The steam locomotive’s whistle cut through the fall air as the train raced northward on this October, 1883 afternoon. It pulled twenty-eight cars including the passenger car carrying a sixteen-year-old boy and his uncle.
“My father … Uncle Ingman, tell me how he died.”
Ingman Loken looked into his nephew’s blue eyes. “How he died?” He paused. “Tor, your pa is not dead. He’s waiting to see you. Your pa sent me to find you. Why, he has had me searching for you ever since you and your mother were in that train wreck and your pa got laid up. I’ve spent yust about every spare minute scouring the land from here to Cleveland seeking you out. We never thought you would have been sent west to Chicago.”
Tor was stunned. “My father is alive?”
“Oh, yes! He was badly hurt when his horse team bolted and the load of lumber he was deliverin’ flipped over. We found him pinned under the wagon, barely alive. But your pa is mighty tough. The local doctor saved his life. He’s been on the mend ever since—in a Hayward boarding house.”
“But they told me …”
“They didn’t know. The Chicago police and the man at the boys’ home knew nothing about your father, other than he was inyured. Nobody bothered to look for your pa or any family you might have. Easier for them yust to say your pa died.”
Tor stared out the window in silence for a moment. “It will be so good to see Pa again. How bad was he hurt?”
“Well, Olaf has been mending for quite some time. Most of his inyuries have healed up. But … Nephew, he’s bound to a wheelchair.”
“Pa can’t walk?”
“He spends much of his time yust starin’ out the window. But his mind is quick as ever, and he is still strong of will and has the same spirit–the same Olaf Loken as before. He yust can’t walk.”
“Will he … ever?”
“Oh, the day will come when your pa can leave the boarding house and live at the camp again. But for now, he needs to rest up. You coming home to him will be wonderful for his health—and for his heart!”
“I can hardly wait, Uncle Ingman.”
The locomotive’s whistle sounded again.
“Uncle, what is the camp you speak of?”
“Oh, ya, I suppose you don’t know about the lumber camp. It’s called the Namakagon Timber Company. We cut white pine all winter, then float it down the river come spring. Sometimes all the way to the St Croix and the Mississippi to the lumber mills in Stillwater, St. Paul, and LaCrosse. Some of our pine even went as far as St. Louis last spring. Our camp is way back in the woods where the pines are tallest and the men are toughest, or so we claim.”
“When your pa first came to the north woods he had yust enough money saved to build a small sawmill and hire a few fellas to log off sixty acres north of Hayward. They put in a hard winter’s work and, wouldn’t you know, yust before he went to sell his timber, the market turned for the better. The pine brought a good sum. Your pa was able to sell both the timber and his mill for a good profit. He used the money to start up his own lumber camp near a big lake called Namakagon. Olaf's camp was small at first, but soon grew into a gol dang good outfit. Some say we have the best crew in the north.”
“Crew?”
“Ya. When the snow flies, men come from all over to work for us cutting timber. We have bunks for eighty-eight workers in our camp. Eighty-eight men all working to bring the timber out of the woods, downriver to the mills. The money is good and the work is honest. Ya, it’s a good outfit. And you will fit right in, Nephew. Why, you’ll be a lumberyack in no time!”
“But I know nothing about it.”
“Oh, you will learn. Don’t you worry ’bout that. We work yust like the other camps in the north—Michigan, Minnesota, Manitoba, Wisconsin, everywhere you find tall white pines you'll also find lumber camps like ours. As soon as the fall harvest is in from the fields down south, the farmers and their boys come north to the pinery. By fall the lumber mills are yust about out of timber, too. Many mill hands come north lookin’ for winter work. Other lumberyacks come from all parts of the country to work in the pinery.
“Each man has his own yob to do. We have sawyers who fell the trees. Then come the swampers. Their yob is to cut the limbs off and clear the way for the teamsters who use horses or oxen to skid the logs out to the sleigh trails. Workers load up the logs onto the big sleighs so the teamsters can take the sleighs down to the lake, unload, then come back for more.”
