Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

By Byron White

Inspired by True Events “Men who weren’t hard workers didn’t last long at the lumber woods.” Most people in Newfoundland and Labrador have someone in their family who has worked “in the woods.” Some of these workers were employed seasonally—they fished in the summer and headed to the lumber camps in the winter—while others were full-time loggers who worked year-round. Stan White runs Camp 13 on the southwestern side of Gander Lake, which is a commercial operation cutting pulpwood for Bowater Pulp and Paper. He and his brother, Allan, oversee the men employed by the company to ensure the camp runs smoothly. The camp had opened in the fall of 1949. Now, during its third year in operation, Stan has his work cut out for him, as Bowater has tasked Camp 13 with the delivery of 7,000 cords of pulpwood. This historical novel captures a time and place in this province’s not-too-distant past. Camp 13 illustrates in fine, well-researched detail the day-to-day friendships, struggles, triumphs, and tragedies of a hard-working people employed in a way of life that is long gone but never forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: Nov 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781771170338

Byron White

Byron White lives in Comfort Cove, Newfoundland, with his wife, Celeste. He holds a Bachelor of Science, a Bachelor of Education, and a Master of Educational Administration from Memorial University. He has worked with Bowater Newfoundland Limited, British Newfoundland Exploration Limited, Schlumberger Canada Limited, and as an educator in Newfoundland and Labrador, Nunavut, and the Northwest Territories. This is Byron’s second book. His first book, Snapshots Along the Way, is a work of poetry. Camp 13 is set in and around a real logging camp in central Newfoundland. The story is real and is based on exhaustive research and numerous interviews carried out over a fifteen-year period.

Book preview

PREFACE

History has always fascinated me. Our past helps us understand our present and provides insight into our future. If we do not understand where we come from, we cannot understand where we are going. Without knowledge of our past, we cannot understand the forces that make us what we are. Human beings, like plants, need roots to anchor them in a world where change is a constant. Our roots are in our past. By digging into the fertile soil of our history, we find nourishment to flourish and grow.

I cherish the importance of written history. I vividly recall my early school days. Books were scarce and virtually non-existent in our early one-room school. Our salvation was the thick wooden box of library books sent out from St. John’s and delivered to each small outport by the coastal boat. The importance of this travelling library cannot be overestimated. Each book was anticipated and devoured. Chief among these, for me, were books with historical content. Later, at Memorial University, I would often retreat to the Newfoundland section of the library. There I would find solace and relaxation. Books abounded on the Beothuks, early exploration and settlement, the fishery, Coaker, Grenfell, Squires, Carson, and other figures and aspects of our past.

Living here in rural Newfoundland, we are blessed to be surrounded by our extended families. Walking the local roads and pathways, we can still feel the presence of those who have gone before. We feel their influence on our daily lives. It shapes us and helps make us who we are. Our generation may be the last to feel this closeness. Times are changing. Most of our small boats have gone or lie rotting on the shore. Our stages and wharves are crumbling and disappearing. Much of the cleared land lies abandoned and is slowly returning to nature. Strangers buy up old houses, and here and there former residents return to build cabins. Old people pass on and the young move away for work.

The reality of this change hit home to me when my dad passed away in 1989. I had been meaning to sit down and interview him and record his stories. I had not taken the time to do this; somehow, I had always been too busy. I vowed not to repeat this mistake. Soon after his passing, I took my tape recorder and notepad and began interviewing Dad’s contemporaries. I’m glad I did! Though some of these fine people remain, many are gone. Each year their numbers become fewer. This book, Camp 13, is their story. I hope you enjoy viewing the past through this small window.

CHAPTER 1

HE STOOD THERE ALONE, a solitary figure holding a lantern. The light from the lantern stretched out from his body and formed an oasis of light in the surrounding world of darkness. The moon had vacated the sky but stars still twinkled in the canopy above. Snow lay heavy on the ground and an early morning wind slung piercing arrows of chill across the land. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. With each breath a great stream of vapour shot out into the lantern light and rose to disappear in the darkness above.

The man holding the lantern was Stan White. He ran Camp 13, located in central Newfoundland on the southwestern side of Gander Lake. It was winter and the teamsters were at work. They were busy hauling pulpwood from the hills to the river. Each morning Stan stood here on the road with his lantern and made a mental note of the time each teamster and his horse left the campsite.

