Kitabı oku: «The Pioneer Woodsman as He Is Related to Lumbering in the Northwest», sayfa 7
Buffalo was always ready to act promptly and to do, or to undertake to do, anything that was requested of him. On this occasion he had an opportunity to demonstrate these good qualities. The trip was attended with the greatest of hardships, of heavy work, and of exposure to intense cold. Buffalo was a good axman, and not one night did he fail to cut and pile near to the camp, enough wood to last until after breakfast the next morning.
Our camp was established on the shores of Kekekabic Lake, in Township 64 N., Range 7 W., for several days and nights. There were many partridges in this section of the forest. They would come out on the borders of the woods next to the lake. It was possible to shoot one or more nearly every day, so that the camp was supplied with fresh game. The cook and Buffalo remained at the camp, while Mr. Patrick and I went out each day to examine timber, returning at night. The daylight covered none too many hours, so that we arose early and started on our journey after breakfast, as soon as we could see to travel, in order that the day's work might be accomplished, and the return to camp made before dark. It was not possible to calculate the day's work so as to be sure that we could reach camp before nightfall, but, owing to the intense cold that prevailed at this time, it was only the part of wisdom to plan so as to return to camp while we could yet see where to travel. Nearly every day's work was, in part at least, over a new tract of land, to which a new trail must be broken in the morning as we went out to the work.
One day our work lay directly north of our camp, through the woods, out onto a small lake, and again into the woods. We knew, before leaving camp in the morning, that it would require our best efforts to accomplish the work and to return before nightfall. For this reason, we started at daybreak, and, after having done our best, it was night before we commenced to retrace our steps. The cold had increased all day, so that we were obliged to summon our courage at times, to keep our feet and hands from freezing. We were only two miles from camp when our return journey began; but two miles in an unbroken wilderness, in deep snow, with the only path to follow being the tracks made by two men passing once over it, is a long distance to travel when daylight has disappeared, and when to leave those tracks at such a temperature, would probably prove fatal.
Within a few minutes from the time of our beginning to retrace our steps, each step was taken by the sense of feeling. We were both clad in moccasins, which made it possible, through the sense of feeling, to distinguish between the unbroken snow and that which had been stepped upon during the morning hours of that day. Being in darkness, we dared not proceed whenever we were not certain that our feet were in the path that we had made on going out to our work. A few times we lost the path. Immediately we stopped, one man standing still, in order that we might not lose our location, while the other felt around until the path was regained. We knew that if we should lose it, the one thing remaining for us would be to walk around a tree, if it were possible to do so, until morning light should appear. We went slowly on, never giving up hope.
It was getting late in the evening, so that Buffalo, at camp, became alarmed for our safety. His wits were at work, and he commenced to build a large fire. Then he found, near by, a dead pine stub. About this he piled kindling until he got it on fire. It is not possible to write words describing the satisfaction and joy with which we two lonely travelers finally spied the illumination, penetrating the dark forest for a short distance only, it is true, yet far enough. Soon we walked into camp, to the joy of all of the party, and there we found an excellent supper awaiting us. Buffalo's big wood pile was in waiting at all the hours of that night, and some one was astir to keep the fire going. It was the only night of my long experience of living in the woods, when it was impossible, for more than a short period, to be comfortable away from the fire, and even then, we each in turn revolved our bodies about the open fire, first warming one side, and then the other, and slept but little.
After our work was completed, and we had gotten back in touch with the civilized world, we were told by residents at Tower, that the thermometer on that night, had indicated from 48° to 52° below zero.
The following summer, on one of my trips to this then picturesque country in northeastern Minnesota, I tried the experiment of taking my wife, who had long been an invalid, and my son, Frank Merton, then a boy in his early teens, with me, in the hope that the trip would prove beneficial to the wife and mother. The experiment was in no way disappointing, although on one occasion when the rain had poured incessantly, leaving the woods drenched, in crossing a rather blind and unavoidable portage, Mrs. Warren's clothing became thoroughly wet. In the absence of a wardrobe from which to choose a change of garments, the expedient was resorted to of requesting her to remove one garment at a time, which Vincent De Foe, a half-breed, and James O'Neill, an old and trusty friend, held to the open fire, until it was dry. This she replaced, when another wet garment went through the same process, until all had been dried. No ill effects followed; on the contrary, Mrs. Warren's health continued to improve.