“Each log gets stamped with our own mark, NTC—Namakagon Timber Company. It’s a good outfit, nephew. Big, too. So big that we hire on three or four hands yust to feed the crew and two more to feed and tend to the oxen and horses. We hire on a blacksmith and a carpenter, too. And another man whose only yob is to keep the saws and axes sharp. Ya, it’s a good crew, Tor. A gol dang good outfit!”
“What job do you do, Uncle?”
“Me? Why I keep the whole she-bang runnin’ smooth. I’m what you call a woods boss. I see to it the crew is woke up before five o’clock. After the men eat their morning’ meal, I get them off into the woods before daylight. They cut and haul pine till noon. We give them a good dinner, either at the cook shanty or out in the woods, depending where they are cutting. Then they work through till dark. Each night they return to camp hungry for another meal. After supper, it’s off to the sleep shanty to dry the sweat from their shirts, socks, and boots and to smoke their pipes. They tell a few tall tales and maybe sing along to the tune of a fiddle and a squeezebox before turning in.”
The train whistle blew two longs, one short, and another long. Ingman looked out the window at the passing landscape.
“By the time the swamps freeze up solid in December, we already have hundreds of loads of white pine to move. Some of our sleighs travel through the woods for many miles before finding their way out onto the frozen lake where the pine is rolled off onto the ice. In the spring after the ice goes out, our men take the logs over the dam and downstream. River pigs, they call us. Dangerous work. When the pine gets to the sawmills it is pulled from the river, tallied up and sawed into lumber for homes and businesses. The mills then pay your pa and he sees to it the men get their pay.”
The engine’s whistle sounded again. The train slowed as it approached the Oshkosh station. It pulled alongside the depot and came to a stop. A single long whistle gave the all clear to disembark. Ingman and Tor entered the depot. Ingman stepped up to the telegraph window. Minutes later and hundreds of miles to the north, Tor's father would read these words:
OLAF LOKEN … STOP … RINGSTADT BOARDING HOUSE … STOP… HAYWARD WISC … STOP … WILL ARRIVE TUESDAY WITH TOR … STOP … HEALTHY AND SHARP AS TACK … STOP … WHOOP IT UP … STOP… INGMAN.
From the telegraph office Ingman and Tor went into the depot restaurant for a hot meal while the train crew took on water and coal. Soon, the locomotive sped north again, stopping in Neenah, Menasha, Appleton, Stevens Point and Marshfield.
By late afternoon the train neared the immense Chippewa Falls railroad yard. Tor saw row after row of freight cars on the sidings. Most were stacked high with lumber. Others were filled with huge pine logs. Two switch engines were moving cars to make up the next trains leaving town. Another long train, laden with timber, was departing eastward. As they crossed the Chippewa River trestle, Tor saw logs floating down the river. Some were directed into a sluice that took them to lumber mills along the shore. Others floated over the falls. Men gingerly walked on top of the logs, pushing and pulling them with long, spiked poles.
“River pigs,” said his uncle, nodding towards the window. “They use those pike poles to sort and send the right logs to the sawmills.”
“Uncle, how do they keep from falling in?”
“Oh, they take a dunk now and then. Yust part of the yob.”
Smoldering, volcano-like sawdust piles spewed smoke high into the air. More smoke came from tall sawdust burners. The pungent smell of the pine smoke soon filled the passenger car. As the train neared the station, Tor surveyed the lively city
of Chippewa Falls with its new brick buildings. Overhead wires connected new electric streetlights, an innovation found only in the most modern of cities, as his uncle explained. The train rolled up to the depot. Tor saw hotels, taverns, and stores under construction as carpenters and masons raced to get them closed in by winter.
“Yust think, Tor. This is all paid for by the work being done in the lumber camps. Pine is making men rich and, right here, from the Chippewa River Valley to Lake Superior, lays the single biggest stand of white pine on dear Mother Earth, and we’re right in the midst of it! Big, beautiful white pines, Nephew. Some are three, maybe even four hundred years old. And you, me, and your pa, well, we are right, smack-dab in the middle of it all. It’s a great place to be.”