It was 6: 15 a.m. now. Stan had arisen at five o’clock and lit the fire in the forepeak cabin he shared with his brother Allan. He had washed, shaved, dressed and prayed; then he had gone across the narrow road to the cookhouse and eaten breakfast. As usual, he and Allan were the first to arrive.

As they left the cookhouse on this cold January morning, the first of the teamsters walked briskly in. Leading the way were Albert Oake, Art Brenton, Billy Ginn and Gerald Head. Stan had good men at his lumber camp—good workers, hard workers, men who knew what was expected. They took pride in doing a good day’s labour.

Men who weren’t hard workers didn’t last long at Camp 13. They were sent home. He didn’t coddle. Stan had grown up during the Dirty Thirties, during the depression. His mother had died young, leaving a big family. Life had been a struggle. He and Allan were hard workers; they pushed themselves and led by example. They were first out in the morning, last in in the evening.

On this cold January morning, Stan was standing at the far end of the clearing that held the buildings of the lumber camp. Though it was called a lumber camp, no lumber or logs for sawing were actually cut here. This camp was a commercial operation cutting pulpwood for Bowater Pulp and Paper. All such operations in Newfoundland, whether cutting for Bowater or the Anglo Newfoundland Development Corporation, were referred to as lumber camps.

Slightly behind Stan and to his right lay the forepeak where he and Allan were quartered. Stan was the skipper and his brother Allan was his right-hand man. Nearby was the long cookhouse where the food supplies were stored. In it, too, were the kitchen area where the food was prepared and the large dining area where the men were fed. The sleeping quarters of the cook and his assistant, the cookee, were there as well.

A roadway separated the cookhouse from the forepeak and the two long bunkhouses that stood close by. Behind the bunkhouse was the saw filer’s shack. Here, in the summer, the filer was kept busy sharpening the blades for the bucksaws that were used by the cutters. Farther to the right was an oat shack raised on stilts to keep rodents out. Just beyond, a small stream crossed under the road. A large barn, a sled repair building occupied this area at the far end of the campsite.

Stan shifted his weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep himself warm on this cold, frosty morning. He lowered his lantern and peered into the darkness to his left. As his eyes adjusted, he noted stars were still twinkling in the dark sky above. In another hour or so, the eastern sky would begin to lighten.

He peered again to his left. Allan had headed off in that direction some twenty minutes earlier down a trail referred to as the inside road. Stan had watched until Allan’s lantern light had disappeared around a turn in the road.

Allan, Stan knew, would walk in the winter wood road. This wood road crossed the road leading from camp at a ninety-degree angle. The winter road began back on the high ridge that stretched from the Southwest Gander River to the area around Caribou Pond. Now, in mid-winter, the teamsters were pulling the year’s harvest off the high ridge and carrying it out to the Southwest Gander River.

Allan was heading in. It was his responsibility to direct the teamsters when they arrived on the ridge. He would arrive early and survey what wood had been moved on the previous day. This morning, as each man and his horse arrived, he would direct them to the wood to be moved. It could be a tricky job.

The men with the better horses needed to be placed so that they would not be slowed by men using slower animals. Also, if this happened, as it inevitably did sometimes, Allan wanted to see where places existed for one horse to pass the other and go on unimpeded. Stan wanted work to proceed efficiently. He didn’t want delays in hauling the wood and neither did Allan.

As Stan turned his gaze back toward the campsite, he heard the sound of a horse approaching from the direction of the barn. As it passed Stan held out his lantern. It was Albert Oake and his horse, Paddy.

Good morning, Albert.

Mornin’, Skipper.

And Albert was off in the road to begin hauling wood.

In Albert’s wake came Art Brenton with his horse, Jim. As Jim passed, Stan noted a new wooden shaft attached to the sled. Stan was not surprised. Jim was a hard-working horse, but he could be wild and unpredictable at times. Many evenings, Art had come back to the barn with a shaft cracked on the sled. Art pulled a lot of wood with Jim, but the horse could not be trusted. Uncle Walter Cooper, the sled repairman, was kept busy making shafts for Jim’s sled.

