several
analyses showing it to be of good quality."
[Illustration: "White Pine--What of Our Future Supply?" (Page 174.)]
As early as 1880, Professor A. H. Chester, in the interest of private
parties, made a personal examination of the Vermilion Iron Range, and
predicted that an iron ore district of immense value and importance
would be found to exist on that range. George C. Stone of Duluth, one of
the parties who had employed Chester to make the examination for iron
ore, was elected a member of the Minnesota legislature, and, through his
instrumentality, in 1881, a law was passed, "to encourage mining in this
state, by providing a uniform rate for the taxing of mining properties
and products." This law provided for a payment of a tax of fifty cents
for each ton of copper, and one cent for each ton of iron ore, mined and
shipped or disposed of; each ton to be estimated as containing two
thousand two hundred and forty pounds. The Duluth and Iron Range
Railroad was constructed from Two Harbors, on Lake Superior, to Tower,
Minnesota; and in August, 1884, the first shipment of iron ore was made
from the Minnesota Mine at Tower.
Promising outcrops of iron ore bearing rocks were found east of Tower,
where now is the flourishing town of Ely. Work was begun on these
outcrops, resulting in the finding of the Chandler Mine, by Captain John
Pengilly, from which, in 1888, the first shipment of iron ore was made,
the railroad having been extended from Tower to Ely, for the purpose,
primarily, of shipping the iron ore to Two Harbors, and thence to the
eastern markets. Other mines were later found in this vicinity. The
building and equipping of this railroad created a demand for
manufactured lumber, for railroad ties, and for telegraph poles.
Sawmills were built at different points along the line of the railroad
and at its terminals, so that the years immediately following were busy
ones for those dealing in standing timber and its manufactured products.
My associates and I had acquired interests in these localities, so that
much of my time for nearly a decade, was actively employed along the
line of the Vermilion Range. During these years from 1882 to 1888, the
most practical modes of travel, and almost the only ones, were either by
birch canoe and portaging from lake to lake in summer, or by dog train
during the winter. Sometimes these trips were pleasant ones, but quite
as often they were attended by incidents not always agreeable.
On one of these occasions late in October, accompanied by one white man
known only as "Buffalo," I started to travel east from Tower, on Lake
Vermilion, along the route followed by the Indians, to the foot of Fall
Lake, a distance of forty-five miles. It was some time after noon when
we pulled out from shore in our two-man canoe, a small craft, affording
just room for two men to sit, and to carry their pack sacks and scant
supplies. Soon it began to rain, and the wind commenced blowing. We were
approaching an island, when Buffalo, who had had much experience on the
Great Lakes as a sailor, insisted that we could not reach our landing at
the easterly end of the lake, before dark, without the use of a sail.
Arriving at an island, we pulled our canoe ashore, and Buffalo quickly
improvised a sail, which was hoisted in the bow of the canoe and the
boat was again launched. In this manner we sailed and paddled at a much
accelerated speed, but all of the time we were in imminent danger of
being capsized, it being my first experience of riding in a birch canoe
carrying a sail. Fortune favored the undertaking, however, and we made a
safe landing in time to pitch our tent and make our camp for the night.
During the night the cold increased, and when we arose in the morning,
we found that ice had formed on the water in the little bay of the lake.
We made a number of portages that day, the cold increasing so that in
all of the little bays, ice was forming. We succeeded in crossing Burnt
Side Lake and entering the river leading to Long Lake as it was getting
dark. We were then six miles from what we knew to be a comfortable ranch
near the lower end of Long Lake, which Buffalo strongly urged we should
try to reach that night, although to do so meant that we must pass
between some islands where, in places, we knew the rocks projected out
of the water, and therefore were perilous to our birch canoe. We decided
to make the effort, and soon after pushing out from shore, we were only
able to faintly discern the outlines of the islands that we must pass.