The train pulled to a stop at the Chippewa Falls depot. Tor, coat in hand, and Ingman, clutching carpet bag, stepped out onto the platform. The setting sun gave the yellow, orange, and red trees a warm evening glow.
The Lokens stepped up to the ticket master’s window. Ingman paid the fare for the next leg of their journey north before checking into a hotel for the night.
At dawn, Ingman and his nephew ate a large breakfast before boarding the northbound for Tor’s reunion with his father.
Clouds of steam rolled out from behind the engine’s huge drive wheels. Thick, black, coal smoke spewed from the locomotive’s stack, rising into the air. The smell of the smoke brought Tor memories of the coal yard he left the day before. He was glad to be on his way to see his father.
As the train rolled north through the new lumber towns of Eagle Point and Bloomer, the color in the hardwoods intensified. At the Cartwright station, the train picked up four lumberjacks and twenty-two flat cars.
Rumbling north again, with stops in the new lumber towns of Chetek, Cameron, Rice Lake, Haugen, and Chandler, Tor saw large stands of maple, oak, and birch passed over by the logging companies for the more profitable pine. Their red, yellow, and orange leaves glowed on the distant ridges. He listened to more stories over the rhythmic sounds of the wheels rolling on the steel rails as they passed through Superior Junction, Veazie, Ames, and Stinnett Landing. Tor watched the brilliant autumn landscape pass by.
“Nephew, we are comin’ into Hayward,” said Ingman, gazing out the window of the passenger car. Two long whistle blasts, one short, and another long echoed off the nearby hills as their train approached the new community. Tor looked out to see mile after mile of tall stacks of white pine lumber drying in the sun. As the train rounded a curve he got his first glimpse of the lively lumber town.
The sweet smell of pine soon flooded the car. Beyond the track, the dusty road was busy with horse-drawn wagons hauling lumber to waiting boxcars. Just as in Chippewa Falls, when the train approached the station, the fresh aroma of pine was replaced by the pungent smell of smoldering sawdust. Smoke from the huge sawdust burners filled the air. The train pulled into the Hayward yard.
“Right on the button,” Ingman said, checking his watch. “Ready, Nephew?”
They stepped off the train into the warm, fall sunlight and crossed the large, wooden platform, descending the steps to the crowded plank walkway. Turning west, the Lokens headed straight for Iowa Avenue, the busiest street in this young city. A horse-drawn wagon loaded with hand tools passed them, raising billows of dust. Other horses were tethered to wooden rails that stood before a large hotel on the corner.
Ingman led his nephew around and up the street. Far ahead, atop the hill, Tor saw men nailing cedar shingles onto the cupola of a new courthouse.
The Lokens worked their way up the street, past several stores, a bath house and barber shop, two banks, another hotel, a photographer’s studio, nine busy taverns, rooming houses, and a sparkling new church. Ingman led the way up the next block where they rounded the corner to Mrs. Ringstadt’s Boarding House. In the front parlor, seated in a wheel chair, waited Tor’s father, Olaf.
“Tor! Ingman! Come in! Come in!” he cried, laughing with joy. He tried to stand, but slumped back into his wheelchair.
“Father!” shouted Tor, rushing in. “Father!” The two hugged somewhat awkwardly because of the chair. Olaf kissed Tor on the forehead.
“Tor, my boy! Let me look at you! Oh, Tor, how I missed you. Why, look at you! By gosh, you’re tall! Taller than me—even if I could stand up. And you’re built strong and straight like—like a Loken man! Oh, it is so wonderful to see you again Tor. So, so wonderful!” He hugged his son again.
“Father, I thought I would never see you again. They told me—they said you—you had been killed.”
“Killed? No, Son, I’m still kicking! We Lokens are too hardheaded to give up without a good fight.”
“Ingman!” Olaf reached toward his brother. “Ingman, how in tarnation did you do it? How did you find our boy? Oh, Lord, such a wonderful day! Such a wonderful reunion! We must celebrate. Yes! The Loken boys are all in town. It is time to strike up the band, to raise the roof!”
