Forest Fires.
The terrible forest fires that swept over much of Wisconsin and
Minnesota during the summer of 1894, resulting in such an appalling loss
of life at Hinckley and vicinity, will always be remembered by the
people living in the northern half of Minnesota.
One who has never been in the forest at a time when the fires within it
extended over many miles of area, cannot appreciate the danger and the
anxiety of those who are thus placed. I vividly recall two days during
the summer of the Peshtigo fire, when I was in the burning woods of
Wisconsin. The sun was either entirely obscured, or it hung like a red
ball above the earth, now penetrating the clouds of smoke, now again
being hidden by them. The smoke came at times in great rolls at the
surface of the earth, then was caught up by the breeze and lifted to
higher altitudes, and at all times was bewildering to those whom it
surrounded.
No one could tell from what point of the compass the distant fire was
most dangerous, nor in what direction it was making most rapid progress
toward the point where he was located. At times one became choked by the
thick smoke. For many hours, during one of these days, I moved with my
face close to the ground, that I might get air sufficient to breathe.
When finally I came to an open country where the currents of wind could
lift the smoke, I experienced a feeling of the greatest thankfulness
that I was delivered from the condition of the two last days, surrounded
with so much uncertainty as to my safety.
The memorable fire of September 1st, 1894, which swept Hinckley and all
its surrounding country, resulted in the death of four hundred and
seventeen human beings, left destitute two thousand two hundred, and
extended over an area of four hundred square miles. The financial loss
was upwards of one million dollars.
That loss does not include the great losses of timber situated in the
northeastern part of Minnesota, extending all along its boundary and
reaching into Canada. The fire in northeastern Minnesota destroyed
millions of dollars worth of standing pine timber, much of which was
entirely consumed, while portions of it were killed at the root. Such
timber as was thus killed, but not destroyed, had most of its value yet
remaining, provided that it were cut and put in the water, during the
first one or two seasons following. Later than that, most of its value
would have been destroyed by worms boring into the dead timber. On
account of these fires, it was necessary for all timber owners to make a
careful examination of all timber lands within the burnt district. For
this purpose, accompanied by S. D. Patrick, and E. A. White, timber
examiners to assist in the work, and my son, Frank Merton, then a senior
in the University of Minnesota, besides packers, I went, in 1897, into
the burnt districts in northeastern Minnesota.
[Illustration: "He camps by the roadside on the shore of a lake." (Page
180.)]
As a result of these forest fires, one of the worst pests that the
frontiersman meets is the black fly, which flourishes in a burnt
country. This little insect is apparently always hungry, is never tired,
and wages a relentless fight upon every inch of the white man's
epidermis that is exposed to its reach, even penetrating the hair and
beard of a man, and leaving the effects of its poisonous bite. So
terrible were these little pests, and so numerous were they on two days
of the excursion, that one eye of each of three of the white men in the
party was so badly swollen by the bites of the insects, that it was
closed. No remedy has ever been offered that effectually protects the
woodsman from injuries inflicted by this insect.
While our party was on that expedition that summer, reestimating the
timber in the burnt district, Mr. Patrick came close to a large bull
moose standing in some thick woods. The animal had not yet discovered
Mr. Patrick's presence, consequently he was able to carefully examine
and study this great beast of our northern woods. Below the animal's
hips, on either side, at a point where he could in no wise protect
himself from the ravages of this insect pest, the poor beast's flesh was
raw and was bleeding. The Indians claim that their dogs frequently go
mad and have to be killed as a result of the bites inflicted by these
insects.
In proof of the wide range of their activities I will briefly relate one
experience with them in Wisconsin. Joseph McEwen and I left Wausau one
morning, riding out behind a livery team twenty miles to the Big Eau
Plaine River, in search of desirable cranberry marsh lands. The country
we traveled over was flat. Fires had recently killed the timber, and
black flies formed one vast colony over this territory.
Our driver had trouble controlling the horses, so fierce was the attack
of the black flies upon them. We arrived at the nearest point of our
work that could be reached by team about ten o'clock in the forenoon,
and dismissed our driver. We then proceeded on foot into this burnt,
marshy country, attacked continuously by swarms of flies. They
penetrated our ears, our noses, and our mouths if we opened them. They
worked themselves into our hair, up our sleeves, under our collar bands,
over the tops of our socks and down into them until they found the end
of our drawers where, next, was our naked skin.
We camped at night in the marsh. The next morning the attack was renewed
as vigorously as it had been waged on the previous day. At eleven
o'clock we stopped for our dinner. McEwen wore a heavy beard all over
his face; my face was bare. He looked at me as we were eating our
dinner, then dryly remarked, "I don't know how I look, but you look like
the devil; the black flies have bitten you everywhere; your face is a
fright." We went out to the main road, and secured a conveyance by which
we reached Wausau about five o'clock that afternoon.
I went immediately to my accustomed hotel, owned and managed by Charles
Winkley. He had known me well for years, and I had left him less than
forty-eight hours previous to my entering on that afternoon. Mr.
