THE LUMBERJACK IN THE CAMPS.
A brief description of the camps and of the camp life will add to the
interest of the reader who is unacquainted with the logging industry.
When a lumber company contemplates logging in a given locality, a
cruiser is sent through the forest to estimate the amount of lumber it
will cut. After the report of the cruiser has been received, a crew
of experienced woodsmen follows, and selects the place for the camp
or camps, and lays out the logging roads. This latter is not an easy
task, although to the inexperienced it seems to be, for the road must
be as nearly level as the possibilities of the land will allow. A
hill to be surmounted means a reducing of the size of the load and an
increase in the cost of hauling; a grade scarcely enough to be noticed
in ordinary traffic also adds danger and uncertainty to the haul. If
there is a grade, its descent must be towards the landing, hence the
need of skilled road-makers. It is in the early fall of the year that
these logging roads are made. Trees are felled, every stump is removed
and the little hills are leveled until there appears in the forest a
broad, level, often winding avenue that suggests a city speedway. When
the cold binding wind of the north has frozen hill and glen and the
swamp lands have become resistant to the tread, the rut cutter is sent
over the newly made roads. This heavy, unsightly piece of mechanism
cuts a deep groove or rut in each side of the road. Later these ruts
are partly filled with water and in the icy track the great runners of
the heavy logging sleds travel with ease and safety. The logging sleds
are huge affairs. The runners are eight feet long. The weight of the
sled with its chains is about thirty-five hundred pounds--a good load
in itself under normal conditions. On these sleds the logs are hauled
to the landing, and from there pass by stream or rail to the distant
sawmills.
The camp is generally placed near the center of the land or on an
elevation convenient to water. The buildings of the camp consist of
a cookshed made large enough for cooking and dining-room purposes, a
bunkhouse to house the men, a blacksmith shop, barns and office. All
these are built of logs chinked with clay, and are quite warm, if
properly constructed.
A view of the interior of the cookshed is always interesting and
visitors to the camp are apt to journey in that direction first of
all, not simply because of appetite, but to satisfy their curiosity
relative to the comforts of the crew. At one end of the room stands a
large stove. The walls of the place resemble the interior of a country
store, where all for man or beast is offered to the buyer. The rest of
the space is reserved for the dining-room, and the tables present the
appearance of a sea of oilcloth. The table dishes are of tin, but in a
few camps enamelware has very acceptably been introduced. Substantial
iron knives and forks, and unsubstantial tin spoons are instruments
of adornment and utility. The condiments or relishes are in boxes of
large capacity or in bottles that once did duty for a favorite brand
of whisky or a much-lauded patent medicine. Often the labels remain on
the bottles and the visitor is uncertain as to the sociability of the
place or its unhealthfulness, and if not enlightened by the knowing
ones he is apt to go without the desired vinegar or catsup--unless he
is so constituted as to be ever on the lookout for a chance "to wet his
whistle."
The interior is substantial in appearance, but not altogether conducive
to good appetite. "We use oleomargarine all the time," says a large
placard adorning the walls, and the writer has never doubted the
statement; in fact, he is willing to make an affidavit that it was used
in every camp he visited, or at least a substitute whose dissembling he
was willing to believe.
[Illustration: SAID TO BE THE LARGEST LOAD OF LOGS EVER HAULED OUT OF A
CAMP, 31.480 FEET]
"No talking at the tables" is conspicuous in some camps, and this
is probably a wise precaution for it saves time, keeps the men from
quarreling, and in case the food is not up to the standard the grumbler
is silent until after he has left the table. But the food is generally
better than the outsider would expect. It is strong, substantial,
abundant, and of good quality, to which is added variety. The
fastidious would hardly be satisfied with the service, but it is not
intended for the fastidious. He who labors in the pine-laden air is
not likely to quarrel with the service if the quality is right and
the quantity abundant. Beef, pork, potatoes, beans, peas and other
seasonable vegetables form the bill of fare of the camps.