At the end of the trip I was so happy over the results that I sent the following account of some of its incidents to Dr. Albert Shaw, then of the Minneapolis Tribune, and at present, editor of the Review of Reviews. This little account appeared in the Tribune of Saturday, September 6, 1890:
"IN THE WILDS OF MINNESOTA
Mrs. G. H. Warren's Travels in the Northeastern Part of the State
Mrs. G. H. Warren and her son Frank returned to the city Monday from a two weeks' tour of the Vermilion Iron Range, north of Lake Superior. Their trip was both interesting and novel. From Ely, the eastern terminus of the Duluth & Iron Range Railroad, they embarked in birch canoes, traversing ten lakes, thirteen portages and three small rivers as far as they were navigable for birch canoes. The whole distance thus traveled included over one hundred miles. Pike, pickerel, bass, white fish, or landlocked salmon abound in all these lakes of rugged shores. Master Frank reports the capture of a twenty-seven inch pike and a thirty-seven inch pickerel. In one of the bays of Basswood Lake—a beautiful body of clear water thirty miles in length and extending several miles into Canada—the Indians were seen gathering wild rice. This is accomplished by the male Indian standing upright in the bow of his canoe, and paddling it forward through the field of rice, the stalks of which grow from three to four feet above the water; while his squaw sits in the stern of the canoe, and with two round sticks about the size, and half the length of a broom handle, dexterously bends the long heads of the rice over the gunwale of the canoe with one stick, while at the same instant, she strikes the well filled heads a sharp, quick blow with the other, threshing out the kernels of rice, which fall into the middle portion of the canoe. This middle portion is provided, for the occasion, with a cloth apron, into which the rice kernels fall. The apron will hold about two bushels, and is filled in the manner above described in less than three hours' time. The rice is next picked over to free it from chaff and straw, after which it is placed in brass kettles and parched over a slow fire; then it is winnowed, and is ready for future use.
Mrs. Warren is the first white woman to penetrate so far on the frontier of wild Northeastern Minnesota, and though never before subjected to uncivilized life, or the primitive mode of travel, she endured the walks over the portages, slept soundly on beds of balsam fir boughs, ate with a relish the excellent fish and wild game cooked at the camp fire, and returns to her home in the city with health much improved, and enthusiastic over the many beauties of nature in this yet wild, but attractive portion of Minnesota."
CHAPTER XXI.
Forest Fires
The terrible forest fires that swept over much of Wisconsin and Minnesota during the summer of 1894, resulting in such an appalling loss of life at Hinckley and vicinity, will always be remembered by the people living in the northern half of Minnesota.
One who has never been in the forest at a time when the fires within it extended over many miles of area, cannot appreciate the danger and the anxiety of those who are thus placed. I vividly recall two days during the summer of the Peshtigo fire, when I was in the burning woods of Wisconsin. The sun was either entirely obscured, or it hung like a red ball above the earth, now penetrating the clouds of smoke, now again being hidden by them. The smoke came at times in great rolls at the surface of the earth, then was caught up by the breeze and lifted to higher altitudes, and at all times was bewildering to those whom it surrounded.
No one could tell from what point of the compass the distant fire was most dangerous, nor in what direction it was making most rapid progress toward the point where he was located. At times one became choked by the thick smoke. For many hours, during one of these days, I moved with my face close to the ground, that I might get air sufficient to breathe. When finally I came to an open country where the currents of wind could lift the smoke, I experienced a feeling of the greatest thankfulness that I was delivered from the condition of the two last days, surrounded with so much uncertainty as to my safety.
The memorable fire of September 1st, 1894, which swept Hinckley and all its surrounding country, resulted in the death of four hundred and seventeen human beings, left destitute two thousand two hundred, and extended over an area of four hundred square miles. The financial loss was upwards of one million dollars.