The jubilation and excitement attracted others to the room. Adeline Ringstadt’s three daughters peeked from the kitchen.
“Who is that boy, Mama?” whispered Rose Ringstadt.
“He’s Tor Loken, Olaf’s son. You know, Rose, the boy Ingman has been looking for.”
“He is Olaf Loken’s son? Why, Mama, from the way Mr. Loken talked, I thought he was just a little boy.”
“He was very young when Olaf saw him last. Olaf told me Ingman found Tor in Chicago. Can you imagine that? Chicago.” She brushed past her daughters.
“Adeline,” shouted Olaf. “Come meet my son, Tor. Adeline, doesn’t that sound wonderful? My son, Tor—Torvald Ingman Loken, right here in your parlor! He had us worried for so long, but now he’s back. Yesiree Adeline, Tor Loken is back to stay!”
“Oh my, my!” said the landlady. “You are the image of your father, aren’t you. Yes, another eye-catcher you are, handsome as your father. Oh, mercy me, it is so good to finally meet you. We are all so happy to see you back with your family.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, too, Ma'am.”
“Mama,” came a loud whisper from the kitchen doorway. “Pssst. Mama.”
“Oh, my, yes,” said the apron-clad woman. “Tor, you must meet my daughter.” Then, turning toward the kitchen, “Rose, dear, come meet …”
But before she could finish, Rose Ringstadt stood in front of Tor. Her younger sisters followed close behind. “Tor, this is my daughter Rose Ringsta …”
“Rosie,” she exclaimed, reaching out to shake Tor’s hand. “You may call me Rosie. All my friends do.”
“I’m Daisy,” interrupted Rose’s younger sister, pushing in between Tor and Rose. The youngest daughter, Violet, stared up at Tor but said nothing.
“Daisy,” snapped Rose. “Mother,” she pleaded, pushing her sister aside. “Please remind Daisy to mind her manners.”
“Now, Daisy, Rose is right,” said her mother, “you shouldn’t …”
“Tor,” interrupted Rose again, “will you be staying with us long? I’d love to show you around our town. Maybe you’d like to meet my friends.”
“Well, uh, I don’t know how long we’re staying, Rose. Father? Do you know …”
“Rosie,” insisted the pretty, dark-haired sixteen-year-old. “You simply must call me Rosie! All my good friends do!”
“We will be here a time, Tor,” said his father.
“But not a long while, Nephew,” countered Ingman. “If it’s all right with your pa, you and I will be heading up to the camp in two days. There are supplies waiting for us at the depot in Cable. It’s a lumber town between here and the camp. Tomorrow I will send a telegram arranging to have those goods loaded into wagons, and Thursday we will be on our way.”
“Ingman,” Olaf said, “I have come to a decision. I will be going with you.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Olaf. It’s a long, hard ride from Cable out to the camp. You’re not ready for that kind of yourney.”
“Ingman, I know very well just how tough that
trip is. You will do well to remember I made it far more often than you, up until my accident. I can make the trip without any trouble to you. It will be good for me to get back to the camp. It doesn’t matter where this wheelchair sits—here in Hayward or up at the camp. It matters not a fiddlehead and that’s that.”
Mrs. Ringstadt interrupted. “Good for you, Olaf. Good for you. It’s time you got back into the midst of things again. No point in you sittin’ around here. But don’t you think twice if you feel you want to come back, Olaf Loken. You will always be welcome in my home. Welcome as a cool breeze in August.”
“Father, I will help you. I’ll be your right hand man, if you’ll have me.”
“Then it’s done!” shouted Olaf.
“Well, it seems I am out-numbered,” said Ingman. “So, come Thursday mornin’, we will be on the train north. By nightfall we will be back in the pines, back at the Namakagon Timber Company camp. Tonight, though, we celebrate. Adeline, don’t bother settin’ places at the table for us Loken boys tonight. We’ll be paintin’ the town red. And, Adeline, if we don’t turn up for breakfast, yust send someone down to the Sawyer County yailhouse to throw our bail!”