Next came Bill Ginn with his horse, Min. Stan knew all the horses and their temperament and personality. Min could pull wood but she could be balky, contrary, and lazy . . . Stan sighed. He gave this horse to Billy Ginn because Bill had the patience of Job.

Click! Click!

Stan peered out again. It was Gerald Head with his horse, Scott.

Cold this morning, Gerald said in passing.

Of course it’s cold, my son, Stan replied. ’Tis winter. You need to get to work.

It was Gerald’s first year hauling wood at Camp 13 and he was young. Stan wasn’t going to cut him any slack until he proved himself as a teamster.

Following Gerald was Howard Parsons with his horse, Ned. Ned, too, could be a bit contrary and lazy.

Mornin, ’ Skipper.

Morning, Howard.

A little behind Howard, Uncle Aram Freake and his horse, King, were heading in the road. Aram was a little older than most of the men in camp. He fished in the summer and hauled wood in the winter. The men called him Uncle as a sign of respect. This usage of the word uncle was widespread in rural Newfoundland.

She’s a brisk morning, Skipper.

Yes, there’s a bite in the wind, Stan replied.

After Uncle Aram there was a small break in the morning procession. Stan knew the routine. He knew the others would soon be leaving camp. Some men were a little quicker getting ready. Some had special techniques for getting under way. Some horses were more co-operative than others and some of the newer men were not yet familiar with the peculiar personalities of their animals. As skipper, Stan knew his men. They were good workers. Soon all of them would be on the go. Within a few minutes, Les Weir, Walt Potter, Herb Baker, Les Potter, Phil McCarthy and the others had all gone in the trail.

Satisfied that all the men were on their way, Stan headed off toward the barn to see Uncle Walter Cooper. Uncle Walt was the barn tender and the sled repairman when wood was being hauled. He did other work too, of course, but at this time of year he was kept busy repairing broken sleds, racks, shafts, harnesses and tending to the barn and the horses. The teamsters would need an hour or more to get in the road and get the first load of wood on the sled racks. The eastern sky would be lightening before they headed out toward the Southwest Gander River with their sleds piled high with pulpwood. Stan wanted to be out on the high landing area on the cliff when the teamsters arrived.

He saw the lantern hanging on the post at the far end of the barn as he entered. Uncle Walt Cooper was busy shovelling out the manure and cleaning out the stalls now that the horses were gone.

Walt was a big man. He was tall and well-built, strong and hardy. He had broad shoulders and a thick chest. His forearms were powerful and his hands were large. Few men wanted to tangle with Uncle Walt.

Walt was one of the earliest risers at camp. It was his job to feed the horses in the morning, to give them their oats and hay. The teamsters would rise a little later and have breakfast. Then they would return to the bunkhouse and pick up the reins for their horses and head for the barn, where they would harness their horses and head in on the ridge to begin pulling pulpwood.

Not only was Walt Cooper an early riser, he was a diligent worker. Still, some of the men had come to Stan with a request, wondering if Uncle Walt could go to the barn a bit earlier. The men said that the horses weren’t always finished eating when the teamsters arrived, and the men were anxious to get going in the morning. The more wood they hauled, the more pay they would receive.

Stan had agreed to speak to Uncle Walt, but he didn’t relish the idea. He knew that Uncle Walt was getting up extremely early now and he was working long hours. Stan also knew that Uncle Walt knew his job and didn’t like to be told what to do—much like himself. Still, the teamsters were eager to work. Stan liked that in his men and respected them for it. He decided to tell Uncle Walt to feed the horses thirty minutes earlier in the morning.

Stan approached Uncle Walt and the two men talked for a few minutes. They discussed the shafts that Jim was breaking and the need to keep extra shafts on hand. Stan complimented Uncle Walt for the fine, sturdy repairs he was making to the broken sleds and racks. At the end of the conversation, Stan told Uncle Walt of the men’s request and that he should feed the horses thirty minutes earlier in the morning. Uncle Walt nodded and stabbed his shovel deeply into the hay and manure on the barn floor. Manure was flying fast and furious onto the pile outside the barn as Stan left.