That loss does not include the great losses of timber situated in the northeastern part of Minnesota, extending all along its boundary and reaching into Canada. The fire in northeastern Minnesota destroyed millions of dollars worth of standing pine timber, much of which was entirely consumed, while portions of it were killed at the root. Such timber as was thus killed, but not destroyed, had most of its value yet remaining, provided that it were cut and put in the water, during the first one or two seasons following. Later than that, most of its value would have been destroyed by worms boring into the dead timber. On account of these fires, it was necessary for all timber owners to make a careful examination of all timber lands within the burnt district. For this purpose, accompanied by S. D. Patrick, and E. A. White, timber examiners to assist in the work, and my son, Frank Merton, then a senior in the University of Minnesota, besides packers, I went, in 1897, into the burnt districts in northeastern Minnesota.
As a result of these forest fires, one of the worst pests that the frontiersman meets is the black fly, which flourishes in a burnt country. This little insect is apparently always hungry, is never tired, and wages a relentless fight upon every inch of the white man's epidermis that is exposed to its reach, even penetrating the hair and beard of a man, and leaving the effects of its poisonous bite. So terrible were these little pests, and so numerous were they on two days of the excursion, that one eye of each of three of the white men in the party was so badly swollen by the bites of the insects, that it was closed. No remedy has ever been offered that effectually protects the woodsman from injuries inflicted by this insect.
While our party was on that expedition that summer, reestimating the timber in the burnt district, Mr. Patrick came close to a large bull moose standing in some thick woods. The animal had not yet discovered Mr. Patrick's presence, consequently he was able to carefully examine and study this great beast of our northern woods. Below the animal's hips, on either side, at a point where he could in no wise protect himself from the ravages of this insect pest, the poor beast's flesh was raw and was bleeding. The Indians claim that their dogs frequently go mad and have to be killed as a result of the bites inflicted by these insects.
In proof of the wide range of their activities I will briefly relate one experience with them in Wisconsin. Joseph McEwen and I left Wausau one morning, riding out behind a livery team twenty miles to the Big Eau Plaine River, in search of desirable cranberry marsh lands. The country we traveled over was flat. Fires had recently killed the timber, and black flies formed one vast colony over this territory.
Our driver had trouble controlling the horses, so fierce was the attack of the black flies upon them. We arrived at the nearest point of our work that could be reached by team about ten o'clock in the forenoon, and dismissed our driver. We then proceeded on foot into this burnt, marshy country, attacked continuously by swarms of flies. They penetrated our ears, our noses, and our mouths if we opened them. They worked themselves into our hair, up our sleeves, under our collar bands, over the tops of our socks and down into them until they found the end of our drawers where, next, was our naked skin.
We camped at night in the marsh. The next morning the attack was renewed as vigorously as it had been waged on the previous day. At eleven o'clock we stopped for our dinner. McEwen wore a heavy beard all over his face; my face was bare. He looked at me as we were eating our dinner, then dryly remarked, "I don't know how I look, but you look like the devil; the black flies have bitten you everywhere; your face is a fright." We went out to the main road, and secured a conveyance by which we reached Wausau about five o'clock that afternoon.
I went immediately to my accustomed hotel, owned and managed by Charles Winkley. He had known me well for years, and I had left him less than forty-eight hours previous to my entering on that afternoon. Mr. Winkley was behind his desk. I greeted him and asked him how business was. He answered me quite independently that his house was full, and that he had not a vacant room. I then asked him if there was any mail for me, giving him my full name. He looked at me in astonishment, then exclaimed, "My God! What is the matter of you?" I said, "Black flies." Then he continued, "I mistook you for some man with the small-pox and was planning to notify the authorities and have you cared for. Go right to your room and stay there. Mrs. Winkley will care for you and have your meals brought to you. I will go to the postoffice every day for your mail." My face was one blotch of raw sores. My eyes were nearly closed because of the poison from the black flies.
The best remedy or preventive we have ever found against all insect pests of the northern woods, is smoked bacon rubbed onto the bare skin in generous quantities. Its presence is not essentially disagreeable. Objection to its use is prejudice, since it is no less pleasant than is the oil of cedar or pennyroyal which are often prescribed by druggists for the same purpose, and which are not half as continuous in their efficacy, because a little perspiration will neutralize all of the good effects of the latter named remedies. Soap and water will remove the bacon grease when protection from flying insects is no longer desired.