Winkley was behind his desk. I greeted him and asked him how business
was. He answered me quite independently that his house was full, and
that he had not a vacant room. I then asked him if there was any mail
for me, giving him my full name. He looked at me in astonishment, then
exclaimed, "My God! What is the matter of you?" I said, "Black flies."
Then he continued, "I mistook you for some man with the small-pox and
was planning to notify the authorities and have you cared for. Go right
to your room and stay there. Mrs. Winkley will care for you and have
your meals brought to you. I will go to the postoffice every day for
your mail." My face was one blotch of raw sores. My eyes were nearly
closed because of the poison from the black flies.
The best remedy or preventive we have ever found against all insect
pests of the northern woods, is smoked bacon rubbed onto the bare skin
in generous quantities. Its presence is not essentially disagreeable.
Objection to its use is prejudice, since it is no less pleasant than is
the oil of cedar or pennyroyal which are often prescribed by druggists
for the same purpose, and which are not half as continuous in their
efficacy, because a little perspiration will neutralize all of the good
effects of the latter named remedies. Soap and water will remove the
bacon grease when protection from flying insects is no longer desired.
There are other and more interesting living things in the northern woods
than black flies, to which statement I am willing to testify. I had been
running some lines one summer, for the purpose of locating a tote road
to some camps where work was to be prosecuted the following fall. It was
known among the homesteaders, as well as trappers, that a large bear
lived in that vicinity. On one occasion he had been caught in a
"dead-fall" that had been set for him, and he had gotten out of it,
leaving only some tufts of his hair.
Alone, and while blazing a line for this proposed road, one sunny
afternoon, I came onto a table-rock, in a little opening in the woods,
where fifty feet in front of me lay a large pine tree that had blown
down. As some small brush crackled under my feet, a bear, which I have
ever since believed from descriptions that had previously been given me,
was the much wanted great bear, stood up in front of me, close by the
fallen tree. Presumably he had been awakened from an afternoon nap. The
only weapon that I possessed was what is known as a boy's ax, the size
and kind usually carried by land examiners. I had not sought this new
acquaintance, nor did I at that moment desire a closer one, but mentally
decided, and that quickly, that the wrong thing to do would be to make
any effort to get to a place of safety. I therefore decided to stand my
ground and to put up the best fight possible with my small ax, in case
the bear insisted on a closer acquaintance. Why I should have laughed on
such an occasion as this, I never have known, but the perfect
helplessness of my situation seemed so ridiculous, that I broke into a
loud laugh. I have often wondered why that bear at that moment seemed to
think that he had seen enough of the man whom he faced. Certain it was,
that he turned on his hind legs, leaped over the log, and disappeared,
leaving only the occasional sound of a twig breaking under his feet. So
well pleased was I with the less distinct notes of the breaking twigs,
that I waited and listened until I could no longer hear any of the
welcome, receding music. The excitement having subsided, an inspection
of the little ax revealed the fact that the head was nearly, but not
quite off its handle. This incident has always been sufficient to
convince me that I have no desire to approach nearer to this animal of
the northern woods.
[Illustration: The midday luncheon is welcomed by the automobile
tourists. (Page 180.)]
In the summer of 1899, some special work was required north of Grand
Rapids, Minnesota. Accompanied by my son, Frank Merton, and a cook named
Fred Easthagen, I left Grand Rapids on a buckboard drawn by two horses
and driven by Dan Gunn, the popular proprietor of the Pokegama Hotel.
Our route was over a new road where stumps and pitch holes were
plentiful. The team of horses was said to have been raised on the
western plains, and objected strenuously to being driven over this stump
road. One of the horses balked frequently, and, when not standing still,
insisted on running. The passengers, except Easthagen, became tired of
this uneven mode of travel, and preferred to walk, being able to cover
the ground equally as fast as the team. Easthagen, however, sat tight
through it all; he having come from the far West, refused to walk when
there was a team to pull him.
Our camp was made in a fine grove of pig-iron Norway, near to which
dwelt Mr. and Mrs. Sandy Owens, settlers upon government land. From this
camp we were able to prosecute our work for a long period of time. The
late summer and autumn were very dry. Both wolves and deer abounded in
this vicinity, and not far away ranged many moose. Large lumbering camps
were about ten miles away. Oxen had been turned loose for the summer, to
pasture in the woods and cut-over lands. Passing, one day, a root house
built into the side of a hill, we pushed open the door, and in there
found the remains of an ox. The animal had probably entered the root
house to get away from the flies, and, the door having closed behind
him, he had no means of escape, so that the poor beast had perished of
hunger and thirst. The ground was dry, and all the brush, and twigs, and
leaves lying thereon, had become brittle and crackled under the feet of
every walking creature. This interfered much with the ability of the
wolves to surprise the deer, rabbits, or other animals on which they are
accustomed to feed, so that they were hungry. On this account they had
become emboldened, so much so, that they would, at nightfall or toward
evening, venture near enough to show themselves.
