CHAPTER XX.
Effect of Discovery of Iron Ore on Timber Industry.
During the same year that the United States government offered its lands in the northern counties of Minnesota at public auction, new interests effecting the market for pine timber were created by the discovery of iron ore of a marketable quality, near the south shore of Lake Vermilion, where now is the city of Tower, Minnesota.
Historically, the first mention of iron ore in northern Minnesota dates back to the report of J. G. Norwood, made in 1850, in which he mentioned the occurrence of iron ore at Gunflint Lake, but claimed no commercial importance in his discovery. The Geological and Natural History Survey of Minnesota, Volume 4, page 583, records the following: "H. H. Eames, state geologist of Minnesota in 1865 and 1866, was the first to observe and report iron ore on both the Vermilion and Mesabi ranges, and to consider it of any value. In his report for 1866, he describes the ore outcroppings near the southern shore of Lake Vermilion, and in his report, published the following year, is an account of the ore at Prairie River Falls, on the western end of the Mesabi, and several analyses showing it to be of good quality."
"White Pine—What of Our Future Supply?" (Page [174].)
As early as 1880, Professor A. H. Chester, in the interest of private parties, made a personal examination of the Vermilion Iron Range, and predicted that an iron ore district of immense value and importance would be found to exist on that range. George C. Stone of Duluth, one of the parties who had employed Chester to make the examination for iron ore, was elected a member of the Minnesota legislature, and, through his instrumentality, in 1881, a law was passed, "to encourage mining in this state, by providing a uniform rate for the taxing of mining properties and products." This law provided for a payment of a tax of fifty cents for each ton of copper, and one cent for each ton of iron ore, mined and shipped or disposed of; each ton to be estimated as containing two thousand two hundred and forty pounds. The Duluth and Iron Range Railroad was constructed from Two Harbors, on Lake Superior, to Tower, Minnesota; and in August, 1884, the first shipment of iron ore was made from the Minnesota Mine at Tower.
Promising outcrops of iron ore bearing rocks were found east of Tower, where now is the flourishing town of Ely. Work was begun on these outcrops, resulting in the finding of the Chandler Mine, by Captain John Pengilly, from which, in 1888, the first shipment of iron ore was made, the railroad having been extended from Tower to Ely, for the purpose, primarily, of shipping the iron ore to Two Harbors, and thence to the eastern markets. Other mines were later found in this vicinity. The building and equipping of this railroad created a demand for manufactured lumber, for railroad ties, and for telegraph poles. Sawmills were built at different points along the line of the railroad and at its terminals, so that the years immediately following were busy ones for those dealing in standing timber and its manufactured products.
My associates and I had acquired interests in these localities, so that much of my time for nearly a decade, was actively employed along the line of the Vermilion Range. During these years from 1882 to 1888, the most practical modes of travel, and almost the only ones, were either by birch canoe and portaging from lake to lake in summer, or by dog train during the winter. Sometimes these trips were pleasant ones, but quite as often they were attended by incidents not always agreeable.
On one of these occasions late in October, accompanied by one white man known only as "Buffalo," I started to travel east from Tower, on Lake Vermilion, along the route followed by the Indians, to the foot of Fall Lake, a distance of forty-five miles. It was some time after noon when we pulled out from shore in our two-man canoe, a small craft, affording just room for two men to sit, and to carry their pack sacks and scant supplies. Soon it began to rain, and the wind commenced blowing. We were approaching an island, when Buffalo, who had had much experience on the Great Lakes as a sailor, insisted that we could not reach our landing at the easterly end of the lake, before dark, without the use of a sail. Arriving at an island, we pulled our canoe ashore, and Buffalo quickly improvised a sail, which was hoisted in the bow of the canoe and the boat was again launched. In this manner we sailed and paddled at a much accelerated speed, but all of the time we were in imminent danger of being capsized, it being my first experience of riding in a birch canoe carrying a sail. Fortune favored the undertaking, however, and we made a safe landing in time to pitch our tent and make our camp for the night.
