LOGGING FOR PULP WOOD IN THE SOUTHERN APPALACHIANS 



Bringing in a string of logs 



Crack ! Like a pistol shot, the driver's 

 whip brings us back with a snap to the 

 ox-team coming for the logs. A few 

 minutes another crack of the whip, at 

 which every beast leans into the yoke, 

 and our "paper" is on its way again. 

 The trail down which we follow the 

 logs is a gully three or four feet deep, 

 partly dug and partly worn into the 

 ground ; and in the bottom of it is a little 

 stream of water which makes a slippery 

 mud over which the logs glide easily. 

 A walk of three-quarters of a mile 

 brings us to the log yard, where the 

 logs are cut up into billets. Two at a 

 time, the string is finally brought to the 

 pile and the cattle amble off after an- 

 other load. 



The logs are now ready to be sawn 

 and split up into five-foot billets pre- 

 paratory to being shot down the pole- 

 chute to the creek below. On a rainy 

 day, when the chute is wet, a hundred- 

 pound billet will shoot down a forty- 

 per-cent grade at the rate of a mile a 

 minute, leaping from the end of the 

 chute far out into space and striking 

 the stony creek-bed only three or four 

 690 



times before it comes to rest a thou- 

 sand feet below. A stirring scene it is 

 to watch these billets jump from the 

 chute, crash on the ledge below, and 

 leap again, until finally they lie quiet in 

 the pile, just above the so-called "wet- 

 chute," far below. 



But come ! the splash dam is about to 

 be opened, and we must be on hand. 

 Away up on the side of the mountain 

 man has constructed a dam, behind 

 which he holds a little pond of water. 

 For a day and a night the water from 

 a tiny brook has been collecting. A 

 chute from the top of the mountain 

 brings billets directly into the quiet pool 

 and those from another chute are run 

 into the creek just below the dam. As 

 we stand watching, of a sudden the 

 gate is loosened, flying up, and out 

 pours the water, carrying the billets 

 down the steep mountain-side in a 

 whirling, dashing mass. Oftentimes the 

 billets are broken and split, but no dam- 

 age is done, for when they reach the 

 mill they will be cut to bits. But let 

 us go back to the dam and see how it 

 was constructed. Though only fifty feet 