My son was coming in alone, from work one evening, when a pack of wolves
followed him for some distance, occasionally snapping out their short
yelp, and had he been less near the camp, he might have been in great
danger. As it was, however, they kept back from him in the woods, but
not so far as to prevent his hearing them.
An interesting article appeared in one of the numbers of "Country Life
in America," on the subject of breeding skunks for profit. From their
pelts is made and sold a fine quality of fur, known, to the purchaser,
at least, as stone martin. The nearest approach to a natural farm of
these animals that I have ever known was that existing at Sandy Owen's
cabin, and immediately adjacent to it. These little animals were
numerous in the Norway grove in which we were camped.
My son and I slept in a small "A" tent which at night was closed. On one
occasion I was awakened by feeling something moving across my feet on
the blankets, covering us. I spoke quietly to my son, requesting him to
be careful not to move, for something was in the tent, and probably,
that something was a skunk. With the gentlest of motions, I moved just
sufficiently to let the animal know that I was aware of its presence in
the tent. Immediately the animal retreated off of my legs, while we
remained quiet for some time in the tent. Then a match was struck and
with it a candle lighted, when a small hole was discovered at the foot
of the tent where evidently the animal had nosed its way in, and through
which it had retreated. In the morning when my son and I arose,
unmistakable evidence was discovered, near where our heads had lain,
that his skunkship had visited us during the night.
Mr. and Mrs. Owens left their cabin to visit another settler, several
miles distant, leaving the key with the cook, and telling him that he
could use it if he had occasion to do so. Coming in one evening from a
cruise, the cook went to the cabin to make and bake some bread in Mrs.
Owen's stove. A small hole had been cut in the door, to admit the Owens'
cat. On entering, Easthagen saw a skunk sitting in the middle of the
floor. The animal retreated under the bed, while the cook kindled a fire
in the stove and began mixing the dough for the bread. He baked the
bread and cooked the evening meal for three persons, considerately
tossing some bits of bread and meat near to where the skunk was
concealed. Our party ate supper outside the door a short distance from
the cabin. The animal remained in the cabin that night and until after
breakfast, a portion of which latter the cook fed to it, when taking the
broom, he, by easy and gentle stages, pushed the skunk toward the door,
removing the animal without accident.
The state of Minnesota has some excellent laws to prevent the
destruction of game animals by the pothunter. Notwithstanding this fact,
a greater or less number of market hunters have been able to subsist by
killing unlawful game and selling the meat to the lumber camps at about
five cents per pound. Many men interested in the ownership of timber
lands, have been aware of this fact and have been desirous of preventing
the unlawful killing of moose and deer. Some lumbermen, also, have
refused to buy the meat from these market hunters. It has not been safe,
however, for such people to offer evidence against these hunters. There
have been two principal reasons that have deterred them from so doing.
One is, that the informant's personal safety would have become
endangered, and the other reason is, that his timber would have been in
danger of being set on fire. It rests, therefore, with the game wardens,
to ferret out and prosecute to the best of their ability, all offenders
against the game law.
In the latter part of the season of 1905, my son and I, accompanied by
James O'Neill, a frontiersman and trusty employee, made a canoe trip
from Winton down the chain of lakes on the boundary line between
Minnesota and Canada, as far as Lake La Croix. We camped at night and
traveled by day, being always in Minnesota. We saw racks in Minnesota
made by the Indians, on which to smoke the meat of the moose they had
killed. We counted twenty-one moose hides hung up to dry. The moose had
doubtless been killed as they came to the lakes to get away from flies
and mosquitoes. All these animals were unlawfully killed.
A more pleasant sight than the one just related was once accorded us
while working in this same country. We were quietly pushing our canoes
up a sluggish stream that had found its bed in a spruce swamp. There, in
many places, pond lilies were growing, their wide leaves resting on the
surface of the water. The roots of the lilies are much relished as a
food by the moose. We have seen the moose standing out in the bays of
the lakes, and in the almost currentless streams, where the water was up
to the animal's flanks, or where its body was half immersed, and poking
its head deep below the surface in search of the succulent roots of the
lilies. On this day, a mother moose and her twin calves had come to this
stream to feed. She was in the act of reaching down under the water for
a lily root, as we pushed our canoes quietly over the surface of the
water into her very presence. The first to observe us was one of the
young calves not more than two days old, that rose to its feet, close by
on the shore. The mother looked toward her calf before she saw us; then,
without undue haste, waded ashore. At this moment the second calf arose,
shook itself, then, with the other twin, joined its mother. The three
moved off into the spruce swamp as we sat quietly in our canoes,
enjoying to the fullest this most unusual opportunity of the experienced
woodsman, accustomed as he is to surprises. Our only regret on this
occasion was, that we had no camera with us.
[Illustration: "Here he brings his family and friends to fish". (Page
180.)]