ITINERATING IN THE CAMPS.
In all parts of northern Minnesota are found the logging camps. The
distances traversed by the missionaries in reaching these outposts
demand determined purpose, strength of body and love for humanity. The
lumberjacks that are in a camp this winter are scattered all through
the north with the opening of the next logging season, for there is
little to tie a man to one employer in preference to another, and
those who received the services of the mission workers one year are
ever ready to claim them in their new place of labor. The result of
this scattering is that requests come to Mr. Higgins from all parts of
the lumber district, asking for the services of the missionaries. The
demand is greater than the possibilities of the exchequer and many who
ask meet with disappointment. A mission worker is placed over a group
of camps, from eight to twenty, and from camp to camp he goes with
his tidings of salvation, holding meetings every night in a different
camp. The work is strenuous, and he must have a heart warm with the
love for souls of men who would willingly, faithfully brave the dangers
and privations consequent to the long distances between the camps. It
would be hard to find a more devoted set of men than these hardy camp
preachers, who set at naught the dangers that they may serve God and
assist their fellows.
Rev. Frank E. Higgins is superintendent of the camp work and tries
to reach every camp in which any of his workers are laboring. He is
constantly on the go, "a sort of walking boss for the Sky Route Co."
The scattered flock is loved by the shepherd and he will brave any
danger to serve the people he has chosen to reach.
Minnesota's winters are severe. It seldom thaws after November and
the thermometer often registers thirty degrees below zero, not seldom
reaching a much lower mark. If a strong wind is blowing when the
temperature is low the cold penetrates even the warmest furs and
pierces the wayfarer with its keen arctic shafts.
[Illustration: TOTING WITH FLASH]
Beautiful is the deep mantle of pinery snow. No soot or stain is on the
bosom of the earth, only the long stretch of "the white silence." But
too often the work of the missionaries is increased by the heavy snows,
and the delight of the forest is lost in the heart-breaking labor of
the journeys from camp to camp. Put your "turkey" on your back and try
the trudge through the deep snows, and see if the romance does not
depart as weariness enters the limbs. Step forward in the early morning
through the new fallen snow. The north wind is visiting the earth, and
his breath is penetrating even the furry clothing. Go on! The camp
that ends the journey is only the little distance of ten long, lonely,
humanless miles. The pack may be heavy when you start, but before long
you are transporting a mountain that has developed from a peak to an
endless range of Himalayas. The fun has departed and only the hard
spirit of fatigue is your company. Every step is an effort, every blast
of the wind reaches the marrow: the exposed face feels like cold onyx,
and the wind-inflamed eyes look through frozen lashes for the smoke of
the cookshed above the distant trees. The fingertips send to the brain
their protest against the numbing cold that stiffens them, and the arms
are swinging to aid the frozen blood to reach the pained extremities.
Mile after mile, endlessly the trail stretches into the forest; mile
after mile the pain and suffering continue; mile after mile the weary
feet drag the heavy burden to carry the message of a Savior to the
neglected men who, far from civilization, work in the pine forests of
the North Star State. At last, yonder above the green sea of Norway
lances, the column of smoke rises like a beacon to tell of warmth and
food, and the safe companionship of men. The sight of the unconscious
smoke acts like a stimulant. At last the view of the crude camp breaks
in fulness on your eyes. Moses saw the Promised Land from a distance,
but the sight of that collection of log shacks means more to you, tired
and almost frozen, than the land beyond muddy Jordan did to the writer
of the Pentateuch. It means a chance to rest, to warm--and to the
missionary, who is daily making this journey through the frozen forest,
a chance to preach the unsearchable riches of the world's Savior.
Night after night the missionary holds his meetings, each night in a
different camp. The day is spent in passing from one camp to another,
for often the camps are far apart and transportation is primitive; it
depends on first principles.
During the first three years of Mr. Higgins' work he found that while
a man could do much, a man and two dogs could do more. He secured two
large St. Bernard dogs and by means of his dog team made the long
journey between the camps. The idea of using a dog team is a very
practical one. It furnished an easy means of locomotion, the task of
stabling was not difficult and the cost of food nothing. When the run
was to be made between points on the railway the dogs and sled could
easily be placed in the baggage car and be ready for the drive to the
camp as soon as the train stopped.