Fortunately, these were soon alongside of us, and we had passed the last
dangerous reef of rocks. Then, to our great satisfaction, we saw the
light from the lantern which had been hung out on a pile driven close by
the outer end of the dock at the foot of the lake, about four miles
distant, where the ranch, that we hoped to reach that night, was
located. The wind had died down so that the surface of the lake was
comparatively smooth, but we noticed that our mittens, which had become
thoroughly wet, were freezing on our hands. For one hour we paddled in
silence, when the light toward which we had been steering, became much
more visible, and soon we landed at the little dock, thankful that we
had made our journey safely. Our appetites were keen for the good,
broiled steak and hot potatoes that previous experience had taught us we
were pretty sure to receive, and in this we were not disappointed.
The following summer, I passed over this same canoe route under quite
different circumstances. My work of examining lands and timber all lay
near to the shores of several lakes. My wife's father, J. H. Conkey, and
her brother, Frank L. Conkey, had often expressed a wish to see that
northern country. Accompanied by them and also by my son, Frank Merton,
who was then a boy in short pants, we journeyed by rail to Tower. Before
leaving Duluth for Tower, Mose Perrault was added to our number.
Perrault was a fine specimen of man, six feet in height,
well-proportioned, of middle age, and thoroughly familiar with frontier
life. At Tower, we started out with two birch canoes, and after dinner,
on a pleasant afternoon in August, we pushed our canoes out into the
waters of Lake Vermilion, from the same point from which we had left in
the rain, the previous October. We reached the east end of Vermilion
early, portaged into Mud Lake, went up the river, and camped on the high
ground west of Burnt Side Lake, in a pine grove where we were surrounded
by blueberry bushes laden with their large, ripe fruit.
[Illustration: "He motors over the fairly good roads of the northern
frontier." (Page 180.)]
Our party was made up of two classes of people; one out to examine
timber, the other, to fish and have a good time. While crossing one of
the portages, my brother-in-law, Frank L. Conkey, who knew almost
nothing about canoeing or portaging, but was willing, and full of hard
days' work, picked up two pack sacks, one of which was strapped to his
shoulders, and the other was placed on top of his shoulders and the back
of his head. Thus burdened, he started across Mud Portage, the footing
of which, in places, was very insecure. At an unfortunate moment, he
caught his foot in a root and tumbled, the top pack sack shooting over
his head and breaking open at its fastenings, thus spilling its contents
on the ground. All that could be found of these, were gathered together
and replaced in the pack sack, and the journey was resumed. Mose
Perrault was the cook, and on arriving at the camping ground at night,
he began preparations for making bread and getting the evening meal. The
pack sack that had broken open, originally contained two tin cans, one
filled with baking powder, and the other, with fresh live worms buried
in earth, that had been gathered for bait for the fishing party.
Perrault wanted the baking powder with which to leaven the dough. The
fishermen wanted their worms with which to bait their hooks. The latter
were gratified, but nowhere could the baking powder be found, and we
were forced to the conclusion that it was one of the lost articles on
the portage. That night and the next day, we lived on bread made without
any leaven, which from a number of experiences, I feel competent to
state, is never a great success. The fishing, however, was good, and on
the portages enough partridges were shot within revolver range to afford
plenty of good meat for the party. These we cooked with bacon and
dressed with butter, of which we had a goodly supply. There were plenty
of crackers and Carolina rice, with blueberries close at hand for the
picking, so that the party subsisted well, until it arrived at Ely,
where the three fishermen bade Perrault and me farewell, returning to
their homes by railroad train, after a pleasant outing.
In February, 1891, my three companions and I had a very different
experience, away east of Ely, where we had gone to survey and estimate a
tract of pine timber. The snow was deep, and the journey, which had to
be made with the use of toboggans, was a hard one. I had, as my
associate and chief timber estimator, S. D. Patrick. In addition were
the cook, and Buffalo, a man whose name has appeared on a previous page.
