Method of constructing Camp and
Hovel.--Timber.--Covering.--Arrangement of Interior.--The Bed.--Deacon
Seat.--Ingenious Method of making a Seat.--Cooking: superior Method of
Baking.--The nightly Camp Fire.--Liabilities from taking Fire.--A Camp
consumed.--Men burned to Death.--Enjoyment.--The new Camp: Dedication.
--A Song.--A Story.--New Order in Architecture.--Ox Hovel.--Substitute
for Lime.--The Devotedness of the Teamster.--Fat and lean Cattle.--
Swamping Roads.--Clumps of Pine.--The points of Interest in a Logging
Road.--The Teamster's Path.--Regret.--The peculiar Enjoyment of Men
thus engaged.
The re-outfit alluded to in the preceding pages having arrived upon
the territory previously explored, arrangements are at once made to
locate and build our winter camps. To determine upon the best point is
by no means an easy task, it being very difficult to fix upon the
location in a strange and imperfectly-explored forest. Wood and water
privileges are to be taken into the account; a central position in
respect to the timber; the landing, the locating of the main roads,
&c., are to be attended to. To combine all these qualities, where we
can see only a few rods in advance on account of the trees and
thickets, and our work must necessarily cover hundreds of acres of
wild land, it must be confessed is no ordinary task. I have seldom
taxed my judgment as severely on any subject as in judiciously
locating a logging establishment.
These preliminaries being settled, we commence "right merrily" our
camp. The top strata of leaves and turf are removed from the spot upon
which the structure is to be erected; this is necessary, as we should
otherwise be in great danger of fire from the dry turf. While this
process is going forward, others are engaged in felling the trees on
the spot, and cutting them the length determined upon for our edifice.
The work commences by throwing the larger logs into a square, notching
the ends together. Thus one tier after another is laid up until the
walls attain the proper height, the smallest logs being used to finish
out the upper tiers. In form they resemble a tin baker, rising some
eight feet in front, while the roof pitches down within two or three
feet of the ground in the rear. A double camp is constructed by
putting two such squares face to face, with the fire in the middle.
The Spruce-tree is generally selected for camp building, it being
light, straight, and quite free from sap. The roof is covered with
shingles from three to four feet in length. These are split from trees
of straight and easy rift, such as the Pine, Spruce, and Cedar. The
shingles are not nailed on, but secured in their place by laying a
long heavy pole across each tier or course. The roof is finally
covered with the boughs of the Fir, Spruce, and Hemlock, so that when
the snow falls upon the whole, the warmth of the camp is preserved in
the coldest weather. The crevices between the logs constituting the
walls are tightly calked with moss gathered from surrounding trees.
[Illustration: WINTER-QUARTERS OF LUMBERMEN.]
The interior arrangement is very simple. One section of the area of
the camp is used for the dining-room, another for the sleeping
apartment, and a third is appropriated to the kitchen. These
apartments are not denoted by partitioned walls, but simply by small
poles some six inches in diameter, laid upon the floor of the camp
(which is the pure loam), running in various directions, and thus
forming square areas of different dimensions, and appropriated as
above suggested. The head-board to our bed consists of one or more
logs, which form also the back wall of the camp. The foot-board is a
small pole, some four or six feet from the fire. Our bedstead is
mother earth, upon whose cool but maternal bosom we strew a thick
coating of hemlock, cedar, and fir boughs. The width of this bed is
determined by the number of occupants, varying from ten to twenty
feet. Bed-clothes are suited to the width of the bed by sewing quilts
and blankets together. The occupants, as a general thing, throw off
their outer garments only when they "turn in" for the night. These
hardy sons of the forest envy not those who roll on beds of down;
their sleep is sound and invigorating; they need not court the gentle
spell, turning from side to side, but, quietly submitting, sink into
its profound depths.