During the night the cold increased, and when we arose in the morning, we found that ice had formed on the water in the little bay of the lake. We made a number of portages that day, the cold increasing so that in all of the little bays, ice was forming. We succeeded in crossing Burnt Side Lake and entering the river leading to Long Lake as it was getting dark. We were then six miles from what we knew to be a comfortable ranch near the lower end of Long Lake, which Buffalo strongly urged we should try to reach that night, although to do so meant that we must pass between some islands where, in places, we knew the rocks projected out of the water, and therefore were perilous to our birch canoe. We decided to make the effort, and soon after pushing out from shore, we were only able to faintly discern the outlines of the islands that we must pass. Fortunately, these were soon alongside of us, and we had passed the last dangerous reef of rocks. Then, to our great satisfaction, we saw the light from the lantern which had been hung out on a pile driven close by the outer end of the dock at the foot of the lake, about four miles distant, where the ranch, that we hoped to reach that night, was located. The wind had died down so that the surface of the lake was comparatively smooth, but we noticed that our mittens, which had become thoroughly wet, were freezing on our hands. For one hour we paddled in silence, when the light toward which we had been steering, became much more visible, and soon we landed at the little dock, thankful that we had made our journey safely. Our appetites were keen for the good, broiled steak and hot potatoes that previous experience had taught us we were pretty sure to receive, and in this we were not disappointed.
The following summer, I passed over this same canoe route under quite different circumstances. My work of examining lands and timber all lay near to the shores of several lakes. My wife's father, J. H. Conkey, and her brother, Frank L. Conkey, had often expressed a wish to see that northern country. Accompanied by them and also by my son, Frank Merton, who was then a boy in short pants, we journeyed by rail to Tower. Before leaving Duluth for Tower, Mose Perrault was added to our number.
Perrault was a fine specimen of man, six feet in height, well-proportioned, of middle age, and thoroughly familiar with frontier life. At Tower, we started out with two birch canoes, and after dinner, on a pleasant afternoon in August, we pushed our canoes out into the waters of Lake Vermilion, from the same point from which we had left in the rain, the previous October. We reached the east end of Vermilion early, portaged into Mud Lake, went up the river, and camped on the high ground west of Burnt Side Lake, in a pine grove where we were surrounded by blueberry bushes laden with their large, ripe fruit.
"He motors over the fairly good roads of the northern frontier." (Page [180].)
Our party was made up of two classes of people; one out to examine timber, the other, to fish and have a good time. While crossing one of the portages, my brother-in-law, Frank L. Conkey, who knew almost nothing about canoeing or portaging, but was willing, and full of hard days' work, picked up two pack sacks, one of which was strapped to his shoulders, and the other was placed on top of his shoulders and the back of his head. Thus burdened, he started across Mud Portage, the footing of which, in places, was very insecure. At an unfortunate moment, he caught his foot in a root and tumbled, the top pack sack shooting over his head and breaking open at its fastenings, thus spilling its contents on the ground. All that could be found of these, were gathered together and replaced in the pack sack, and the journey was resumed. Mose Perrault was the cook, and on arriving at the camping ground at night, he began preparations for making bread and getting the evening meal. The pack sack that had broken open, originally contained two tin cans, one filled with baking powder, and the other, with fresh live worms buried in earth, that had been gathered for bait for the fishing party. Perrault wanted the baking powder with which to leaven the dough. The fishermen wanted their worms with which to bait their hooks. The latter were gratified, but nowhere could the baking powder be found, and we were forced to the conclusion that it was one of the lost articles on the portage. That night and the next day, we lived on bread made without any leaven, which from a number of experiences, I feel competent to state, is never a great success. The fishing, however, was good, and on the portages enough partridges were shot within revolver range to afford plenty of good meat for the party. These we cooked with bacon and dressed with butter, of which we had a goodly supply. There were plenty of crackers and Carolina rice, with blueberries close at hand for the picking, so that the party subsisted well, until it arrived at Ely, where the three fishermen bade Perrault and me farewell, returning to their homes by railroad train, after a pleasant outing.