In all new work prejudice must be met, and in this respect the mission
to the camps was no exception. Some thought it a new species of graft,
others desired to be left to the old ways and many had a prejudice
due to another form of religion. It is not often that dogs assist in
breaking religious prejudices, but Flash and Spark had a large part in
assisting the logging camp mission into easy paths. The lumberjacks
are passionately fond of animals, and the advent of the dog team
made a favorable first impression in almost every camp. The doors of
many bunkhouses are secured by a sliding latch, and when pressure is
brought to bear against the outside of the door it will open without
the raising of the latch. On arriving at the camp in the evening the
missionary would drive his team against the door and right into the
bunkhouse. The sudden, unexpected arrival immediately created interest,
and while the men crowded around the handsome dogs the minister would
explain his business and announce the time of meeting. The dogs were
protectors as well as workers and at the beginning of this work the
faithful animals silenced many a menace.
The dogs were good travelers. Over the rough forest trails they would
drag their sled at the rate of six or eight miles an hour and be none
the worse for thirty or forty miles.
On a journey from Northome to International Falls, Minnesota, the Sky
Pilot lost his way on the Little Fork River. When night came on and it
was evident that no sheltered lodging could be found the minister and
his dogs prepared to camp under the zero sky. A large fire was built
around a pine stump and wood collected for the night. The only food Mr.
Higgins had with him was a rabbit he had shot, and this was divided
between himself and the dogs. It was the only food since breakfast.
The sweet green boughs of the pines furnished a bed above the snow
and the robes from the sled gave a degree of comfort to the resting
place, whose canopy was the frozen dome of heaven. By his side the dogs
pressed closely for the warmth. The dark depths of night hung like a
spangled sheet above, but nearer than the shades which surrounded the
sleeper was the One who never slumbereth.
During the night the howling of the timber wolves awakened the
missionary and in the dark circle around him he could see the fireballs
of their eyes, while their voices were distinct and near. Arising, the
missionary replenished the fire, and when it broke into a cheery blaze
the howling of the disappointed wolves grew fainter until the silence
of the forest again took up its interrupted reign.
Early the next morning the minister was on his way and soon arrived at
the village of Little Forks, where he conducted the first religious
service ever held in that place.
On another occasion, when passing from one distant camp to another,
Mr. Higgins was overtaken by a severe snowstorm and in a few minutes
all sense of direction was lost in the raging blizzard. The dog team
wandered from the beaten path into the muskeg and in the swamp they
were compelled to spend most of the day. Toward evening the worst of
the blizzard had passed and he was able to complete his long and weary
journey.
After supper Mr. Higgins went to the barn to feed his dog team, but to
his astonishment the dogs refused all food. He had driven them hard and
long, so when they refused to eat he naturally thought it was due to
overwork and reproached himself for being thoughtless of his friends.
Later he went to them again, but they would not touch a morsel of
food. With a sore heart the preacher retired to his bed, but his rest
was disturbed with dreams of the overdriven dogs. He arose early, and
when going towards the barn met the proprietor, whose face was red with
anger.
"Is them blank dogs yours?" asked the angry man.
"They are," said the missionary, wondering if the man was going to add
to the reproach by telling him that the dogs were dead.
"Then pay for the pork that the brutes chewed up while you were at
supper last night. The hungry cannibals swiped half a hog and ate it. I
ain't got nothin' but eggs and salt meat to give the boarders today."
While the enraged hotel keeper was narrating his tale of woe a load of
anxiety passed from the preacher's mind and before, the proprietor had
finished he found his auditor laughing with hearty spirit. Mr. Higgins
paid for the meal of the "hungry cannibals," but he remarked in telling
it:
"I did not object, for it was the only time I was ever asked to pay
their board, and I assure you they earned it while we were trying to
find our way in the blizzard."
Snow storms come up suddenly, and when the wind whirls the sheet of
fallen flakes, all points of the compass are soon lost even to the well
tried woodsman. The description of a blizzard may form an interesting
page in fiction, but the experience adds to gray hairs and unending
memory.