This man is worthy of more than passing notice. His true name I never
knew. He always said, "Call me 'Buffalo'." He claimed to have been born
at Buffalo, New York, and to have spent his childhood and early youth in
that city. He was an Irish-American and was possessed of the typical
Irish wit on all occasions. He was never angry to the extent of being
disagreeable, but he had no patience for any man in the party who
refused or neglected to do his full share of the work. He claimed that
when a boy, he had earned money at the steamboat landings at Buffalo, by
diving under the water for coins thrown to him by passengers on board
the ships at anchor in the harbor, as did also the late Daniel O'Day of
the Standard Oil Company. He too, was an Irish-American, born and raised
near Buffalo, and at his death left millions of dollars. He once told me
that when a youth he had earned many dimes and quarters by diving for
them alongside the passenger ships in Buffalo Harbor.
Buffalo was always ready to act promptly and to do, or to undertake to
do, anything that was requested of him. On this occasion he had an
opportunity to demonstrate these good qualities. The trip was attended
with the greatest of hardships, of heavy work, and of exposure to
intense cold. Buffalo was a good axman, and not one night did he fail to
cut and pile near to the camp, enough wood to last until after breakfast
the next morning.
Our camp was established on the shores of Kekekabic Lake, in Township 64
N., Range 7 W., for several days and nights. There were many partridges
in this section of the forest. They would come out on the borders of the
woods next to the lake. It was possible to shoot one or more nearly
every day, so that the camp was supplied with fresh game. The cook and
Buffalo remained at the camp, while Mr. Patrick and I went out each day
to examine timber, returning at night. The daylight covered none too
many hours, so that we arose early and started on our journey after
breakfast, as soon as we could see to travel, in order that the day's
work might be accomplished, and the return to camp made before dark. It
was not possible to calculate the day's work so as to be sure that we
could reach camp before nightfall, but, owing to the intense cold that
prevailed at this time, it was only the part of wisdom to plan so as to
return to camp while we could yet see where to travel. Nearly every
day's work was, in part at least, over a new tract of land, to which a
new trail must be broken in the morning as we went out to the work.
One day our work lay directly north of our camp, through the woods, out
onto a small lake, and again into the woods. We knew, before leaving
camp in the morning, that it would require our best efforts to
accomplish the work and to return before nightfall. For this reason, we
started at daybreak, and, after having done our best, it was night
before we commenced to retrace our steps. The cold had increased all
day, so that we were obliged to summon our courage at times, to keep our
feet and hands from freezing. We were only two miles from camp when our
return journey began; but two miles in an unbroken wilderness, in deep
snow, with the only path to follow being the tracks made by two men
passing once over it, is a long distance to travel when daylight has
disappeared, and when to leave those tracks at such a temperature, would
probably prove fatal.
Within a few minutes from the time of our beginning to retrace our
steps, each step was taken by the sense of feeling. We were both clad in
moccasins, which made it possible, through the sense of feeling, to
distinguish between the unbroken snow and that which had been stepped
upon during the morning hours of that day. Being in darkness, we dared
not proceed whenever we were not certain that our feet were in the path
that we had made on going out to our work. A few times we lost the path.
Immediately we stopped, one man standing still, in order that we might
not lose our location, while the other felt around until the path was
regained. We knew that if we should lose it, the one thing remaining for
us would be to walk around a tree, if it were possible to do so, until
morning light should appear. We went slowly on, never giving up hope.
It was getting late in the evening, so that Buffalo, at camp, became
alarmed for our safety. His wits were at work, and he commenced to build
a large fire. Then he found, near by, a dead pine stub. About this he
piled kindling until he got it on fire. It is not possible to write
words describing the satisfaction and joy with which we two lonely
travelers finally spied the illumination, penetrating the dark forest
for a short distance only, it is true, yet far enough. Soon we walked
into camp, to the joy of all of the party, and there we found an
excellent supper awaiting us. Buffalo's big wood pile was in waiting at
all the hours of that night, and some one was astir to keep the fire
going. It was the only night of my long experience of living in the
woods, when it was impossible, for more than a short period, to be
comfortable away from the fire, and even then, we each in turn revolved
our bodies about the open fire, first warming one side, and then the
other, and slept but little.