In February, 1891, my three companions and I had a very different experience, away east of Ely, where we had gone to survey and estimate a tract of pine timber. The snow was deep, and the journey, which had to be made with the use of toboggans, was a hard one. I had, as my associate and chief timber estimator, S. D. Patrick. In addition were the cook, and Buffalo, a man whose name has appeared on a previous page. This man is worthy of more than passing notice. His true name I never knew. He always said, "Call me 'Buffalo'." He claimed to have been born at Buffalo, New York, and to have spent his childhood and early youth in that city. He was an Irish-American and was possessed of the typical Irish wit on all occasions. He was never angry to the extent of being disagreeable, but he had no patience for any man in the party who refused or neglected to do his full share of the work. He claimed that when a boy, he had earned money at the steamboat landings at Buffalo, by diving under the water for coins thrown to him by passengers on board the ships at anchor in the harbor, as did also the late Daniel O'Day of the Standard Oil Company. He too, was an Irish-American, born and raised near Buffalo, and at his death left millions of dollars. He once told me that when a youth he had earned many dimes and quarters by diving for them alongside the passenger ships in Buffalo Harbor.
Buffalo was always ready to act promptly and to do, or to undertake to do, anything that was requested of him. On this occasion he had an opportunity to demonstrate these good qualities. The trip was attended with the greatest of hardships, of heavy work, and of exposure to intense cold. Buffalo was a good axman, and not one night did he fail to cut and pile near to the camp, enough wood to last until after breakfast the next morning.
Our camp was established on the shores of Kekekabic Lake, in Township 64 N., Range 7 W., for several days and nights. There were many partridges in this section of the forest. They would come out on the borders of the woods next to the lake. It was possible to shoot one or more nearly every day, so that the camp was supplied with fresh game. The cook and Buffalo remained at the camp, while Mr. Patrick and I went out each day to examine timber, returning at night. The daylight covered none too many hours, so that we arose early and started on our journey after breakfast, as soon as we could see to travel, in order that the day's work might be accomplished, and the return to camp made before dark. It was not possible to calculate the day's work so as to be sure that we could reach camp before nightfall, but, owing to the intense cold that prevailed at this time, it was only the part of wisdom to plan so as to return to camp while we could yet see where to travel. Nearly every day's work was, in part at least, over a new tract of land, to which a new trail must be broken in the morning as we went out to the work.
One day our work lay directly north of our camp, through the woods, out onto a small lake, and again into the woods. We knew, before leaving camp in the morning, that it would require our best efforts to accomplish the work and to return before nightfall. For this reason, we started at daybreak, and, after having done our best, it was night before we commenced to retrace our steps. The cold had increased all day, so that we were obliged to summon our courage at times, to keep our feet and hands from freezing. We were only two miles from camp when our return journey began; but two miles in an unbroken wilderness, in deep snow, with the only path to follow being the tracks made by two men passing once over it, is a long distance to travel when daylight has disappeared, and when to leave those tracks at such a temperature, would probably prove fatal.
Within a few minutes from the time of our beginning to retrace our steps, each step was taken by the sense of feeling. We were both clad in moccasins, which made it possible, through the sense of feeling, to distinguish between the unbroken snow and that which had been stepped upon during the morning hours of that day. Being in darkness, we dared not proceed whenever we were not certain that our feet were in the path that we had made on going out to our work. A few times we lost the path. Immediately we stopped, one man standing still, in order that we might not lose our location, while the other felt around until the path was regained. We knew that if we should lose it, the one thing remaining for us would be to walk around a tree, if it were possible to do so, until morning light should appear. We went slowly on, never giving up hope.
