Chapter 11
The Loken Camp
Although the first eight-mile leg of the wagon ride to camp was rough on Olaf Loken, he uttered not a word of complaint. The elation he felt, finally returning to his home on the lake, far outweighed the difficulty of the journey.
To Tor, the trip was a great adventure. Around each bend he saw more wonders of nature. He also heard more from his uncle about the woods and waters he could now call home.
The rough, rutted trail followed the river, snaking through the forest and crossing several creeks. All four travelers were pleased to reach the fork near the dam. It meant they were at the halfway point. It did not mean the traveling would be easier.
They took the south road. It narrowed again. The ruts were deep. They held tight to their hats and ducked under branches hanging over the trail. Still, they made good time, according to Ingman.
Then, through the trees, the lake appeared. “There she is, Tor!” shouted Olaf. “Lake Namakagon. Oh, how I have longed for this sweet sight.”
Tor jumped from the wagon as Ingman pulled back on the reins. He ran down the short path to the lake. A southern breeze formed small waves that sparkled in the afternoon sun. As Tor reached the shore, a Great Blue Heron flushed and flew across the bay bawling out a loud whaaahk. Tor watched it glide over the water and land on a low oak limb near the opposite shore. The branch bobbed up and down under the bird’s weight.
A late hatch of dragonflies zipped here and there above dark green cattails. One landed on the edge of a lily pad in front of him. Tor knelt to look. As he did, a large bluegill sucked it from sight with a pop, a splash, and a swirl. It quickly devoured the insect as another big bluegill tried to steal it away.
Tor stood again, scanning the landscape and taking in as much of this beauty as his senses would allow. The scene was breathtaking with tall, majestic white pines, yet untouched by the lumberjacks, lining the shores to the east.
Turning to the north, he saw a different scene. Large chest-high pine stumps and thick underbrush were all that remained of the old-growth forest beyond the shore. It had been clear cut. The contrast between the awe-inspiring, pristine, natural view across the lake and this harsh scene of forest destruction to his left was unsettling. He turned away.
Tor picked up a stone and threw it far out into the quiet bay. He watched as the concentric ripples expanded, eventually disappearing into the surrounding blue water.
“All aboard,” shouted Tor’s uncle. “Next stop is Loken’s Namakagon Timber Company. Make haste, Nephew!” Tor ran back up the path to the wagons. With one, smooth motion he was up and onto the seat next to Ingman. A twitch of the reins, a soft giddup, and the wagons began the last leg of the journey started only days before in Chicago.
Deep ruts from earlier wagons, pushed and pulled the Loken rigs, rocking them and their passengers from side to side. Brush on both sides of the trail leaned in, often raking across the men. Occasionally the trail would open, but soon the brush would close in again, often worse than before.
The horses trudged forward, the twisting trail crossing a narrow creek and stretches of wetland. Small diameter logs had been laid side-by-side across the bog, making it passable by wagon. The rigs shook with a rhythmic shudder as they crossed this corduroy road before proceeding up the slope.
Tor looked ahead. The trail was blocked by a windfall. They pulled up to three large, fallen pines. Tor, Buck and Ingman climbed down. Tor held the reins, steadying the horses. Buck drew two double-bit axes from his wagon. Without a word, he handed one to Ingman who climbed across the logs to the far side. Tor’s uncle felt the edge of the blade with his thumb. He then pulled a pair of leather gloves from his coat pocket. Ingman grabbed the ax and started swinging. Soon each chop was throwing large chips of pine into the air. Within minutes the two men cut through the trees and were moving down the logs to make the next cuts. Again the chips flew as Buck and Ingman chopped. Buck returned to the wagon, lifted the corner of the tarp and pulled out a picaroon. He stepped back to the pine, swung the tool into the end of one log and heaved back, turning the log. Twice more he drove the tool into the log and pulled, rolling it off the trail. Ingman was now through the third log. Breathing heavily, he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Grabbing both axes, he returned to the rigs. Buck rolled the last log off the trail and the wagons were on their way.
“Sure didn’t take you and Buck very long,” said Tor. “I thought we’d be here till nightfall.”