Directly over the foot-pole, running parallel with it, and in front of
the fire, is the "_deacon seat_." I think it would puzzle the greatest
lexicographer of the age to define the word, or give its etymology as
applied to a seat, which indeed it is, and nothing more nor less than
a seat; but, so far as I can discover from those most deeply learned
in the antiquarianism of the logging swamp, it has nothing more to do
with deacons, or deacons with it, than with the pope. The seat itself,
though the name be involved in a mystery, is nothing less nor more
than a plank hewn from the trunk of a Spruce-tree some four inches
thick by twelve inches wide, the length generally corresponding with
the width of the bed, raised some eighteen inches above the foot-pole,
and made stationary. This seat constitutes our sofa or settee, to
which we add a few stools, which make up the principal part of our
camp furniture. Should any of my readers ever be situated beyond the
reach of cabinet-makers, but in the vicinity of the forest, I may
introduce them into the secret of chair-making without the necessity
of any tools except an ax. Split the top part of the trunk of a Spruce
or Fir-tree in halves, cut a stick of the right length upon which
three or four stout limbs grow; trim off the limbs of a sufficient
length to suit your fancy; smooth the piece of timber to which they
adhere by hewing, and your seat is completed. I can assure the reader
that the instances are rare in which it becomes necessary to send them
to the cabinetmaker for repairs, especially to have the legs glued in.
The luxury of a temporary table is now pretty generally enjoyed, with
plates, knives and forks, tin dippers for tea and coffee, and
sometimes cups and saucers. Formerly the deacon seat was used instead
of a table, and a large frying-pan served for a platter for the whole
crew. Around this the men would gather, each putting in his bread or
potatoe, and salt fish, to sop in the pork fat; and never did king or
courtier enjoy the luxuries of a palace more exquisitely than do our
loggers this homely fare. On the St. Croix River, lumbermen generally
adhere, from choice, to the original custom of eating from the
frying-pan. Bread and beans are baked in a large "Duch oven," which is
placed in a hole dug in the earth by the side of the fire, and
entirely covered with hot coals and embers. In this position it is
allowed to remain until the contents are done, when the ashes and
cover are removed. I need not presume to inform the skillful cook that
this mode of baking is unequaled. Our camp-fire is made on the ground
next to the front wall, which is sometimes protected by a tier of
large stones, but in other instances we simply set up two short
stakes, against which enormous back-logs rest. After supper, each
night unfailingly a very large fire is built to sleep by. Some of the
wood used is so large that it often burns twenty-four hours before
being entirely consumed. The amount of fuel made use of in building
one camp-fire would supply an ordinary fire a week.
It is not an unfrequent occurrence, of course, for camps to take fire
in this exposed situation, but some one generally discovers it in
season to extinguish it by the timely application of snow or water.
Instances have occurred, however, in which crews have been consumed
with the camp. I recollect an instance in which a camp, on one of the
tributaries of the Penobscot, took fire during the night while the
inmates were asleep, and three out of four men were burned to death.
In view of this liability, the roof of our camps are not so strongly
fastened down but that, in the event of a retreat being cut off from
the door, the united efforts of the inmates can burst it up, and thus
make their escape. These things, however serious in some instances,
are but little thought of or cared for.
Around this good camp-fire,
"With mirth to lighten duty,"
gather the crew after the toils of the day, to enjoy, as best they
may, our long winter evenings; and around no fireside where there are
equal responsibilities, intelligence, and many more luxuries, can be
found more real contentment, or a greater degree of enjoyment.
Here rises the voice of song upon the wings of the winter night storm
as it rolls past with the sublimity of an Alpine tempest. Here, also,
are rehearsals of wild adventure, listened to with all the interest
which isolated circumstances usually lend even to little matters.
The first night we lodged in one of our newly-erected camps, its
dedication was proposed. It was moved and carried by acclamation that
Hobbs should sing us a song, and that "Nick" should give us one of his
yarns.
Hobbs, who, by-the-way, was a short, thick-set little fellow, with a
chubby red face, and, withal, rather musical in his turn, gave vent to
the following beautiful song, dedicated to the "Lumbermen" by the poet
Whittier.
"Comrades! round our woodland quarters
Sad-voiced autumn grieves;
Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.
Through the tall and naked timber,
Column-like and old,
Gleam the sunsets of November
With their skies of gold.
O'er us, to the South-land heading,
Screams the gray wild goose;
On the night-frost sounds the treading
Of the stately moose.
Fast the streams with ice are closing,
Colder grows the sky,
Soon, on lake and river frozen,
Shall our log-piles lie.