It was getting late in the evening, so that Buffalo, at camp, became alarmed for our safety. His wits were at work, and he commenced to build a large fire. Then he found, near by, a dead pine stub. About this he piled kindling until he got it on fire. It is not possible to write words describing the satisfaction and joy with which we two lonely travelers finally spied the illumination, penetrating the dark forest for a short distance only, it is true, yet far enough. Soon we walked into camp, to the joy of all of the party, and there we found an excellent supper awaiting us. Buffalo's big wood pile was in waiting at all the hours of that night, and some one was astir to keep the fire going. It was the only night of my long experience of living in the woods, when it was impossible, for more than a short period, to be comfortable away from the fire, and even then, we each in turn revolved our bodies about the open fire, first warming one side, and then the other, and slept but little.
After our work was completed, and we had gotten back in touch with the civilized world, we were told by residents at Tower, that the thermometer on that night, had indicated from 48° to 52° below zero.
"Friends whom he had known in the city who are ready to welcome him." (Page [180].)
The following summer, on one of my trips to this then picturesque country in northeastern Minnesota, I tried the experiment of taking my wife, who had long been an invalid, and my son, Frank Merton, then a boy in his early teens, with me, in the hope that the trip would prove beneficial to the wife and mother. The experiment was in no way disappointing, although on one occasion when the rain had poured incessantly, leaving the woods drenched, in crossing a rather blind and unavoidable portage, Mrs. Warren's clothing became thoroughly wet. In the absence of a wardrobe from which to choose a change of garments, the expedient was resorted to of requesting her to remove one garment at a time, which Vincent De Foe, a half-breed, and James O'Neill, an old and trusty friend, held to the open fire, until it was dry. This she replaced, when another wet garment went through the same process, until all had been dried. No ill effects followed; on the contrary, Mrs. Warren's health continued to improve.
At the end of the trip I was so happy over the results that I sent the following account of some of its incidents to Dr. Albert Shaw, then of the Minneapolis Tribune, and at present, editor of the Review of Reviews. This little account appeared in the Tribune of Saturday, September 6, 1890:
"IN THE WILDS OF MINNESOTA.
Mrs. G. H. Warren's Travels in the Northeastern Part of the State.Mrs. G. H. Warren and her son Frank returned to the city Monday from a two weeks' tour of the Vermilion Iron Range, north of Lake Superior. Their trip was both interesting and novel. From Ely, the eastern terminus of the Duluth & Iron Range Railroad, they embarked in birch canoes, traversing ten lakes, thirteen portages and three small rivers as far as they were navigable for birch canoes. The whole distance thus traveled included over one hundred miles. Pike, pickerel, bass, white fish, or landlocked salmon abound in all these lakes of rugged shores. Master Frank reports the capture of a twenty-seven inch pike and a thirty-seven inch pickerel. In one of the bays of Basswood Lake—a beautiful body of clear water thirty miles in length and extending several miles into Canada—the Indians were seen gathering wild rice. This is accomplished by the male Indian standing upright in the bow of his canoe, and paddling it forward through the field of rice, the stalks of which grow from three to four feet above the water; while his squaw sits in the stern of the canoe, and with two round sticks about the size, and half the length of a broom handle, dexterously bends the long heads of the rice over the gunwale of the canoe with one stick, while at the same instant, she strikes the well filled heads a sharp, quick blow with the other, threshing out the kernels of rice, which fall into the middle portion of the canoe. This middle portion is provided, for the occasion, with a cloth apron, into which the rice kernels fall. The apron will hold about two bushels, and is filled in the manner above described in less than three hours' time. The rice is next picked over to free it from chaff and straw, after which it is placed in brass kettles and parched over a slow fire; then it is winnowed, and is ready for future use.
Mrs. Warren is the first white woman to penetrate so far on the frontier of wild Northeastern Minnesota, and though never before subjected to uncivilized life, or the primitive mode of travel, she endured the walks over the portages, slept soundly on beds of balsam fir boughs, ate with a relish the excellent fish and wild game cooked at the camp fire, and returns to her home in the city with health much improved, and enthusiastic over the many beauties of nature in this yet wild, but attractive portion of Minnesota."