White Pine (9 page)

Thankfully, the next day was back to business
as usual. That morning, I was one of the first up. I hopped out of
my bunk, put on my gear, and headed over to the stove where a pair
of my Canadian greys was hanging from a rail. I pulled on those
thick wool socks that were nice and warm. Then, I grabbed my
boots.

I shoved one foot in and felt my foot slide a
little. I wiggled my foot around, then felt a warm, wet liquid
penetrate my sock. I pulled my foot out, touched the sticky mess on
my sock, sniffed it, and then tasted it. Syrup.

“Dog-gone-it.” Someone had poured syrup into
my boots.

While other fellas were heading over to the
cookshack, I was trying to clean out my boots. My socks were
soaked, so I peeled that pair off. I grabbed my other pair of wool
socks from where they were hanging. But they were still wet from
the day before, and I sure didn’t want to put wet socks on. It was
cold outside, well below zero.

By then, I was one of the last fellas in the
bunkhouse. I heard the door slam. I looked up.

Roget.

I paused, self conscious that I wasn’t quite
ready yet. He eyeballed me and sniffed. Some part of me deep inside
still wanted to impress him, to show him I deserved to be out in
the Northwoods, a lumberjack, just like he was.

That was what decided me. He wasn’t out the
door before I stuck my bare feet into my still sticky boots, pulled
on my coat, stuffed my mittens into my pockets, and pulled my toque
down on my head. Heading out, I grabbed some grub on the way by the
cookshack, and then joined the other lumberjacks on their way
out.

It was a good logging day. It was cold but
the sun was shining bright and reflecting off the snow. I worked
with Aaron Hawkins. He was a patient man who had sons of his own
that were just a little younger than me. Working methodically, and
talking to me all the while, he taught me the job of barker. Now,
it came to me easy enough. I didn’t have to think real hard, and
the day flew by, and I knew I was one day closer to going home.

Johan and Ole worked their crosscut saw as a
team. Now, I watched Roget and his partner, Adam, a fella who was
half Chippewa Indian, work. Those two were regarded as the best at
our camp. They were artists who did their work with flamboyance,
grace, and a complete lack of fear. More often than not, they
preferred to go after a tree in the old way, with a single bit axe.
They stopped and argued frequently. Still, they were usually the
best producers for our camp. These Swedish brothers had an entirely
different style of logging. They didn’t say much and they weren’t
interested in doing anything fancy. They simply wanted to cut down
as many trees as fast as possible. They could place a tree as it
came down as well as any fella, but they didn’t care to show off by
having it do anything fancy like drive a stake into the ground.
Still, the Johnsens worked brutally hard and cut down an enormous
number of pines. Hawkins and I had a tough time keeping up.

First, the brothers took turns using an axe
to chop a gouge into the side of a tree. The point of this gouge
was so that the tree fell in a certain direction. Then, they
tirelessly dragged their enormous cross cut saw back and forth
across the opposite side of the tree.

Once a tree was down, then Hawkins and I got
to work making the log smooth, so it would drag more easily in the
snow. We chopped away all of the branches and the bark. Then, the
teamsters snaked the logs to the logging road where they were
picked up by a sled.

That morning, Johan and Ole were really
flying.

When Hawkins paused to catch his breath, he
commented, “Those boys never slow down.” He grinned as he wiped at
his face with a wadded red handkerchief. “Those two are like to
wear me out.”

“They’re not going to wear me out,” I
commented then spit in the snow. I started to take my coat off.

“Keep that on, Sevy. It might still get
colder today, ‘specially if the wind whips up. Don’t want that
sweat freezin’ on you.”

For a moment, I thought about my sockless
feet. Even though my body was good and hot, I could feel the cold
seeping into my syrup-wet boots. But I wasn’t gonna let that worry
me. I was just going to keep working, and eventually they would
warm.

That morning fairly flew by we were working
so fast and hard. Lunch was hurried and quiet as we were all near
starving. We gave all of our attention to our grub. I was near done
with my beans, biscuit, and salt pork when I noticed that it was
kinda hard to move my toes. My right ones were worse than my left,
but I kept wiggling them hard. They were stiff and felt like they
had pins and needles sticking into them. I thought about riding
back to camp with Bart and tending to my feet when Johan stood up,
setting his plate back down on the wagon.

