Boys of the Old Sea Bed: Tales of Nature and Adventure

by Charles Allen McConnell

From about the tree selected the underbrush would be carefully cut away, for not only must there be free room for the rythmic swing of the keen axes, but the life of a chopper often depended upon a quick, unhindered leap to one side, as the forest giant sprang, swinging from its stump. The inclination of the tree is noted, and the place selected for its fall. The sharp bits of the axes eat a clean “scarf” straight across the trunk. A few inches higher up, a second cut prepares for great chips between, and a third drives the scarf beyond the center of the tree. A shallower cut on the opposite side of the trunk, a snap, a creaking shudder—a quick warning is called; there is a sound of rending branches overhead, the rush of a mighty wind, and then a crashing roar as the great body stretches its length upon the ground.

With a rapid movement the woodsman measures with his axe helve the prostrate trunk up to the point where length calls for certain diameter, and the sawyers, having already squared the butt are ready to sever the top. What limbs there are upon the body are cut cleanly away, and the long log, or pile, is ready for the skids.

In that day the “swamping” was done by ox teams. It was the work of the swamper to see that there was a clear pathway for the team to the fallen trunk, then, as it came alongside, to slip the heavy logging chain under the body, and bring it up and clasp the hook. At the word of command—and often cruel proddings with sharp goads accompanied, alas! by the shocking profanity of the driver, the animals would brace themselves into the yoke, straining this way and that, until finally the great log would be started from its bed in the deep snow and dragged to its place to be rolled with others upon the loading skids. The stacking up of these piles was work that could often be done when hauling operations were impossible. However, the hauling was not a less interesting part of the work.

The logging sled, or “hoosier,” bears about the same relation to the common road sled that a Missouri river barge bears to a pleasure skiff. It is hewn from the toughest beams of oak, and its huge runners—tracking six feet apart—are shod with plates of iron three to four inches in thickness. The beams, or “bunks,” upon which the load will rest, are often ten feet long, so that the loads may be of that width, and as high as the lifting power of the loading teams and the ingenuity of the men can stack the logs—provided always sufficient power can be attached to the load to pull it.

From the main road to the skids, a temporary road is packed down in the snow, and the huge sled is brought into position below the skids. Timbers are run to the bunks and securely fastened, for a slip may mean a broken rib, or possibly a life quickly crushed out. A chain is fastened to the top log of the skid with a rolling hitch, and the loading team on the other side of the sled, across from the skid, slowly rolls the great trunk from the pile onto the sled. The first tier of logs fills the bunks; a second tier, or perhaps a third, is rolled into place, and the load is fastened securely with the binding chains and pole. Then the loading team is hitched on ahead of the sled team, and with great pulling and tugging the mammoth load is brought to the main road. Here the head team is released, to repeat the process of loading for the next team, while the load continues its journey to the river.

So level and so smooth is the track that comparatively little force is needed to move these immense loads—but they must be kept in motion. There can be no stopping to rest once the load is started, for it is probable, in that case, the sled would remain at rest until a second team would come along to add its strength for another start.

Arriving at the river, the “brow boss” measures each log, entering the figures, in his “brow record,” giving also the totals of the loads and name of driver. Then each log is “end marked” and with cant hooks rolled off into the river, or “browed,” as the operation is called. Often the river bed is filled and piled high from bank to bank; then a new brow is selected up or down stream.

The second week of chopping, which brought the time up to Christmas, saw the contract well under way. While four or five nationalities were represented in the crew, the men were of that class which came into the wilderness to make homes—faithful, steady, and willing to give full measure of service for their wages. In many respects they differed widely from the “big woods” crew, gathered, as they might be in those days, from the very riff-raff of creation.

A spirit of friendly rivalry was shrewdly fostered by the foreman, among the choppers and the teamsters, which was not long in dividing the camp into factions loyally supporting the claims of their respective champions. Antoine Ravenstein’s half-Norman dapple greys had, so far, a slight lead in the record of big loads over Bert Clumpner’s bays, while the giant Dane, Olaf Bergstrom, was scarcely able to keep even with his smaller, wiry, dark-skinned rival chopper, Jim Dacora.

The work was now so well under way that Mr. Thompson suggested that the men celebrate Christmas day in holding a holiday of sports, and he would have the cook prepare a big dinner for the occasion. Jumping, wrestling, boxing, throwing the hammer, and pitching horseshoes, were enjoyed with a hearty, noisy abandon, in which these big, strong men sought to hide the tinge of homesickness that would creep in with the memories of the day.