Stan headed back in the road. He wanted to be in the trail and down the wood road to the cliff above the river before the first horse arrived with its load of pulpwood. As he walked, Stan smiled to himself as he thought back on the incident of Uncle Walt and his horse. Walt was a fine man, a little gruff perhaps, but a fine man. Stan knew that behind that gruff exterior a gentler man lay deep inside.

In the fall, Uncle Walt and a few other men had been at Camp 13 building dams along the small brook and getting the horse roads ready for the coming winter. Uncle Walt had brought his own horse from home to help with the work. After work on the high landing above the cliff was finished, Stan had gone home for a few days on personal business.

Shortly after Stan had arrived at his home in Comfort Cove, an urgent telegram had arrived at the post office. There had been an accident at camp. Uncle Walt’s horse had broken its leg and Walt was very upset. He knew the horse was suffering and had to be put down, but Uncle Walt didn’t have the heart to do it. Stan had contacted Roy Stoyles, who was running the Bowater’s Store on Southwest Gander Lake. Roy agreed to go in and dispatch Uncle Walt’s horse.

When Roy arrived at camp, he found the poor horse down in its stall. Uncle Walt was in a bad way. Roy took his gun from the old truck and conscripted Abe Goldsworthy, the camp cook, to help him put the animal out of its misery. The two men headed for the barn. Uncle Walt put his hands over his ears and ran in the road. Roy walked up to the suffering animal and relieved it of its suffering.

The gun blast startled the other horses and they reared and stomped in their stalls. Soon, they relaxed and resumed munching their hay. Minutes later, however, all hell broke loose!

The smell of blood from the dead animal had spread throughout the barn and reached the flared nostrils of the other horses. The animals, wild with terror, reared and bucked and broke down the railings, snapped their tethers, and raced from the barn. Roy ran looking for Uncle Walt, but couldn’t find him.

After a while, Uncle Walt appeared on the scene. He had not wanted to hear the sound of his horse being killed, and so had taken refuge in the root cellar located in past the forepeak. Now that the deed had been done, Uncle Walt had dug deeply into his inner store of strength and forced himself to return to work. Uncle Walt and Roy caught one of the horses and used it to haul the dead animal from the barn. Before nightfall all the other horses had been rounded up and returned to their stalls.

Yes, Stan mused, Uncle Walt was gruff, but he had a kinder, gentler side.

CHAPTER 2

STAN REACHED THE CLIFF on the Southwest Gander River just as the eastern sky was lightening. It was a cold, crisp morning. His boots made a crunching sound as he walked along through the snow. On the way down the trail, he had stopped to examine an area of the wood road that needed repair. A section of snow and ice in the trail had collapsed, leaving a bad hole. Ron Ginn, Bert Fudge and Heber Hurley were working to make repairs before the first horse loaded with wood arrived. These three men were assigned to keep this section of the wood road in good condition. More men were doing the same in on the ridge.

Stan noted their work with satisfaction. The men were busy corduroying the road. They had cut several long suant trees and laid them across the path. Onto this they had added a thick layer of boughs. Later they would shovel endless layers of snow on top and harden it down. Stan had moved on, leaving the men to their work.

The clifftop landing on which Stan was now standing was a remarkable piece of engineering. It was called a landing because this was where the wood was landed, brought, and dropped off. At Camp 13 this year, Stan had contracted with Bowater’s to deliver 7,000 cords of pulpwood. Five thousand cords would be delivered to this cliff area. Most of the remaining 2,000 cords would go to the ponds and dam system in on the small brook.

Camp 13 had opened in the fall of 1949. That first year had been a challenge. The weather had turned mild just after Christmas and it had remained that way for the rest of the winter. Stan and Allan had done all they could to get the wood off. Along the bare wood road, the men had cut small trees and boughs and placed them across the trail. Over these, the horses, with partly loaded sleighs, strained to move the wood along. When and where there was a bit of snow, Uncle Ben Mills and the road crew had hauled snow and placed it in the trail. To assist in this work, Uncle Ben had removed a hood from an old international truck. This hood was hitched to a horse and filled with snow. By this means, snow was moved from great distances and spread along the road. It was hard work for both the men and the animals.

