following the river trail, and being welcomed freely to the temporary camps of the gangs of “brow-breakers,” at a little past noon of the second day, ed and his companions of the winter’s logging camp came to the head of the drive on north fork.
the heavy rains had set in, and the river, swollen by the floods of melted snow, was already a torrent of crashing, grinding ice cakes. as the ice went out, the river would be filled with the booming logs, which floated loosely, often banks full for miles, from the disintegrating “brows” along the stream.
instead of meeting his brother, as he had hoped, ed was informed that rob had been sent over to the wangan above big bull, where the drive on the main stream was already in motion. the boss, looking over the small stature of ed, remarked, “they’re wanting polers over there, and we don’t want any more here. as a sacker you wouldn’t be any more account than a muskrat, anyhow.”
although ed was stockily built, he was quick with his feet, and practice had gained him confidence upon the floating logs, so poling would be just what he would desire.
ten miles across the country of forest and swamp,
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where the land was a “saturated solution” and every little creek aspiring to be a river, was not a pleasing prospect for a boy, but there was no other way open. that journey lived in ed’s memory for years as a hideous nightmare. plashing in mud, tearing through thickets of briers and underbrush, wading shallow, icy creeks—and swimming one that was too deep to wade—losing himself in the darkness, stumbling along blindly, by chance—or, we had better say, by the guiding hand of good providence—ed finally came to the brink of the river, and knew by the depth of the overflow that he had reached the stream above big bull dam.
again providence guided his choice, and he turned downstream and soon came in view of the campfires of the drive. too utterly exhausted to do aught else, ed stretched himself by a big log fire among the sleeping men, to get what rest he might, in the short space of the night that remained.
it was yet dark when the voice of the boss aroused him, and he followed with the men to their early breakfast of pork and beans, biscuit and syrup, and strong, black coffee.
there he soon found rob, and the meeting compensated ed for the hardship of the journey. rob told him that bally tarbox had arrived the night before, and had taken charge of the drive, and he had looked for ed to come over and join the polers.
while the work of the polers was more dangerous than that of the sackers, it was much more agreeable,
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and, too, the wages were three dollars a day, while the pay of the sackers was but a dollar and a quarter to a dollar and a half.
by the time a dim twilight told that another cloudy day had begun, rob and ed, with their long ash poles to balance themselves, were upon the river, riding the logs as they floated along with the rapid current. the water had been held back by the big dam until a great drive of logs had gathered, and then the gates were opened for the logs to rush through and on down the river with the falling waters. it was the work of the polers to see that none of the logs lodged in the mouths of the little creeks, and to keep them moving while they were in the river.
it was inevitable that some of the logs should remain stranded upon the banks as the water receded, and this brought in the work of the sackers. their implements were not long poles, such as the log riders used, but stout staves about five feet in length. upon one side of each was a steel hook, and in the end a long, sharp spike. these were called “peaveys.” where the stranded log was small and at some distance from the water, a row of men would approach it upon either side, and, picking it up bodily with their hooks, would carry it to the river. where the log was too large to carry, it would be rolled over and over at a rapid rate until it went splashing into the water.
it not infrequently happened that a big log would be found in such a position that the sackers would be
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obliged to wade out into the icy water waist deep before the great trunk would float free.
many a time ed and rob had been thankful for their good fortune as polers when they would hear the boss roll out a torrent of curses upon the sackers as they hesitated upon the icy plunge on some particularly cold morning.
while the sackers might count on being wet every day, and nearly all day of every day, the polers were by no means exempt from that source of discomfort. frequently, in making the jump from one log to another, a foot would slip, or, the distance miscalculated, a sudden bath be provided among the crashing logs.
again, a moment of careless inattention would deliver the log rider to the tender mercies of a “sweep,” or an unsettling blow from another log. sometimes, when the river must needs be crossed, a log would be selected as the ferrying raft which would prove too light to sustain the weight of the rider, and the sackers would howl their derision at the poler being “bucked” into the water by his “steed.”
rob never forgot one such experience he had on easter sunday of that year. it was just after the gates had been lifted at jennie bull dam, and the crew of an hundred and fifty men were striving with all their might to hurry all the logs through before the water should go down. the day had opened bleak and dreary. a raw wind swept down the river from the north, cutting faces like a saw, and the poor sackers, wet to the waist, were in the depths of misery.