The bunkhouses are large and roomy. On the long sides of the building
double-decked bunks are built with the ends toward the center of the
room, "muzzle-loaders," the boys call them. Owing to the unsanitary
conditions, it does not take long to generate a goodly number of
"company," to use the name by which the woodsmen designate the vermin.
Fortunately, some of the camps are better kept and the men escape this
additional irritation. A large cylindrical wood-stove is installed in
the center of the room, and above it is built a rack for drying the
clothes of the men. Since every lumberjack wears several pairs of socks
to keep out the cold, this rack in the evening holds several hundred
pairs. In the heat of the place the drying socks begin to blossom, and
it has been noticed by others than botanists that roses and socks do
not produce a like aroma. Few of the bunkhouses have any tables. Water
and tin basins are near the door for the use of those acquainted with
the custom of bathing.
In the office where the clerk, the bosses, scalers and others of more
pretentious occupation sleep, one corner is set apart for the wannigan,
as the small camp store is called. Here the workers buy clothing,
shoes, tobacco and the few articles needed in the camp. The stock is
not extensive, but the price of the articles is far reaching. One of
the clerks said, "I have charge of the wannigan--the first graft of the
lumberjack."
Where once the timid deer cropped the tender herbage, the rough camps
of the lumbermen are seen. Before the mighty swing of the keen blades
the solitudes are passing away. In Minnesota, two billion board feet
of lumber represent the cut of the winter months, and in the camps and
mills almost forty thousand men are employed. Logging is an extensive
industry, and it has been brought to a high degree of efficiency in
Minnesota.
Every day the tote teams pass between the camps and the village
carrying provisions for man and beast. These teams are the means of
communication between the foresters and civilization.
Where there are several camps owned by the same company, the most
important personage is the representative of the company who is known
among the men as the "walking boss," because he is always passing
from camp to camp, seeing to the interests of the firm. The "walking
boss" gives his orders to the subordinate boss who has charge of an
individual camp. This subordinate is known as the "push." Under the
"push" is another who goes by the name of the "straw push." The camps
have their own nomenclature, and some of the names are interesting and
humorous. The carpenter is the "wood butcher;" the clerk is the "ink
splasher," or the "bloat that makes the stroke;" the man who tends the
logging roads and keeps them free from anything that would interfere
with the heavy sleds is called the "road monkey;" the workman who keeps
the fires in the bunkhouse and does odd jobs around the camp goes by
the title of "bull cook," because, in the old days when oxen were used
his duty was to see to their comfort; the missionary is known as the
"sky pilot," and the top-loader is called the "sky hooker." Besides
these named there are the cook and cookees, skidders, teamsters,
sawyers, swampers, the barn boss and the blacksmith.
"In the works" where the trees are felled, the men work in crews. The
sawyers bring the giants to the earth and the swampers clear the trunk
of its branches and make the openings through which the logs are drawn
to the skidways. After the tree has fallen, a man called the "punk
hunter" examines it to see if it be sound and marks the dimensions into
which the log is to be sawn.
The loads hauled from the skidways to the landings average differently
in the camps, owing to the condition of the roads. Where the roads are
the best the amount drawn by two or four horses is almost incredible.
In 1905 a load of logs was hauled into Tenstrike, Minnesota, which
scaled over twenty thousand feet. One of the camps situated near
Shell Lake, Wisconsin, is said to have hauled the largest load of
logs ever drawn out of a camp by four horses. The load contained
thirty-one thousand four hundred and eighty feet. A thousand feet in
the green log, with its attendant slabs and bark, will weigh nearly
eight thousand pounds. The above figures will give some idea of the
great weight of the loads, and also of the perfection to which the
road-making must be carried to make such results possible.
Into these camps with the coming of winter the lumberjacks crowd.