When, with sounds of smother'd thunder,
On some night of rain,
Lake and river break asunder
Winter's weaken'd chain,
Down the wild March-flood shall bear them
To the saw-mill's wheel,
Or, where Steam, the slave, shall tear them
With his teeth of steel.
Be it starlight, be it moonlight
In these vales below,
When the earliest beams of sunlight
Streaks the mountain's snow,
Crisps the hoar-frost keen and early
To our hurrying feet,
And the forest echoes clearly
All our blows repeat.
When the crystal Ambijejis
Stretches broad and clear,
And Millnoket's pine-black ridges
Hide the browsing deer;
Where, through lakes and wide morasses,
Or through rocky walls,
Swift and strong Penobscot passes,
White with foamy falls.
Where, through clouds, are glimpses given
Of Katahdin's sides--
Rock and forest piled to heaven,
Torn and plowed by slides!
Far below the Indian trapping
In the sunshine warm,
Far above the snow-cloud wrapping
Half the peak in storm!
Where are mossy carpets better
Than the Persian weaves,
And, than Eastern perfumes, sweeter
Seem the fading leaves;
And a music wild and solemn
From the Pine-tree's height,
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume
On the wind of night.
Make we here our camp of winter,
And through sleet and snow
Pitch knot and beechen splinter
On our hearth shall glow;
Here, with mirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone
Woman, with her smile of beauty,
And her gentle tone.
But her hearth is brighter burning
For our work to-day,
And her welcome at returning
Shall our loss repay.
Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting
On our rugged toil,
Far ships waiting for the freighting
Of our woodland spoil!
Ships, whose traffic links these highlands
Bleak and cold of ours
With the citron-planted islands
Of a clime of flowers;
To our frosts the tribute bringing
Of eternal heats.
In our lap of winter flinging
Tropic fruits and sweets.
Cheerly on the ax of labor
Let the sunbeam dance,
Better than the flash of saber
Or the gleam of lance!
Strike! With every blow is given
Freer sun and sky,
And the long-hid earth to heaven
Looks with wond'ring eye.
Loud behind us grow the murmurs
Of the age to come--
Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers
Bearing harvest home!
Here her virgin lap with treasures
Shall the green earth fill--
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears
Crown each beechen hill.
Keep who will the city's alleys,
Take the smooth-shorn plain,
Give to us the cedarn valleys,
Rocks and hills of Maine!
In our North-land, wild and woody,
Let us still have part--
Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,
Hold us to thy heart!
Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer
For thy breath of snow,
And our tread is all the firmer
For thy rocks below.
Freedom, hand in hand with labor,
Walketh strong and brave;
On the forehead of his neighbor
No man writeth Slave!
Brother looks on equal brother,
Manhood looks on men--
Be thy future, oh our mother,
As thy past hath been--
Heavenward, like thy mountain-guardians,
With their star-crowns deck'd,
And thy watchword, like Katahdin's
Cloud-swept pine, 'ERECT!'"
Then followed the "yarn." Now "Nick," as we familiarly
called him, was a tall, sinewy man, the exact counterpart of
Hobbs in physical proportions, full of fire, and fond of adventure.
He had spent much of his life in the woods, and in different parts
of the country, somewhat apt in his observations, and off-hand
in his style of conversation.
Looking thoughtfully into the fire a moment, as if to call an
item from his experience, he proceeded as follows:
"In the month of September, 18--, having business to transact
with a man engaged in timber-making on Bartholomew's River,
New Brunswick, I set out on horseback, late in the afternoon, for
his encampment, distant some ten miles. Part of the distance I
had to pass through a dense wilderness, where a path had been
made by cutting away the underbrush and small trees; the rest
of the journey could only be prosecuted by riding in the bed of
the stream, which at the time was quite dry.