In January, 1906, Rev. Frank Higgins was crossing Red Lake, when the
snow began to fall. The uninterrupted wind, as it swept down the long
stretch of ice, caught the loose snow and filled the air with its
choking mass. The wooded shore was soon hidden by the veiling snow and
all sense of direction had disappeared. Down the twenty miles of the
lake the crystal clouds swept with increasing volume. Night was coming
on, and yet the darkness could scarcely add to the helplessness of the
wanderers.
To the Father, who ruleth the rain of summer and the snow of winter,
the missionary raised his prayer for help, and what man could not do
was done by the leading of the ever-helpful God. He who guideth the
stars in their courses led the lost to the wooded shore.
On the shore not a human habitation was to be seen, neither did the
minister know the direction to the nearest village. For several hours
he wandered in the unbroken forest, and near the low hour of midnight
he came to the miserable shack of an Indian squaw. His scanty knowledge
of the Indian tongue came into happy use and the lonely inhabitant
granted him permission to sleep on the floor until morning came and the
blizzard had spent itself.
When the Camp Mission first began to distribute literature, it caused
a change in the means of transportation, for there were heavy boxes of
old magazines to carry to the camps and horses were needed to haul the
loads. Mr. Higgins had noticed that there was little to amuse the men
of the camps and nothing helpful for their leisure hours. He therefore
wrote to the churches in the state asking them to collect old magazines
and ship them to him for distribution. The churches responded and soon
he and his helpers were distributing literature to about one hundred
camps. From five to seven tons of magazines are distributed in a
season. Great good has come from this feature of the work; it gave the
mind another channel for vent, the filthy conversation so common in the
camps has largely passed away, and through reading the men are less
inclined to quarrels. It has been noticed by the logging contractors
that even the illiterate find recreation in the illustrations and many
a dark hour has been brightened to the men who never read a line.
On going into a camp which he was visiting for the first time, Mr.
Higgins held his service and afterwards distributed his magazines.
Immediately there was a rush for the reading matter and then for the
wannigan to buy lanterns by which to read. In a few minutes the clerk
had sold every lantern he had in stock and could have disposed of
several more, had they been on hand.
"What are you doing?" asked the cranky clerk when the Sky Pilot entered
the office a little later. "Are you trying to turn the bunkshack into
a night school? I've sold every lantern in the place and the Jacks are
crying like fiends for more."
"I've only distributed a few magazines so the boys can read a little
improving matter," said the minister.
"Lumberjacks improving their minds?" sarcastically replied "the guy
that splashes ink." "This neck of the woods will have a university
extension course next, if this thing keeps up."
"You surely don't object to the boys reading?" asked the minister.
"Not at all," said the clerk sulkily, "but you might have remembered
that a clerk has lots of time to read and have left a few of your
mind-improvers for his use also."
The clerk received his share of the reading matter before the Pilot
left the camp.
Often when a box of magazines is brought into the camp the men who have
gone to their bunks will arise and greedily come forward to receive
their share in the distribution. These magazines are passed from one to
another until they are read and reread, or worn out from much handling.
Of the lonely lives cheered by them, God only could give the number.
In a warehouse in Akeley, Minnesota, a bundle of magazines addressed
to Rev. Frank E. Higgins was waiting for the tote-team to carry it to
a neighboring camp. The tote-team driver came in, somewhat the worse
for the liquid refreshment he had taken. While looking over the bundles
waiting for his load he espied the one addressed to the Rev. Frank E.
Higgins. The bundle interested him and he read aloud:
"The Rev. Frank E. Higgins. Say, penpusher, who is this for? Is it for
our Frank Higgins, the Sky Pilot?"
"That's the man," replied the clerk.
"The Rev. Frank E. Higgins," read again the driver, "some mistake here,
penpusher, the Sky Pilot's no reverend, he's a Christian. That man's no
reverend, he's a Christian."
Shouldering the bundle he carried it to the sleigh, still mumbling,
"He's no reverend, he's a Christian."
Pertaining to the use of the title "Sky Pilot," a little story is told.
A minister who was going through the camps investigating the work of
the mission referred to the various workers as "Sky Pilot Davis," "Sky
Pilot Date," and others. He had heard the term used in reference to Mr.
Higgins and naturally assumed that it was a title common to all the
camp preachers. The push in one of the camps heard him, and turning to
the clerk, asked:
"What the devil does he mean by Sky Piloting around that way? You'd
think the woods were full of Sky Pilots, while we all know there's only
one, that's Higgins."