"Why is it that they are willing to go into isolation and hardship?"
you ask. We can only answer, "Why does the sailor go down to the sea
in ships?" It seems to get into the blood. Douglas Malloch, in "The
Calling of the Pine," says:
"When I listen to the callin' of the pine,
When I drink the brimmin' cup of forest wine--
Then the path of life is sweet to my travel-weary feet
When I listen to the callin' of the pine."
There are lots of men who have followed the camps from boyhood. I met
one man who had spent forty-four winters in the woods and his brother
almost as many. It had become a second nature to them and the lure of
the camps was irresistible.
In the towns and villages adjacent to the camps the lumberjacks are
seen at their worst because civilization only welcomes them to its
vices; in the camps the woodsmen are seen at their best because the
causes of their depravity are absent. These big, hearty fellows may
be strong in vices, but they are by no means lacking in virtues. They
have their code of honor, and the man who departs from it will find it
necessary to depart from the camp. Depraved as are most of them, yet in
many ways they command the respect of the men who are acquainted with
their better natures.
The old lumberjack will not tolerate the least word of slander against
a good woman. If she is entitled to his respect she is entitled to his
defense. He may be steeped in vice himself, but he esteems those whose
lives are clean, and a good woman appeals to his chivalry. A woman is
as safe in the camps as in her own home; her purity is her protection
and his respect goes out to her. The Sisters of Charity go through
the camps soliciting for the hospitals and schools. Between the camps
they are often miles from any habitation and when night overtakes
them they sleep in the camps. I have never heard of one of them being
molested in these lonely trips, and among the rough, profane foresters
they are as safe as behind the carefully locked doors of the convent.
The lumberjack who would molest one of them, or any good woman, would
probably not leave the camp alive. Shielded by her womanhood, she is
safe even among the men who are foreign to restraint.
On one occasion a camp foreman with his wife entered the caboose of a
logging train. In the car a number of men were drinking. The bottle was
passed around and all drank, the foreman included. As the bottle went
the rounds it was offered to the foreman's wife, but scarcely had the
bottle been extended to her when the husband floored the donor with
his fist and proceeded to kick him out of the car. He was not going to
allow any man to treat his wife as a woman of the street.
In the settling of disputes, nature's weapons are the sole instruments
used. The fist is the arbiter, although the boot is sometimes called
into exercise. The gloves and wrestling help to pass many lonely hours,
but sometimes these friendly bouts generate a battle in which hate is
the ruling passion. Fights due to personal animosity are to be expected
where men are free from the restraints of civilization. In one of
the camps an ex-convict worked and for some unknown reason made life
unbearable to a pleasant, easy-going Irishman. The ex-convict was ever
trying for a fight, but the Irishman's blood was more sluggish than
that of the average son of Erin. At last the attacks were more than the
peace-loving fellow could stand. (How does the proverb read? "Beware of
the wrath of the silent man.") He went to his bunk and put on his spike
boots and rushed out to meet the ex-convict. With a blow of his fist
he floored the former prisoner and, beside himself with rage, kicked
him until the body of his tormentor was a bloody jelly. Had not the
loggers interfered the ex-convict would have been murdered. The wounded
man was taken to the hospital, where he remained for several weeks,
and on recovering he left for other parts, to the satisfaction of all
concerned.
Though the labor is hard and the hours long, for the men are at work
when the sun appears and it is dark when they leave the works, yet
there is a constant variety in their lives. It takes little to amuse
them, and less to make them "jump their jobs." The lumberjack is not
apt to complain when things go wrong, but rather to walk into the
office and demand his wages, after which he will proceed to another
camp. Sometimes a whole camp will suddenly leave because of some
imposition or provocation that may in itself seem slight. One of the
men last winter "took the cake" in this. He went into the cookshed for
his breakfast, but being a little late found that the pancake dough was
all gone and there were no cakes for him. He immediately went to the
clerk and demanded his wages. Here is another case:
Something had gone wrong and Jack Olson was ready to leave the camp. He
proceeded to the office and demanded the amount due him, but the clerk
was a surly bully and in reply tossed the little Norwegian out of the
office. Against such physical tactics Olson felt he could do nothing,
so he sat around the bunkhouse until his bunkmate returned from the
works.
