A Lumber Camp of To-day 



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 4:30 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. 



463 