The tendency of the lumberjack is to give the title to Mr. Higgins
alone, although it is occasionally given to the others, but seldom by
the old time lumberjacks. Higgins alone is the Sky Pilot to them.
Among the rigid Catholics there is naturally a prejudice against
Protestant work, but it seems that the work must be done by Protestants
or left undone. A priest could hardly do the work. It would be
difficult to go through the forms and ceremonies of Catholicism in the
camps. Forms and ceremonies are not successful when interruptions are
common and likely to occur at any time.
But Mike Sullivan was no bigot. He could appreciate the idea that all
men were striving to please God and hoping to reach the same Heaven.
"This idea of having many churches don't bother me any more," he said.
"I think I get the idea. It's like this: these camps around here's all
working for one company. O'Brien is push on section nine, Johnson's
boss at Camp 2 on fourteen, Kirk is foreman on the north half of
twenty-six and White sees to the cuttin' on thirty-six, while every
gang is landing its stuff on the same lake and in the spring they'll
make the drive together down the river. Gettin' out logs is what
they're paid for and the lumber king in Minneapolis foots the bill for
the whole works. So what's the use of jawin' if the push in our camp
wears a different kind o' shirt than the push on thirty-six. Logs is
what the man in Minneapolis wants and he don't care how them different
foremen skids the logs so long as they get the stuff to the landing.
That's my way of looking at the churches."
Now the work has proved itself, it is much better understood and more
highly appreciated by men of all religious persuasions. Many of the
Catholics are deeply interested in the progress of the work, for they
know that it does not strive to make Protestants of them, but that its
end and aim is to lead the lumberjacks to a better life through the
simple presentation of Jesus Christ. The result is that all classes
and conditions crowd into the place of meeting and give respectful
attention to the word of life.
One night at Stewart's camp, out from Blackduck, Minnesota, the meeting
was in full swing when two teamsters entered the bunkhouse and took
their seats by the fire. It was after eight o'clock, and they had
just returned from Blackduck where they had been with their loads.
On returning to the camp they learned that the Sky Pilot was holding
service and came in supperless to enjoy the meeting. Few of our towns
people would forego the pleasures of the table, after the appetite had
been sharpened by hours of labor in the keen air of winter, in order to
attend a religious service. Such a desire for the gospel on the part of
the men fills the missionary with a desire to impart the truth. It is
an inspiration to preach to an eager audience.
The toil of the missionary increases with each day. Exposure robs the
body of its vitality, the severe temperature and the strong breath of
the wind diminish the powers of the men who must endure them, be they
ever so strong.
The Sky Pilot had been hard at work for several months and the arduous
labor had told on his unusual strength. He had taken cold through
exposure, but the work was calling and he pushed on to the waiting
camps. It was storming and the pack he was carrying grew heavier with
every tired step. He thought that the exercise of the journey would
in itself work a cure, but the pain increased and the wretchedness
was accentuated by the cold. Drearily he plodded on, hoping that some
tote-team would come that way and carry him to the camp, but no welcome
conveyance appeared. Unable to proceed any further, he at last sat down
in the drifted snow to rest. Through the cut over lands the cold wind
swept its unobstructed way, chilling the sick man to the marrow. Off in
the far north the tall Norways lifted their long arms to heaven, while
the blasts of the wind waved them like the grain fields of the treeless
prairie. Miles to the southward lay the habitations of men, and yonder
in the hiding groves to the north was the camp he was hoping to reach.
There was warmth there, and to the sick man the uninviting camp seemed
a palace of comfort. If he could only reach the shacks, if he could
reach the boys, that was all he asked.
Gathering his remaining strength, he struggled to his feet and pressed
slowly towards the goal. At last he entered the uncut timber where
the strength of the blast was broken by the trees. On through the
untrodden snow he tramped, bent with weariness, worn and pained,
pressing on in spite of illness until the smoke of the cookshed showed
itself above the hollow in which the buildings were located. There the
lumberjacks found him and assisted him to the shelter of the camp,
where they tenderly worked to warm and comfort the man who had so often
stood between them and death. Everything that they could do for the
missionary was gladly done, but they were limited by isolation and the
minister was very sick. After supper the men in the bunkhouse discussed
the situation:
"The Sky Pilot's a pretty sick man," said the bull cook, "and we
ought to do something to help the poor devil." This was rough but
affectionate.