"The bloat wouldn't give you your stake, hey?" said bunky.
"And he kicked me out of the office," added Olson.
Bunky was interested, very interested. His eyes twinkled as he thought
of the splendid opening the action of the clerk had given him for a
little added excitement.
"Come on, John, old boy," he said, affectionately taking Olson by the
waist and leading him to the office. "Come on and watch the free show
while the bloat makes out your check and mine."
Arriving at the office, bunky entered it with a jar.
"Sit down there, John, in that reserved seat while I raise the curtain
and turn on the red fire."
Stepping close to the clerk, Olson's husky bunkmate shook his monstrous
fist under the nose of the astonished time-keeper, and said:
"Are you the guy that splashes ink? Then sprinkle out my walk and do it
infernally quick. Sprinkle out Olson's, too, and if you don't hurry
this little shack will look like Hades upset. Splash the ink blank
lively or I'll make a blotter out of you."
Without a word the "guy that splashes ink" began his work and the walks
were sprinkled out in record time. Bunky and Olson left the office with
the air of victorious generals and traveled to the nearest town to blow
in the stake in fitting celebration.
Card playing is a great time killer in some of the camps and when the
towns are not accessible the woodsmen often spend the whole of the
Sabbath playing with the greasy cardboards. Some of the proprietors do
not allow card playing and they say the prohibition has caused a more
peaceful state. Since the Logging Camp Mission now distributes large
quantities of literature a number of the workmen spend their spare
moments in reading.
Many of them will discuss spiritual matters, and in language that is
shockingly contrasted with the subject, for so habituated are they
to profanity that it does not appear to the speaker as in the least
incongruous.
After one of the meetings it was discovered that Mr. Higgins had left a
hymn book. The forgotten book fell into the hands of a lumberjack who
could read music and who possessed a good voice. The following evening
he began to sing the hymns and the camp gathered to listen.
"That's a d--n fine song," said the singer enthusiastically, "the show
don't reach it, not by a Hades of a sight."
He sang another and remarked on closing, for the sentiment of the song
appealed to him:
"How the devil do they think of such fine things? It's the prettiest
little son of (the nameless) that I ever heard." This was said
admiringly, and with the intention of expressing appreciation, but
the habit of the man was profane and he knew not how to express his
feelings unless with verbal gestures.
Profanity is so common to some of them that they seem to swear with
every breath they draw. An old-timer told the writer of an incident
he had witnessed. They were loading cars with a steam jammer. The
sky-hooker, or top-loader, who was exceptionally profane, was at his
post on the top of the car. One of the logs did not come up in the way
that suited him and he broke into a stream of profanity that startled
even the lumberjacks. The sky-hooker ended his profanity with a direct
appeal to all the Persons of the God-head--a most unspeakable oath.
"It was the most blasphemous sentence I ever heard," said the
old-timer, "and we stood around startled." Less than ten minutes
afterwards the hook broke, and an enormous log weighing several tons
crushed the body of the hooker to pulp. "The Father had answered,"
reverently remarked the woodsman. "I used to swear in those days but I
never have since."
If you wish to meet generous-hearted fellows, visit the logging camps.
Anyone who has dealings with the lumberjacks will testify to the truth
of the above statement. The typical lumberjack is large-hearted,
touched with generous impulse and responsive in his desire to
ameliorate suffering. Often he will impoverish himself to give to the
causes that help humanity. Money is of little value to him; it only
represents the power of producing a short-lived pleasure, and he is
therefore willing to share with others that they may be happy. As the
following incidents will illustrate:
One of the men had taken his family to the camp and built a little
shack in which to house them during the winter. Mr. Higgins had held
services in the camp, and the logger requested him to baptize their
baby when he next visited them. Happening to be in the city shortly
afterwards the missionary mentioned the fact of the coming baptism
and the ladies of the church in which he was speaking thought they
would contribute to the happiness of the occasion by sending the baby
a bundle of clothing. The missionary presented the package after the
baptismal service was concluded and the parents hastened to view the
contents.