There are other and more interesting living things in the northern woods than black flies, to which statement I am willing to testify. I had been running some lines one summer, for the purpose of locating a tote road to some camps where work was to be prosecuted the following fall. It was known among the homesteaders, as well as trappers, that a large bear lived in that vicinity. On one occasion he had been caught in a "dead-fall" that had been set for him, and he had gotten out of it, leaving only some tufts of his hair.
Alone, and while blazing a line for this proposed road, one sunny afternoon, I came onto a table-rock, in a little opening in the woods, where fifty feet in front of me lay a large pine tree that had blown down. As some small brush crackled under my feet, a bear, which I have ever since believed from descriptions that had previously been given me, was the much wanted great bear, stood up in front of me, close by the fallen tree. Presumably he had been awakened from an afternoon nap. The only weapon that I possessed was what is known as a boy's ax, the size and kind usually carried by land examiners. I had not sought this new acquaintance, nor did I at that moment desire a closer one, but mentally decided, and that quickly, that the wrong thing to do would be to make any effort to get to a place of safety. I therefore decided to stand my ground and to put up the best fight possible with my small ax, in case the bear insisted on a closer acquaintance. Why I should have laughed on such an occasion as this, I never have known, but the perfect helplessness of my situation seemed so ridiculous, that I broke into a loud laugh. I have often wondered why that bear at that moment seemed to think that he had seen enough of the man whom he faced. Certain it was, that he turned on his hind legs, leaped over the log, and disappeared, leaving only the occasional sound of a twig breaking under his feet. So well pleased was I with the less distinct notes of the breaking twigs, that I waited and listened until I could no longer hear any of the welcome, receding music. The excitement having subsided, an inspection of the little ax revealed the fact that the head was nearly, but not quite off its handle. This incident has always been sufficient to convince me that I have no desire to approach nearer to this animal of the northern woods.
In the summer of 1899, some special work was required north of Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Accompanied by my son, Frank Merton, and a cook named Fred Easthagen, I left Grand Rapids on a buckboard drawn by two horses and driven by Dan Gunn, the popular proprietor of the Pokegama Hotel. Our route was over a new road where stumps and pitch holes were plentiful. The team of horses was said to have been raised on the western plains, and objected strenuously to being driven over this stump road. One of the horses balked frequently, and, when not standing still, insisted on running. The passengers, except Easthagen, became tired of this uneven mode of travel, and preferred to walk, being able to cover the ground equally as fast as the team. Easthagen, however, sat tight through it all; he having come from the far West, refused to walk when there was a team to pull him.
Our camp was made in a fine grove of pig-iron Norway, near to which dwelt Mr. and Mrs. Sandy Owens, settlers upon government land. From this camp we were able to prosecute our work for a long period of time. The late summer and autumn were very dry. Both wolves and deer abounded in this vicinity, and not far away ranged many moose. Large lumbering camps were about ten miles away. Oxen had been turned loose for the summer, to pasture in the woods and cut-over lands. Passing, one day, a root house built into the side of a hill, we pushed open the door, and in there found the remains of an ox. The animal had probably entered the root house to get away from the flies, and, the door having closed behind him, he had no means of escape, so that the poor beast had perished of hunger and thirst. The ground was dry, and all the brush, and twigs, and leaves lying thereon, had become brittle and crackled under the feet of every walking creature. This interfered much with the ability of the wolves to surprise the deer, rabbits, or other animals on which they are accustomed to feed, so that they were hungry. On this account they had become emboldened, so much so, that they would, at nightfall or toward evening, venture near enough to show themselves.
My son was coming in alone, from work one evening, when a pack of wolves followed him for some distance, occasionally snapping out their short yelp, and had he been less near the camp, he might have been in great danger. As it was, however, they kept back from him in the woods, but not so far as to prevent his hearing them.