In the end, all their efforts proved futile. The ground had not frozen and the men and animals had wallowed around in mud up to their knees. In late January, Stan had closed the camp down and sent the men home. Even the main gravel road leading from the camp to the boat depot on Gander Lake was impassible—the men had had to walk from Camp 13 to the boat, since the road was too soft for the company truck to come and pick them up. Only Hedley Janes and Art Brenton had been kept behind to look after the campsite and tend to the horses. Stan White’s camp was the last to close.

In mid-February, Stan called some of the teamsters back, but the weather did not co-operate. It remained mild and the wood had to be left in the country. Stan was disgusted. He was stubborn, hard-working and pigheaded, and had an iron will. The word can’t didn’t exit in his vocabulary. When he set his mind to something it would get done. Now, in his mind, he had failed to reach his goal. He had left wood behind on the hills.

Stan contacted Max Vardy, manager of operations for Bowater’s Glenwood Woods District, which oversaw the Gander Lake operations. Stan knew Max well.

Max, Stan had asked, how did the other camps do? Stan was competitive and his pride was on the line.

Stan b’y, it’s been a terrible year all around.

Did any of the camps get their wood off? Stan inquired.

Not one, Max replied solemnly.

Well, well, well. Jingoes, was all Stan could say.

If it’s any consolation, Max said, Camp 13 landed more wood to the river than any of the others.

Stan was not impressed or appeased.

By jingoes! he said to himself. If the weather co-operates at all, this will be the last year any of my wood will stay on the hills.

THE NEXT FALL STAN and Allan returned to Camp 13 before any of the men. They walked over every inch of land. They noted where all the wet areas lay and where the dry knobs stood out. They scouted every small valley and ravine, and they walked the dry ridges. They knew every minute section of land in detail. They surveyed the small ponds that led into the small brooks. They walked the banks of these waterways and decided where dams could be built and chutes erected. Then they scouted the wooded areas and noted which stands could best be cut for shortest transport to those ponds and streams.

Next, they turned their attention to the Southwest Gander River itself. Again they walked its banks and studied it more closely than ever before, examining every little bank and every little gully leading into it. They studied each section of wood and planned which sections could be cut close by. These sections, they reasoned, could be tail-dragged behind the horses if other mild winters occurred.

Finally, the two brothers turned their attention to the area known as the big ridge. This was the large area that extended from Camp 13 back toward Caribou Lake. This was the area that held most of the pulpwood that would be cut during the camp’s thirteen years of operation. It was critical for them to choose the best and easiest path for the horses to pull the wood off this section. The success of the operation depended on it. For days they walked the ridge and scouted the banks of the Southwest Gander River. Eventually, after much head scratching, they decided on a route leading out over the ridge.

About a mile inside the camp the big ridge sloped down to the riverbanks. By putting a few curves and bends to avoid obstructions, a good winter wood road could be built here. The advantage of this area was that much of the wetter sections outside could be avoided. Above all, when the horses were hauling the pulpwood out, they would be hauling downslope. This was a great advantage as long as the steepest sections could be avoided and level sections incorporated. In the end it meant that bigger loads and more wood could be moved in a shorter time.

Similarly, farther back on the big ridge, Stan and Allan blazed a trail with an eye to ease of access. They chose the flattest and driest land and, wherever possible, avoided areas where horses would have to pull upgrade. If this meant bridging gullies and ravines, so be it. The two men reviewed their choice again and again. Yes, they decided, this was the best choice. Even with very little snow they stood a good chance of getting their wood out. With a normal snowfall, things should go extremely well.

There was only one problem. The banks of the Southwest Gander River, where the winter road would end, presented a challenge. In fact, it was more than a challenge; it posed a darn big problem. At the very spot where the proposed wood road would end, the riverbanks plunged over a high cliff into a narrow gorge in the river. It was a dangerous place. At the top, the banks sloped down for a few feet, and then there was a sheer drop to the river valley far below. It would be a treacherous place for men and horses in the winter. Stan had raised his cap and scratched his head. That fall the matter had been left unresolved. The plan was put on hold.

Now, this third fall—this third year of camp operation—Stan and Allan had returned early once more. Again Stan had lifted his salt and pepper cap from his thick head of curly hair and scratched his head as he surveyed the steep river gorge.

What do you think, Allan? Stan asked.

By jarge, Stan b’y, I don’t know. It was Allan’s turn this time to raise his cap and scratch his head. Allan’s hair was straight and becoming