“Till nightfall? Why, those were yust toothpicks! Hope we don’t run across any big trees blocking the road. Nephew, years ago, your pa and I were on a road quite a ways west of here one stormy day. The wind came up and this big, ol’ pine fell right, smack-dab in front of us. It was so gol dang big, why we knew we couldn’t cut it before winter set in. Well, Tor, we yust took out our shovels and covered it up with dirt, then went right over the top. Nowadays, they call that the Rocky Mountains.” he said, straight-faced.
Tor shook his head. “Yarn or no yarn, Uncle, your ax sure made short work of those trees.”
“Good thing these were yust pine. A big oak or maple really brings the sweat out of you.”
Tor readied himself for another tall tale but, instead, heard advice from the seasoned logger.
“Tor, any good bark eater will tell you it isn’t as much about muscle as it is about brains. First thing you need is a good double-bit ax that has been sharpened right. The man in the file shed can make a woodchopper’s life miserable or he can make it a breeze.”
“Next, you need to know how to swing and where to hit in order to bring out the biggest wood chips with the least effort. A good lumberyack knows how to fell a tree with the fewest swings so he has plenty of vim and vigor left over for the next tree. I’ll give you a lesson after we have been in camp for a spell. You will soon know how to both sharpen and swing an ax, though I don’t see you using one much. We will have better use for you, I ’spect.
“Now, a good, sharp, crosscut saw will take down a pine with far less effort than an ax,” Ingman continued. “Buck and I used axes on those windfalls because it would have been hard to get a saw in there. Out in the woods, though, you will see two sawyers working a crosscut saw to fell the tree. Then they will usually cut it into sixteen-foot logs while another fella, the swamper, uses an ax to limb the tree … er … trim off the branches.”
“Next, a teamster brings in his ox or his horse, wraps a chain around the end of the log and skids it out to the tote road where it can be loaded onto a timber sleigh. The sleigh brings the logs out onto the frozen lake where they lay all winter. Come spring, when the ice melts and the water levels are high, we drive the whole she-bang on down the river to the sawmills in Hayward. If we get a better offer from some other buyer, we might drive them downstream to a different mill. Maybe all the way to Stillwater or even St. Paul or LaCrosse.”
“So, Uncle, what will I do at the camp? What will my job be?”
“You? Well, let me see. What task do we have for Tor Loken? Hmmm. How are you at peeling spuds?”
“I had plenty of experience at the orphanage, Uncle, though I never really took a liking to it.”
Ingman laughed. “Well now, Tor, I don’t suppose we will have you skinnin’ the hides off of spuds for eighty-eight yacks. My guess is you will be your pa’s right-hand-man. He will need you to be his legs, too. You and Olaf will likely run the business end of things and I will oversee the men. The three of us should be able to make a good go of it. Your father knows more about the lumber trade than most of the big shots in the really big outfits. He has a mind for this business and a feel for the pine. Like I say, the three of us Lokens, we will make her go, alright. We’re gonna have the Namakagon Timber Company runnin’ like a ten dollar watch!”
As the horses negotiated the rough trail again, holding on became more tiring, especially to Tor’s father. The four men talked less. After a few more rough miles of ruts, brush, and corduroy, Tor noticed the road was wide
ning. Here and there, a few white pine stumps could be seen among the smaller pines, balsams, cedar, and spruce.
“Tor,” called his father from the second wagon, “you are now on Loken land. This is part of our holdings.”
“Ya, ya” said Ingman. “The Loken land runs from the lake to two miles north of here and yust about three miles east. It’s a fine piece of property. There’s enough timber left for at least one more season of cutting. Your pa and I are planning to bid for some more nearby land, too. If we get it, we’ll be in business here for a good while longer.”
Within minutes, the wagons rounded a bend and climbed a slight grade into the lumber camp. The road widened into a large yard surrounded by log buildings. To the right was a small structure with a lean-to roof and open front. Inside, Tor could see a massive stump supporting a huge anvil and an assortment of large and small tools. This was the blacksmith’s shack. Next to it stood the filing shed where one of the workers would be kept busy all winter keeping the crosscuts and axes razor sharp. In the pinery, this man was known as the camp dentist, although the only teeth he fixed were on the saw blades.
A flock of twenty chickens ran across the dusty, lumber camp yard in front of the wagons as the travelers ambled past a big garden and cabbage patch. Hundreds of pumpkins and squash could be seen in a clearing behind.