"In answer to the inquiries made at the tavern where I hired my horse,
I was told that the camp was on the bank of the stream, and could be
easily seen from the channel through which I was to pass. The sun was
about one hour high when I entered the woods; but I had not proceeded
half way through when the heavens suddenly became overcast, which
admonished me that I was about to experience one of those terrible
thunder-tempests which sometimes occur at the close of a sultry
September day, and are remarkable for the copious torrents of rain
which fall in the vicinity of lakes and rivers, surrounded by the
wilderness. I felt some solicitude to reach the river before it became
dark, but the roughness of the road prevented me from going faster
than a walking pace, and, ere I had accomplished the journey through
the forest, the rain poured down in torrents. The thunder of heaven's
artillery was tremendous, and the shooting chains of fire hissed
through the tops of the trees like darting fiery serpents, here and
there spending their force upon the lofty spire of some gigantic Pine,
splitting and shivering its trunk into thousands of pieces, and
strewing them far away upon the ground. Night, hastened by the
gathering tempest, wrapped the whole scene in profound darkness; thus,
amid the deafening peals of thunder, the darting forks of lightning
which shot around me in every direction, and torrents of rain, my
horse groped his way silently along, bearing me upon his back. At
length, through much danger, I reached the channel of the river, to
encounter new dangers and difficulties.
"When I entered the channel, the rain had not materially affected the
amount of water then flowing; but I had not proceeded far when the
swollen and foaming current, which had accumulated from hill sides and
numerous brooks, rushed by me, rendering riding imminently hazardous.
To be prepared for the worst, I divested myself of my boots and the
horse of his saddle. In vain did I strain my eyes to gain a glimpse of
the camp each time the lightning dispelled the darkness, which gave me
a momentary glimpse of all around. Concluding at length that I had
gone too far down the river, I turned my horse and breasted the
foaming current, resolving to renew my exertions in an up-river
course. But the water by this time was so high, and the channel so
treacherous, that I concluded to gain the shore of the stream, and
make my way, if possible, along its banks, though densely studded with
trees and bushes growing in the wildest confusion. Owing to the
precipitousness of the banks, I was unable to gain my object, and was
therefore compelled to remain in the stream. Again and again I essayed
to escape to the shore, but from the same causes failed of its
accomplishment. My situation was becoming more critical every moment.
Sometimes my horse was making his way over large rocks; then, suddenly
coming to deeper portions of the channel, would lose his footing
entirely, and swim with me upon his back. All this time the darkness
was intense, the tempest raged with unabated fury, while the already
swollen current continued to increase. The solemnity of the midnight
hour, rendered terrible by the tempest overhead and threatening waters
beneath, filled my mind with painful apprehensions. The awful grandeur
of God seemed to pass before me, proclaimed in the voice of his
thunder. Death, the judgment, and my sins stood before me; and I felt
constrained to implore His protecting mercy. At length the lightning
revealed a camp just upon the bank. Here I was able to leave the
channel of the river, whose banks had so long held me a prisoner.
"Supposing that I had found the object of my hazardous search, I
dismounted, and, flinging the bridle from my horse's head, left him to
shift for himself, and hastened to enter; but, to my amazement, it
proved an old, deserted, and solitary camp. Here, however, I resolved
to worry out the remainder of the night. The wind chopping round to
the northwest, it ceased raining and grew very cold, so that before
daylight the rain drops froze upon the bushes; and, beginning to be
very chilly, I found that exercise was necessary to keep me warm. The
darkness was yet so great that I could see nothing; and, for fear of
thrusting my head against the roof, I threw myself down and crawled
about on my hands and knees, until, wearied with my exertions, I felt
the need of repose. I then dug a hole down in the old boughs, which
had been used by the former occupants as a bed, crawled into it, and
covered myself entirely under the rubbish, except my face. For a few
moments I thought I should be able to sleep, but my hopes were
speedily dissipated. I had not lain long before I was covered with
myriads of fleas. Springing from my restless couch, I shook and
brushed them from my clothes; and as all hopes of rest were dismissed,
I continued to exercise myself as well as I could until the grizzly
rays of early morning dispelled the darkness which had so long held me
a prisoner. As soon as it became sufficiently light, I set out, in my
stockings, in pursuit of the camp, which I had failed to find the
night previous. Proceeding up river about two miles, I came at once
upon the camp. It was Sabbath morning; the inmates were indulging
themselves in a late nap, and, notwithstanding my urgent
circumstances, I resolved to wait a little, and give them a gentle
surprise. You may be assured that my wretched appearance fully
qualified me for the occasion. My feet were still partially covered
with the ragged remnants of my stockings; my clothes were considerably
torn and thoroughly wet, and the shives of the old bough bed were
sticking into them nearly as thickly as a fleece of porcupine quills;
my hat, rendered soft by the thorough drenching it had received,
settled down over my head and ears; the black dye from the hat had run
down in little lines all over my face, leaving their dry channels
distinctly defined; my long and tangled hair, together with my
haggard, care-worn countenance, rendered me altogether an object
which, under any circumstances, was calculated to inspire terror.