A crowd of campmen had been invited to witness the christening of "our
kid," as they called the baby, and when they saw that the articles sent
to the child were second-hand garments their wrath kindled. "Our kid"
was insulted and every man resented it.
"We're no paupers," they cried. "What do the city folks mean by
insulting the kid with duds like these?"
"That kid has got to have the best glad rags. No make-overs for him."
A collection was immediately taken, and every generous soul cast in his
two bits so that the kid of the camp could hold up his head.
B---- R---- was taken sick and had to leave the camp. For a year
disease held him in its grip. He was a man of family, having a wife
and seven children who were dependent on his labors. Death visited the
home and took one of the children, adding to the financial burden. The
news of the family's needs came to Wilson Bros.' Camps 2 and 3, and
immediately ninety dollars was raised and sent to Mr. R---- to help him
along. The boys were willing to respond and gave gladly.
Many a poor fellow has found true charity among these men, for their
hearts are large and given to generosity. The dead lumberjack does not
find a corner in the potter's field, the boys see that he is decently
interred; the sick do not often fall on the community, for they are
helped by their fellows. Say what you will about the lumberjack, but
put the grace of charity to his credit, and let it cover a multitude of
sins.
There is little chance for personal cleanliness in the camps. No
facilities are there for bathing unless one is willing to do so in the
presence of the whole camp; the clothing is often worn much longer than
is conducive to health, and many of the things we consider so essential
are missing, yet few of the men are affected with sickness. Unsanitary
are the surroundings, but the hours in the pure air and the hard,
active lives of the workers seem to counteract the disease-breeding
conditions. Most of the cases that go to the hospitals are due to
accidents rather than to disease. Accidents are all too common in the
camps. Felling the large trees is never without hazard and the loading
of the logs is more dangerous still. The heavy hauling adds an element
of uncertainty, particularly where there are grades to be run on the
way to the landing. It requires skill to let a load down the grade.
This is done by means of sand or hay being placed in the ruts so that
the runners of the sled are retarded in the descent, but if the load be
checked suddenly it will cause the logs to shift, endangering the life
of man and beast.
From what has been written in the foregoing chapters we do not desire
to convey the impression that all the campmen are depraved and sunken
in vice. There are all kinds and conditions of men among them. Many of
them have been well educated, have come from homes of refinement and
ease, but through adversity have gone to lower plains of life. Others
have followed the woods from youth and feel that they are not fitted
for any other class of labor, yet amidst surroundings that tempt to
viciousness they have kept their moral virtues with scrupulous care.
The campmen are a neglected class of men. No one has in past years
tried to touch them with the elevating power of good. They are what
they are because their labors have isolated them from civilization and
its agencies for good, while the vices of the provinces have followed
them because there were dollars to be gained. The railway men of a
few years ago were almost in the same condition as the lumberjacks
of today. The saving power to the railroader was the restraint that
their homes cast about them, and through their homes the gospel and
other adjuncts of civilization were possible, but these are men who
are separated from their homes or unblessed with home ties. When
Christian indifference was supplanted with Christian activity a change
was soon noted among the workers on the railroad and they became a
respectable class of men, of whom the nation is justly proud. Y. M.
C. A.s were established for their benefit, missions were opened where
they congregated, the church held out its hand in welcome, and under
the stimulus of gospel encouragement they arose. But what has been done
for the lumberjack? Almost nothing. In the camps he works through the
dreary, cruel winter, and when he returns to civilization in the spring
only the hand of the depraved is extended in welcome.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF BUNK-HOUSE]