"Whiskey's a good thing for one that's ailin'," suggested one.
"Whiskey?" remarked another, "what's the use of talking about whiskey
in this camp? You know that Sweeny's tongue has been hanging out for a
week and that's proof there isn't a drop in the camp."
Various remedies were suggested but they were not to be found. The men
were discouraged in their helplessness.
"We ought to do something for him," said a Christian sawyer, "we can't
give him any medicine for we haven't it, but I'll tell you boys, we can
pray for the man that is always praying for us."
The men were silent for a moment, then a driver said, "I guess it's
the only thing we can do, but we've never logged much on that land.
You start the deal, Johnson, for you're onto that game more than the
rest of the push. You say it aloud, Johnson, and we'll sort of keep you
company."
Reverently the men stood with bowed heads while the Christian
lumberjack led in a rude prayer, and silently the men, who prayed not
for themselves, joined in the petition for the man who "was always
praying for them."
That night when the missionary heard of the praying lumberjacks
he thanked God and wept himself to sleep. The morning brought a
brighter day to the men, for they heard that their prayers had been
answered,--the Sky Pilot was on the way to recovery.
Whiskey, the Wheel and Women are the Three Fates of the woodsmen. If
the lumberjacks could be separated from these the chances for lifting
them to a higher level would be increased. Whiskey is the worst of
them and leads to the others. For self protection the proprietors and
contractors of the camps are compelled to watch that no liquor enters;
with its introduction trouble begins and a reduced output of logs is
the result. Yet in spite of the care exercised by respectable foremen,
it makes its way into the camp, being carried by the tote-teams, the
bootlegger, and the men when returning from the neighboring towns. Men
with strong appetites generally find a way to satisfy their desires.
The camp may be miles from civilization, but the curse of Olympic gods
and depraved men makes its way into the inaccessible places. Where a
camp is near a village alcohol is easy to obtain, and Sunday, being a
day of rest, is likely to be a day of carousing and shame.
There were several camps near Island Lake, and on the Sunday that
Frank Higgins visited the camps there the boys had been "tanking up"
with squirrel whiskey from early morn. At the afternoon meeting the
spirit of whiskey showed itself in many disturbances. One intoxicated
man was worse than the others and was finally thrown out of the
bunkhouse by the minister, and after that things went smoothly.
Later in the day the missionary was in the village of Island Lake and
while talking to a friend, the lumberjack he had ejected from the camp
came staggering up. The campman was accompanied by a score of his mates
who were also under the influence of liquor.
"Are you the blank preacher that fired me out of the camp?" asked
the man of the sudden exit. There was passion in his tone and he was
evidently anxious for a row.
"I am the man," replied the brawny preacher, drawing himself up and
advancing toward the lumberjack, "what have you to say against it?"
The drunken man looked at the minister as steadily as his unsteady legs
would allow him, and suddenly changed his mind about the intended row.
[Illustration: THE SKY PILOT TAKING A MAN TO THE HOSPITAL]
"Not a word, preacher, not a word. I ain't got a word to say against
it. Preacher, don't you ever think I want to say anything against it. I
just wanted to know if you was the man, that's all. You're all right,
preacher, you're all right. 'Twas a blank good throw. I ain't got
nothin' against it."
Turning to the other lumberjacks, Mr. Higgins said:
"Boys, did you ever know Higgins to do you a bad turn? Can you show
me where I have not tried to help you? Yet for the sport of the thing
you try to get this poor, drunken fellow to cause trouble, just for a
moment's laughter. Is that a proper return?"
The men made no answer, but shame rested on many a winter beaten cheek.
That night in a nearby camp almost every man of them came to the
preacher after the meeting.
"Forget it, Pilot," said the spokesman, "We're ashamed of the way we
came at you, but you know it wasn't us, it was Whiskey. That's your
only enemy in these woods. Say you'll forget it and shake."
"Thanks, boys, I have already. Give me your hands."