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then, shortly after noon, the leaden skies began to spit snow, and a little scum of ice appeared along the edges of the stream. what an easter day! rob and ed, to whom memories of other resurrection sabbaths in the city came, with their lilies and joy and song, could be thankful that, so far, they were on the logs, dry, and compared with the sackers, warm.
the polers were stationed on the booms—long logs fastened together—and by throwing their poles with the sharp, steel spikes into the floating logs would pull them along and so hasten their exit through the gate of the dam.
at four o’clock it was already dark, and it would be impossible to see clearly enough to work more than an hour longer—but the drive must be taken through; there could be no waiting until tomorrow. hurry! hurry! were the orders. rob, in his hurry, as he threw his weight upon a backward pull with his pick pole, suddenly felt his hold give way, and over he went backward into the river. luckily, the logs were not running thickly where he came to the surface hatless, and that he was a strong swimmer, for a few strokes brought him to the boom and to possession again of his pole.
oh, if he might go to the wangan camp, there before the logheap fire to wring out his streaming, freezing clothing and get back a little warmth into his stiffening limbs. but no! the logs must be run through the dam, and that at once. every man was needed,
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and nothing short of death itself would be recognized by the boss as an excuse for failure to stay by the job. during the next hour rob many times wondered if he would not be able to give that excuse and so escape from the misery of his position, as he labored clumsily in his freezing clothes.
day by day the cooking outfit, with the sleeping blankets—one for each man—went down river ahead of the drivers as far as the day’s work would probably land them. it can be imagined that stores necessary for nearly two hundred men, to be carried by boats, would be of the simplest character—pork, flour, beans, syrup, and coffee, made the basis for the daily fare, but the five meals a day were eaten with a hearty relish by these strenuous toilers.
as a rule a dry spot was selected for the camping place, and big tents stretched for protection overhead, but the one blanket to the man and the bare ground for the bed, left something to be desired, even in dry weather. when, of necessity, the camping place was wet, and the weather freezing, the day suffering of the men was but a prelude to the real agony of the night. on this drive of which i write it happened that more than once the wet clothing of the allen boys, in which they “slept,” was found to be frozen to the earth in the morning.
running the river was no job for a weakling—such a one never undertook the experience the second time, nor long for the first time. it was work that told heavily upon the strongest of constitutions; few of
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these men lived to be old, the majority falling victims to pneumonia or tuberculosis.
a little below the third of the big dams the river cuts through a stretch of rocky country, ending in a rather steep rapids which have a drop of something like twenty feet. from the points of rock sticking out at almost regular intervals, across the stream, above the current in low water, the falls became known as “squaw walk rapids.” just below the rapids the river takes a sharp turn, and there, in the great, deep whirlpool was dead man’s hole—a place believed by the rivermen to be sure to take its toll of human life each spring.
no log rider was so foolhardy as to attempt the passage over the rapids and through the whirlpool of his own will; few indeed—none, it was said—had made the trip in safety, having been caught in the fierce rush of the waters above, and drawn over the rapids on their logs.
the day had been clear, and, the depression of spirit caused by the days of suffering lifting, a spirit of roystering play and rough joking possessed the men. the polers, selecting small logs, just large enough to sustain their weights, were giving exhibitions of fancy riding in mid-stream.