After our work was completed, and we had gotten back in touch with the
civilized world, we were told by residents at Tower, that the
thermometer on that night, had indicated from 48° to 52° below zero.
[Illustration: "Friends whom he had known in the city who are ready to
welcome him." (Page 180.)]
The following summer, on one of my trips to this then picturesque
country in northeastern Minnesota, I tried the experiment of taking my
wife, who had long been an invalid, and my son, Frank Merton, then a boy
in his early teens, with me, in the hope that the trip would prove
beneficial to the wife and mother. The experiment was in no way
disappointing, although on one occasion when the rain had poured
incessantly, leaving the woods drenched, in crossing a rather blind and
unavoidable portage, Mrs. Warren's clothing became thoroughly wet. In
the absence of a wardrobe from which to choose a change of garments, the
expedient was resorted to of requesting her to remove one garment at a
time, which Vincent De Foe, a half-breed, and James O'Neill, an old and
trusty friend, held to the open fire, until it was dry. This she
replaced, when another wet garment went through the same process, until
all had been dried. No ill effects followed; on the contrary, Mrs.
Warren's health continued to improve.
At the end of the trip I was so happy over the results that I sent the
following account of some of its incidents to Dr. Albert Shaw, then of
the Minneapolis Tribune, and at present, editor of the Review of
Reviews. This little account appeared in the Tribune of Saturday,
September 6, 1890:
"IN THE WILDS OF MINNESOTA.
Mrs. G. H. Warren's Travels in the Northeastern Part of the State.
Mrs. G. H. Warren and her son Frank returned to the city Monday from a
two weeks' tour of the Vermilion Iron Range, north of Lake Superior.
Their trip was both interesting and novel. From Ely, the eastern
terminus of the Duluth & Iron Range Railroad, they embarked in birch
canoes, traversing ten lakes, thirteen portages and three small rivers
as far as they were navigable for birch canoes. The whole distance thus
traveled included over one hundred miles. Pike, pickerel, bass, white
fish, or landlocked salmon abound in all these lakes of rugged shores.
Master Frank reports the capture of a twenty-seven inch pike and a
thirty-seven inch pickerel. In one of the bays of Basswood Lake--a
beautiful body of clear water thirty miles in length and extending
several miles into Canada--the Indians were seen gathering wild rice.
This is accomplished by the male Indian standing upright in the bow of
his canoe, and paddling it forward through the field of rice, the stalks
of which grow from three to four feet above the water; while his squaw
sits in the stern of the canoe, and with two round sticks about the
size, and half the length of a broom handle, dexterously bends the long
heads of the rice over the gunwale of the canoe with one stick, while at
the same instant, she strikes the well filled heads a sharp, quick blow
with the other, threshing out the kernels of rice, which fall into the
middle portion of the canoe. This middle portion is provided, for the
occasion, with a cloth apron, into which the rice kernels fall. The
apron will hold about two bushels, and is filled in the manner above
described in less than three hours' time. The rice is next picked over
to free it from chaff and straw, after which it is placed in brass
kettles and parched over a slow fire; then it is winnowed, and is ready
for future use.
Mrs. Warren is the first white woman to penetrate so far on the frontier
of wild Northeastern Minnesota, and though never before subjected to
uncivilized life, or the primitive mode of travel, she endured the walks
over the portages, slept soundly on beds of balsam fir boughs, ate with
a relish the excellent fish and wild game cooked at the camp fire, and
returns to her home in the city with health much improved, and
enthusiastic over the many beauties of nature in this yet wild, but
attractive portion of Minnesota."