The pastorate has its trials, as every minister knows, but for
unbounded variety of the unexpected the camp missionary has the city
man far in the rear. Church quarrels have bounds, but where are the
limits of the quarrels of the lumberjacks? From words they readily pass
to blows and in a moment's flight blood-shed results. In February of
this year the writer received a letter from Mr. Higgins, describing a
railway trip. A portion is appended:
"I recently left Deer River on the Itasca Logging Railroad for
Fourtown, and experienced the worst trip it was ever my lot to take.
The car was crowded with lumberjacks, few of whom were sober. The
woodsmen had over twenty quarts of Deer River squirrel whiskey, and in
a short time things were moving at a terrific rate. You may call it a
tempest in a teapot, but never have I seen anything like the affair; no
human tongue could describe the sight. The Irish, the Swedes and the
Glengarry Scotch were filled with whiskey, and every man was out for
blood, and blood they had,--an abundance of it. An old time lumberjack
said that in all his days in the woods he has yet to see the equal of
the scene.
"I took a hand in trying to keep the boys in order and although I
succeeded in preventing three fights, the conditions were soon beyond
me, for it was impossible, even for a traveling missionary, to be in
more than one part of the car at the same time and the performance was
more than a three ring affair.
"When matters got to this pace I had to content myself with taking a
hand only when it seemed that permanent injury would be done to the
participants. One old man, very much under the influence of liquor, had
his face battered beyond recognition. I pulled off the chastiser, but
did not succeed in releasing the old man before one of his eyes had
been closed and the mouth and face were covered with blood. No sooner
had the champion of this affair been separated from the old man than
another lumberjack was at the bully and the bully was taking the same
medicine he had so liberally given to the old fellow. This second scrap
placed another patient on my hands.
"When we came to the different camps and the men began to get off the
train, I had to literally drag them through the snow away from the
track, so they would not be killed, for many of them were too drunk
and excited to realize the danger.
"I hope I shall never see such a condition again. Was it not Paul who
said, 'I have fought with beasts at Ephesus.' I had a like experience
on that logging train. A sober woodsman who saw the fight of the
drunken lumberjacks said, 'Pilot, why do you continue to work among
such men?' and I made answer, 'Because my Master died to save such.'
This is to me a sufficient answer. The conditions need changing, and
the only thing that will bring about a change is the Gospel."
In the sleigh of the Sky Pilot antiseptic bandages and a few medicines
are carried. Through them he is able to relieve the wounded and assist
the sick. His sleigh is often converted into an ambulance and men
who have met with accidents are carried to the nearest hospital for
treatment. If the accident is severe he visits the wounded to give
cheer and hope. There, in the hospital, the men have time to think of
eternal things, and the comfort of Christ is often the stimulus of the
recovering and the solace of the dying.
When death is approaching, the last letters are written and assurance
of decent interment is given. The poor lumberjack may have no money
to meet the expense, but the minister makes all arrangements for the
funeral and after the body is entombed he goes back to the camp and
tells the boys of their comrade's request for Christian burial. The
campmen pay back every cent the Sky Pilot has expended.
"Tell the boys that in this hour Jesus Christ brought his strong
salvation to me," said a dying man. "Ask them to trust him."
When the missionary goes back to the camp with such a message from
the dead the interest is profound. Coming from one of themselves it
seems more real than if it were the message of the preacher. When the
testimony comes from their own mates they are more receptive to the
gentle Gospel of the Cross. Often in death a lumberjack, by his message
to the foresters, has accomplished more than in his years of life.
While speaking of this itinerating work we must add a paragraph
concerning the homesteaders. In this forest region is much land that
is open to settlement. The little cabins of the homesteaders, who
have taken up claims, are seen in many parts of the forest, and the
small clearings tell of man's presence. When the settlers hear that
Rev. Frank E. Higgins is to hold services in a neighboring camp they
are often found at the bunkhouse meetings. Mr. Higgins is practically
the only pastor who visits the scattered peasantry; he conducts their
marriage ceremonies, baptizes their children and speaks the last words
over their dead. Into these homes he alone comes bearing spiritual
tidings. Some of these homesteaders work their farms in summer and
in the winter help out the scanty increase of the little fields by
working in the logging camps. So in passing the new homes he leaves the
literature, "speaks a good word for Jesus Christ," adds a sentence of
comfort and passes along the trail,--like a true servant of him who was
gladly received by the common people because he went about doing good.
"Go ye into the highways and hedges," said the Nazarene.
Work in the Lumber Towns