“Back to work,” he directed.

About an hour later, I knew something was
wrong with my feet. I stomped on the ground, trying to get the
blood pumping. I’d heard stories about jacks loosing limbs because
of frostbite. I should of taken someone else’s woolies. But now
that all the fellas were ready to work, I didn’t dare say a thing.
Anyway, there’d be just a few more hours until dark.

We worked hard all that afternoon. As usual,
I was dog tired before the sun went down, and in January the sun
goes down pretty early. There was good news, though. My feet had
stopped hurting and feeling cold. They felt kinda wooden, but not
painful anymore.

We made it back to camp just before supper.
So, I didn’t take off my boots until I was sitting on the
preacher’s bench getting ready to hit the hay. A bunch of other
fellas in the bunkhouse were already bedding down for the night. I
took a seat on the preacher’s bench to get a good look at my feet,
which had been feeling mighty peculiar all through dinner. I pulled
off my right boot. Then, I eyed my foot. It looked kind of whitish,
like the blood had been drained from it, and the skin was strange,
too, sort of like wet paper. It was ice cold to the touch.

I was still eyeballing it when Dob O’Dwyer
spoke up, “Sevy, you been frostbit.”

I heard a low whistle. Mr. Walker came up,
staring right at my foot.

“How do they feel?” Dob asked.

“They don’t really hurt. But they feel sorta
strange. Kinda tingly.”

“Sevy, that there’s frostbite,” Walker stated
flatly.

Dob sat down beside me and picked up my left
foot. He looked it over. “You have to get these taken care of,
Sevy.”

His words struck fear in my heart. “I don’t
want to lose a toe.” My voice cracked and quivered on my words.

“Sevy,” he directed. “Take off your other
boot.”

I did as I was told and pulled off the other
clodhopper. This foot felt strange, too, but didn’t look quite as
bad. It was more pink than white and I had more feeling in it.

“Those feet need doctorin’,” Mr. Walker
agreed. “You may need to see a sawbones. You bought some tickets
for Doc Jones, didn’t you?”

I bit my lip. I hadn’t bought the tickets. On
the job, lumberjacks often got hurt. It was a risky business. So,
they generally bought tickets for care from local docs. Back in Eau
Claire, after my pa broke his leg in the sawmill, he used those
tickets to get his leg set. But I hadn’t wanted to spend money on
myself. I’d wanted to save as much as I could. I’d been fooling
myself, thinking I wouldn’t get hurt. But now I was out of luck. I
was hurt and had no money or tickets to pay a sawbones. I shook my
head “no.”

The bunkhouse door swung open and Fabien
Roget came in. He took in the three of us, all standing around
somber-faced.

I dropped my eyes, not wanting to meet his
gaze. I’d messed up again and I didn’t want to hear what this man,
who didn’t think much of me, had to say about it.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“Boy’s frostbit bad, and he didn’t buy no
tickets for doctoring,” Mr. Walker said.

“I don’t want to lose my toes.” The words
burst out of me. I hadn’t cried in front of those men yet, no
matter how tired I was, no matter how cold I was, but I didn’t want
to lose no body parts. It was just too much.

Dob finally spoke up. “I’ve seen some jacks
use pure white lead to treat frost bite. We have some on hand at
the wanigan. You smear it all over the affected body part, then
cover it first with cotton then a woolen sock. You keep that onto
until the skin heals or... ” He didn’t finish the thought.

“You mean, ‘or my toes fall off,’ don’t cha?”
There was a lump in my throat as big as an apple. I wiped at my
eyes, which were definitely moist. It just wasn’t fair. Heck, I was
just a kid. Things like that shouldn’t happen to kids.

Roget came over to my bunk. He’d picked up a
kerosene lamp on the way. My jaw musta dropped open ‘cause I
slammed it shut when he kneeled down low and picked up my bare foot
in his roughened hands. He turned it this way and that, examining
it. He looked up at me as he set it carefully down. “On the river
in the spring, I have seen river rats get the frostbite. Here.” He
gestured at my right foot. “It is just starting. No need for the
lead. Warm the feet slowly with water. There is no need for a
doctor. I will show you.”