Stepping up to the camp, I gave a sudden, loud rap, without any
further demonstration, which awoke the crew. As they naturally
supposed themselves far away from any human beings, a knock at their
door thus early, and on a Sabbath morning, the more surprised them,
and awakened their curiosity. 'Who or what the d--l can that be?' I
overheard some one within say. Presently a man, who, by-the-way, knew
me perfectly well, came to the door, and, with some caution, opened
it. I met him with a fixed and vacant stare, without uttering a word.
He returned my gaze with an expression of inquisitive astonishment.
"'You don't seem to know me,' I observed. The tones of my _voice_
increased his astonishment, for they seemed familiar, but the
strangeness of my _appearance_ confounded him, and I could not refrain
from laughing outright. Finally, half suspecting whom I _might_ be, he
exclaimed, with much energy, '_Nick! in the name of G--d, is it you?_'
I soon satisfied them on this point, while I briefly related my
night's adventure. Their astonishment was great at seeing me in such
an extraordinary plight, but not greater than was my satisfaction to
meet them and to obtain the succor which I needed. After breakfast,
some of the men went in pursuit of my horse, saddle, and boots. The
last two they found on a little island in the stream, where, for fear
of losing them by the flood, I had lashed them to a stump the night
before."
Having thus finished his story and replenished his pipe, the old man
leaned back against the camp walls and enveloped himself in a cloud of
smoke, while he listened, in turn, to the various incidents in the
experience of others, of which his own had been suggestive.
Finally, after some little discussion as to the precise location which
each should occupy on the new bed, all hands "turned in," to live over
again the fortunes of the day in the fantastic dreams of night.
Having completed our own cabin, we proceed next to construct a hovel
for the oxen, which are yet behind. In erecting this, the same order
in architecture is observed as in that of the camp, the timber of
which it is composed, however, being much larger than that with which
our own habitation is constructed. With the trunks of trees the walls
are carried up nearly equal in height, leaving one side, however,
enough lower than the other to give a moderate pitch to the roof,
which is covered with the same kind of material as that of the camp.
In the camp for the workmen there is no floor but the earth; the ox
hovel, however, has a flooring made of small poles laid closely
together, and hewed down with some degree of smoothness with the adz,
and in the final finish the crevices in the walls are plastered with
clay or ox manure. A temporary shed is thrown up in front, which
serves as a depot for hay and provender.
No little pains are bestowed upon the conveniences designed for the
team. With the exception of sporting horses, never have I witnessed
more untiring devotion to any creature than is bestowed upon the ox
when under the care of a good teamster. The last thing before "turning
in," he lights his lantern and repairs to the ox hovel. In the
morning, by the peep of day, and often before, his faithful visits are
repeated to hay, and provender, and card, and yoke up. No man's berth
is so hard, among all the hands, as the teamster's. Every shoe and
nail, every hoof and claw, and neck, yokes, chains, and sled, claim
constant attention. While the rest of the hands are sitting or
lounging around the liberal fire, shifting for their comfort, after
exposure to the winter frosts through the day, he must repeatedly go
out to look after the comfort of the sturdy, faithful ox. And then,
for an hour or two in the morning again, while all, save the cook, are
closing up the sweet and unbroken slumbers of the night, so welcome
and necessary to the laborer, he is out amid the early frost with, I
had almost said, the care of a mother, to see if "old Turk" is not
loose, whether "Bright" favors the near fore-foot (which felt a little
hot the day before), as he stands upon the hard floor, and then to
inspect "Swan's" provender-trough, to see if he has eaten his meal,
for it was carefully noted that at the "watering-place" last night he
drank but little; while at the further end of the "tie-up" he thinks
he hears a little clattering noise, and presently "little Star" is
having his shins gently rapped, as a token of his master's wish to
raise his foot to see if some nail has not given way in the loosened
shoe; and this not for once, but every day, with numberless other
cares connected with his charge.