An interesting article appeared in one of the numbers of "Country Life in America," on the subject of breeding skunks for profit. From their pelts is made and sold a fine quality of fur, known, to the purchaser, at least, as stone martin. The nearest approach to a natural farm of these animals that I have ever known was that existing at Sandy Owen's cabin, and immediately adjacent to it. These little animals were numerous in the Norway grove in which we were camped.
My son and I slept in a small "A" tent which at night was closed. On one occasion I was awakened by feeling something moving across my feet on the blankets, covering us. I spoke quietly to my son, requesting him to be careful not to move, for something was in the tent, and probably, that something was a skunk. With the gentlest of motions, I moved just sufficiently to let the animal know that I was aware of its presence in the tent. Immediately the animal retreated off of my legs, while we remained quiet for some time in the tent. Then a match was struck and with it a candle lighted, when a small hole was discovered at the foot of the tent where evidently the animal had nosed its way in, and through which it had retreated. In the morning when my son and I arose, unmistakable evidence was discovered, near where our heads had lain, that his skunkship had visited us during the night.
Mr. and Mrs. Owens left their cabin to visit another settler, several miles distant, leaving the key with the cook, and telling him that he could use it if he had occasion to do so. Coming in one evening from a cruise, the cook went to the cabin to make and bake some bread in Mrs. Owen's stove. A small hole had been cut in the door, to admit the Owens' cat. On entering, Easthagen saw a skunk sitting in the middle of the floor. The animal retreated under the bed, while the cook kindled a fire in the stove and began mixing the dough for the bread. He baked the bread and cooked the evening meal for three persons, considerately tossing some bits of bread and meat near to where the skunk was concealed. Our party ate supper outside the door a short distance from the cabin. The animal remained in the cabin that night and until after breakfast, a portion of which latter the cook fed to it, when taking the broom, he, by easy and gentle stages, pushed the skunk toward the door, removing the animal without accident.
The state of Minnesota has some excellent laws to prevent the destruction of game animals by the pothunter. Notwithstanding this fact, a greater or less number of market hunters have been able to subsist by killing unlawful game and selling the meat to the lumber camps at about five cents per pound. Many men interested in the ownership of timber lands, have been aware of this fact and have been desirous of preventing the unlawful killing of moose and deer. Some lumbermen, also, have refused to buy the meat from these market hunters. It has not been safe, however, for such people to offer evidence against these hunters. There have been two principal reasons that have deterred them from so doing. One is, that the informant's personal safety would have become endangered, and the other reason is, that his timber would have been in danger of being set on fire. It rests, therefore, with the game wardens, to ferret out and prosecute to the best of their ability, all offenders against the game law.
In the latter part of the season of 1905, my son and I, accompanied by James O'Neill, a frontiersman and trusty employee, made a canoe trip from Winton down the chain of lakes on the boundary line between Minnesota and Canada, as far as Lake La Croix. We camped at night and traveled by day, being always in Minnesota. We saw racks in Minnesota made by the Indians, on which to smoke the meat of the moose they had killed. We counted twenty-one moose hides hung up to dry. The moose had doubtless been killed as they came to the lakes to get away from flies and mosquitoes. All these animals were unlawfully killed.
A more pleasant sight than the one just related was once accorded us while working in this same country. We were quietly pushing our canoes up a sluggish stream that had found its bed in a spruce swamp. There, in many places, pond lilies were growing, their wide leaves resting on the surface of the water. The roots of the lilies are much relished as a food by the moose. We have seen the moose standing out in the bays of the lakes, and in the almost currentless streams, where the water was up to the animal's flanks, or where its body was half immersed, and poking its head deep below the surface in search of the succulent roots of the lilies. On this day, a mother moose and her twin calves had come to this stream to feed. She was in the act of reaching down under the water for a lily root, as we pushed our canoes quietly over the surface of the water into her very presence. The first to observe us was one of the young calves not more than two days old, that rose to its feet, close by on the shore. The mother looked toward her calf before she saw us; then, without undue haste, waded ashore. At this moment the second calf arose, shook itself, then, with the other twin, joined its mother. The three moved off into the spruce swamp as we sat quietly in our canoes, enjoying to the fullest this most unusual opportunity of the experienced woodsman, accustomed as he is to surprises. Our only regret on this occasion was, that we had no camera with us.