And, he did. This French Canadian
frontiersman who’d made it clear from day one that he wanted
nothing to do with me started looking after me like I was kin.
First thing, he cleared it with the Push for me to stay in bed for
a couple of days, so that my feet could heal. He made sure that my
pay wasn’t to be docked during that time. And, true to his word, he
taught me how to tend my frostbit feet.

I didn’t know what to make of Fabien Roget.
He didn’t make sense. I asked Dob about Roget again, and he
mysteriously said, “You remind him of someone.”

“Who?” I asked.

“That’s not for me to tell you, Sevy. Fabien
will tell you if and when he is ready.”

I never did find out who put the maple syrup
in my boot that day, but I didn’t take it personal. I knew it was
just a joke that had gone wrong. Besides, it had all turned out
just fine in the end. Somehow, getting frostbit had finally
made me one of them, a true Northwoodsman.

Chapter
Nine

~ Redemption ~

I stayed in bed for several days and around
camp for the rest of that week. My feet felt much better and all my
toes stayed where they belonged. Sure enough, I felt ready to go
back to work, but Roget and Dob had the Push convinced that my feet
needed a few more days to heal.

The Push told me, “This isn’t the time in the
logging season when you want to lose good men. Get better, Sevy.
There’s still plenty of days left in this logging season. ”

On a bright Monday morning after my week of
rest, I joined the rest of the men in the cookhouse. I was geared
up and ready to go and I had two pairs of socks on to protect
my feet. I was just setting into some steaming oatmeal when the
Push clapped me on the shoulder.

“Sevy, you’re back sawyerin’ on Roget’s
team.”

I near choked on my oatmeal and Bart, who
must have come up behind me, pounded me on the back. Red faced, I
looked up to see that Roget was right behind the Push. Roget gave
me a nod before heading out into the early morning darkness.

“You’re back with Roget,” Bart whispered as
he grabbed some dirty dishes off of the table in front of me.

“I know. I know.”

The Push spoke to Hawkins and the Swedish
brothers, so there were no hard feelings. Those fellas were fine
with it. After all, Roget’s crew had been working short-handed.

Still, my stomach was all twisted up in knots
as we headed out to the forty that Roget’s team was working. It was
on a hillside and the huge pines were packed in tight. It was a
tricky spot. The slope made the going hard. You had to be real
careful where you put your feet.

Still, the morning went smoothly. It felt
good to me to be back out in the woods. I was pleased as could be
when Bob Johnson, one of the fellas working the cross cut saw,
called me over.

“Sevy, you want to give this a try?”

I nodded eagerly.

He rotated his shoulder around and then
nodded to Roget. “Roget said you can spell me. This here shoulder’s
been giving me some trouble.”

So, every hour or so, I would take his place
on the saw. Adam Clark, a Chippewa Indian, tirelessly worked on the
other side.

It happened when we were working trees on one
side of a crevasse. Roget had notched a huge tree. Adam and I had
set to it with the crosscut saw while Roget wandered off a few
steps behind me, eyeballing the next tree. I was sawing away, but
something didn’t feel right. I’d only been at this for a few hours
but it, the tree, felt wrong. Sure, that saw was going in easy,
like it was cutting through something soft and wet. I froze.

“Shoot,” Adam broke in. “Why’d you stop,
kid?”

“This tree’s rotten.” But it was too late.
There was a cracking sound like thunder as the trunk splintered and
began to split in two. And it wasn’t falling in the direction that
Roget had intended. The big part of that tree was leaning towards
where I stood.

They call 'em 'widowmakers' - but it
just didn’t seem fair that one of them should have my name on it.
After all, I was only fourteen years old. I’d never even had a
steady girl. But there it was, twice as wide as me, a blur of pine
needles and brown prickly branches, blocking out the blue sky. I
wasn't supposed to die like this. What were the other jacks gonna
tell my ma?

Then, I saw that Roget was right in its path,
too.

“Watch out!” I yelled.

There was another groaning creak and Roget
turned, his eyes wide.

I didn’t think. I saw that tree trunk hanging
there, moving inch by inch as the trunk split wide open. And the
next moment, I was in motion. There was another unholy crack and
glancing up, I saw the brown trunk, a flash of the green boughs. I
flew through the air. My body hit Roget’s. Then, everything went
black.