A LUMBER CAMP OF TO-DAY. In a mountainous corner of one of the thirteen originas states is a "patch" of white pine, one of the last remnants of the forest primeval, Here is a lumber camp with a hundred men working throughout the year. It is estimated that at the present rate the cutting will be finished in about fifteen years. The company is an old, conservative one whose name has been familiar in the lumber trade for three generations. It owns large tracts on the Pacific coast, whose forests wait until this Eastern harvest is done.
Not large, like the great lumbering enterprises that have stripped the pine from northern Michigan, nor small, like the patchy lumbering jobs left here and there in neighbouring states, this busy camp combines the best and most interesting phases of each. The characteristic activities of the lumbering industry are all carried forward with modern appliances and modern methods.
The sawmills are the nucleus of a little community composed of the families of all the mill folks, from the resident partner who lives like a feudal lord among his vassals, to the day labourer. Nobody lives here except those employed by the company. Beside the houses, there is a general store, with postoffice and express office, a church and school, a barber shop, carpenter shop, and blacksmith shop, and two boarding houses for the men without families. All real estate is the company's property and is under company management.
A stage carries mail, express and passengers between the village and the railroad station three miles down the valley. There the mountain stream that floats logs down to the mills in the spring freshets joins the river, which is deep enough for big flat-bottomed lumber barges. A stub of the railroad runs up to the mills, and switches run conveniently among the piles of lumber.
A private railroad climbs the hills, through hard woods and scattering second growth of pine and hemlock, to the upper camp eight miles away, where the "fallers" are at work cutting pine trees that count their years by centuries. The road gives off a branch half way up, that goes into the hemlock woods.
There is no higher land in the vicinity than these pine crowned hills, which looks down benignantly on the landscape that slopes away on every side. A cluster of rude cabins about the
end of the railroad house the families that form this ever-shifting temporary upper camp. There is wood to burn and water from the springs, and supplies are sent up from the store. The men keep their axes and saws sharp and use them eleven hours a day. They get $1.75 a day—more if they furnish a team. There is a "head faller" set over the men who cut the timber. Another "boss" manages the loading of the logs into the skidways and from them into the cars.
Having read "The Blazed Trail," I was ready to embrace with fervour the invitation to spend three days at the upper camp. Accommodations were ample, if primitive ways were no objection. So the day was set and transportation bespoken, though this is an unnecessary formality. At 4:3o A. M. the mill whistle screamed in the ears of the sleeping settlement, and the little engine began puffing and snorting to get up steam for its toilsome uphill drag of the empty log cars. It was well we had dressed for inclement weather, for a drizzling rain dampened our clothing, if not our zeal. We attached ourselves like leaches to the trucks of the bottomless cars, with a determination to enjoy the ride.
The road followed the course of a brook which twisted like an agitated garter snake. The rails made only gentle curves, so that the train crossed the water more than fifty times in the eight miles.
The one bark car was switched off on a siding half way up, and its passengers, mostly berry pickers bound for the higher valleys, had to follow our example and chose seats on the running gears of the log cars, to which we all clung with some apprehension as they lurched and joggled over the uneven road bed. At inter vals great gridiron-like "skids," built of logs and worn smooth by long use, ran alongside the track. The lower ones had fallen into disuse—abandoned when the woods were cleared of pine. The higher ones we passed were still in working order, the last ones piled with fresh logs waiting for the cars.