a great shout of glee from ed allen caused rob to look back up the river. there he saw, coming majestically down toward them, a great log upon which were seven or eight sackers, taking an unauthorized ride. but there was something in the program of that
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ride which they had not planned, for quickly, relentlessly, they were approaching a low-hanging “sweep”—a tree stretched out over the water. frantically they paddled with their peaveys, striving to throw the course of the big log out into the stream away from the threatening danger, but without avail. the log struck the sweep, the momentum bending the body of the tree sharply—when, as the log rolled slightly, it was released, and with a lightning-like spring, as with a mighty hand the men were brushed off, helter-skelter into the river.
the whole occurrence was indescribably funny to the onlookers, and the polers were dancing up and down on their logs in high glee, shouting mock encouragement to the luckless men in the water—when a roar suddenly brought a check to their merriment. glancing again down stream the boys saw the logs ahead of them begin to rise and plunge in the foaming water, and they realized that they were nearing the rapids.
now was the time for putting forth all their strength. unless they should be able to bring their logs to shore, they would be carried over into the boiling cauldron below. how puny was their strength matched against the grip of that mighty current. the banks seemed to be rushing by. here and there jagged rocks rose above the surface as if to drag them down. their small logs were dancing like corks. it was almost impossible to retain footing.
“it’s no use—were’s in for it,” shouted rob above
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the roar of the water and crashing of the logs, as he threw the sharp point of his pole into ed’s log and brought the two together. “stick your pole into my log and hold on—we’ll go together.”
the boys never lost the picture of that awful moment at the brink of the rapids—the sharp rocks churning the river into milky foam; the logs leaping and, striking, going end over end; the indescribable roar and confusion—the coming of death with the demand that he be looked squarely in the face. i am sure that both boys prayed—and then the blue sky, and the sun overhead, the rushing river, and the crashing logs—and themselves, ceased to exist.
how or by whom they were rescued from the river below, neither of the boys ever knew. but their apparently lifeless bodies had been carried to camp and there, after long exertion, they had been brought back to life and consciousness.
for that season, at least, dead man’s hole had been robbed of its prey.
after the drive had come through the lowest dam and passed the rapids there came days so ideal that the rivermen could not believe they were the same fellows that so short a time ago would have almost welcomed death, if only they might have escaped their miseries.
great, snow-white clouds lazily floated overhead in the deep blue; the sun filtered down upon the river in patches of golden warmth; the men, out of sight of the boss, stretched themselves luxuriously upon big
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logs, and floated with the current. save for the occasional stoppage of a jam the days were, as bally tarbox put it, “one continual picnic with five hot meals a day throwed in.”
there were occasional days of shivering cold; days of lowering clouds and steady rain, when river and sky seemed to mingle, and beds of sodden earth brought no comfort at the close of sodden days. but each day’s run brought the drive further down into the deeper channel and higher banks of the lower river, where the labor was less severe, and a night of dry lodging and a meal of home cooking could occasionally be had from the home of some pioneer settler.
the days grew longer, the trees budded, and some varieties broke forth into tender leaf. from overhead shrill choruses of red-wing blackbirds greeted the slow-moving procession. woodducks and mallards and teal, in all their courting finery, sailed along in the clear spaces between the floating logs, quick to make a distinction between the peaveys of the river men and the gun of the cook. squirrels, red and grey and coal black, chattered and scolded as they scampered from bough to bough. occasional glimpses were had of raccoons fishing for “crabs” on jutting sand bars, and the sliding plunge of an otter might be heard as one awakened in the night.
life was coming back to revel and riot in the big woods, and the men passing through were not untouched by its tide.
while the main drive passed down the river rapidly,
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it was inevitable that the slower work of the sackers would leave many logs hung upon the banks by the failing waters. these would be more slowly worked to the river bed, in some cases with ox teams, and then, a good deal of water having been stored up above the dams to augment the later rains, a “sack drive” would bring the stragglers down to the big boom at necedah.
by the time the allen boys reached the half-mile stretch of straight river which marked one boundary of their home place, there was not much need of their services as polers longer, as the river banks were high, and there was little work save for the jam breakers at the head of the drive. so it was, that as the familiar buildings came into view, they bade farewell to their river companions and were welcomed at home.