A competent hand in this profession generally calculates to do a good
winter's hauling, and bring his team out in the spring in quite as
good flesh as when they commenced in the early part of the season. But
as in all other matters, so in this, there are exceptions to the
general rule. Some teamsters spoil their cattle, and bring them out in
the spring miserably poor, and nearly strained to death. Such a
practice, however, can not be regarded as either merciful or
economical. So far as true policy is concerned, it is much better to
keep a team well. What may be gained by hard pushing during the former
part of the season will be more than made up during the latter, when
the teams are moderately urged and well kept, and then you have a good
team still for future labor.
Having completed our winter residences, next in order comes the
business of looking out and cutting the "main," and some of the
principal "branch roads." These roads, like the veins in the human
body, ramify the wilderness to all the principal "clumps" and "groves
of pine" embraced in the permit.
We have here no "turnpikes" nor rail-ways, but what is often more
interesting. No pencilings can excel the graceful curves found in a
main road as it winds along through the forest, uniform in width of
track, hard-beaten and glassy in its surface, polished by the sled and
logs which are so frequently drawn over it. Each fall of snow, when
well trodden, not unlike repeated coats of paint on a rough surface,
serves to cover up the unevenness of the bottom, which in time becomes
very smooth and even. And besides, no street in all our cities is so
beautifully studded with trees, whose spreading branches
affectionately interlace, forming graceful archways above. Along this
road side, on the way to the landing, runs a serpentine pathway for
the "knight of the goad," whose deviations are marked now outside this
tree, then behind that "windfall," now again intercepting the main
road, skipping along like a dog at one's side. To pass along this road
in mid-winter, one would hardly suspect the deformities which the
dissolving snows reveal in the spring--the stumps and knolls, skids
and roots, with a full share of mud-sloughs, impassable to all except
man, or animals untrammeled with the harness.
In the process of making these roads, the first thing in order is to
look out the best location for them. This is done by an experienced
hand, who "spots" the trees where he wishes the road to be "swamped."
We usually begin at the landing, and cut back toward the principal
part of the timber to be hauled.
In constructing this road, first all the underbrush is cut and thrown
on one side; all trees standing in its range are cut close to the
ground, and the trunks of prostrated trees cut off and thrown out,
leaving a space from ten to twelve feet wide. The tops of the highest
knolls are scraped off, and small poles, called skids, are laid across
the road in the hollows between. Where a brook or slough occurs, a
pole-bridge is thrown across it.
These preparatory arrangements are entered upon and prosecuted with a
degree of interest and pleasure by lumbermen scarcely credible to
those unacquainted with such a mode of life and with such business.
Though not altogether unacquainted with other occupations and other
sources of enjoyment, still, to such scenes my thoughts run back for
the happier portions of life and experience.
I have attended to various kinds of labor, but never have I entered
upon any half so pleasing as that usually performed in the "logging
swamp." Although greatly jeoparding my reputation for taste, I will
utter it. Positively, it is delightful. I have since had some years'
experience in one of the professions, in the enjoyment of some of the
refinements of life, yet, if it could be done consistently, I would
now with eagerness exchange my house for the logging camp, my books
for the ax, and the city full for those wilderness solitudes whose
delightful valleys and swelling ridges give me Nature uncontaminated--I
had almost said, uncursed, fresh from the hand of the Creator. To write
of those things makes the bustling city seem dull and irksome. Fain
would I hie away once more to those pleasant pastime labors.
Happily, all tastes are not alike. Yet there are few who, on entering
a beautiful native forest, would not experience delight; the
varieties of trees set out by the hand of Nature, their graceful
forms and spreading branches interlocked with neighborly affection
and recognition; the _harmonious confusion_ of undergrowth; the
beautiful mosses, the ever-varying surface--old age, manhood and
youth, childhood and infancy--massive trunks and little sprouts; the
towering Pine and creeping Winter-green, intermingled by the artless
genii of these wild retreats, all combined, serve to explain the
_attachment_ of the Aborigines to their forest abodes, and give to
savage life the power of enchantment.