Ahead was a large barn. A half-dozen horses and a white colt could be seen behind the barn near a chicken coop and a pigpen. Across from the barn stood a long, low, log building with a portico and a double doorway. Tor saw two skylights, one on each end, but not one window. Three black stovepipe chimneys poked out of the roof. The chimney on the near end of the building, Ingman explained, was for the single woodstove in the sleep shanty, where the workers would be bunking in two months. The two chimneys on the far end came from the huge, cast-iron kitchen stoves in the cook shanty. Inside, the cook’s pantry also housed the wannigan. There, the workmen could get tobacco, wool socks, and other necessities, all charged against their spring paychecks. Behind the cook shanty stood a large lean-to, stacked to the rafters with a winter’s supply of firewood.
At the far end of the yard, overlooking the lake, stood the only two-story building in camp. This was a grand, handsome, log cabin, large enough to contain the company office and the living quarters for the Loken family.
“Tor,” said Ingman, “your pa built this home for you and your ma. It deeply hurts him that only part of his dream for you and your ma came true.”
As they neared the lodge, tears came to Olaf’s deep blue eyes. This was a bittersweet return. He was overjoyed to be returning home after more than two years away. He was thrilled to have his son by his side again. At the same time, he was saddened, wishing fate had taken a different turn. How he longed for Tor’s mother to be there with them to enjoy this homecoming. He remained silent about his grief and regret. Olaf Loken wiped his eyes, resolved to move on, to do his best to make this a good home for his son.
Closer now, Tor got a good look at his new home. Above the lodge door was a hand-painted sign reading Namakagon Timber Company. Below, Olaf Loken, Prop. The grand log building had a tall, stone chimney and large windows facing the lake. A broad porch stretched around three sides. Two log benches flanked the large double doors. The doors were blocked open to let fresh autumn air flow through the handsome lodge.
“Hello in the camp!” shouted Tor’s father as their wagons approached the office. Seconds later a short, round man wearing a white apron came through the office doors onto the porch. He was waving with one hand and holding a large wooden spoon in the other.
“Well, my Lord in Heaven, look what didn’t blow in, and, wouldn’t ya know, just before supper,” shouted the stout man from the porch. “Olaf Loken! It is genuinely wonderful to see you back,” he said.
“Sourdough!” shouted Ingman. “This young man is Olaf’s boy, Tor.” Then, “Nephew, this fellow here is the most important man in camp. Name is Mieczyslaw Kczmarczyk but we yust call him Sourdough. He is the one and only fellow in camp who can silence all the other men three times every day!”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Tor.
“Welcome to camp. Had I knowd your Uncle Ingman was bringin’ you and your pa and Buck today, I would have butchered an extra dang mule or two. But don’t you never mind me, I will have supper for the lot of you, as usual.”
“We’re having mule for supper?” Tor asked his uncle, wide-eyed.
“Sourdough,” said Ingman, “the way you spout off, it would seem we wouldn’t have a single mule left in Bayfield County! They’d all be butchered to make that watered-down stew of yours!”
“Ingman, you old Norski, now don’t you start up! Not two minutes in camp and already you’re complainin’ ’bout my cookin’! Why, I could serve you up mule, mink, or muskrat and you would still eat twice your share and ask for the bones to gnaw on!”
“We really havin’ mule for supper, Pa?”
“Pay no attention to your uncle. Sourdough’s not such a bad cook, be it mule, muskrat, or whatever he puts in the stewpot.” Then, “Buck, you take care of the wagons. Meet us in the lodge for supper. First, though, give me a hand getting off this dang bone shaker. I’ve had enough travelin’ for a while.”
Buck climbed from the wagon seat, brought Olaf’s wheelchair around, and helped him down. Tor wheeled his father onto the porch. Olaf took control of the wheels and spun the chair around to look across the yard, hearing only the sound of the light breeze drifting through the bright, yellow tamaracks.
Olaf squeezed his son’s hand. “It surely is good to be home, Tor. So good to be back here in the Loken camp with my son and my brother. There were times I thought I might never see this day. But here we are. The Lokens are back. Back home and ready to make timber.”
“Pa?” whispered Tor, “Does Sourdough really serve mule meat for dinner?”