Here is a vignette, depicting life as a woodcutter. In the early fifties I worked in several logging camps One was in the vicinity of Hearst, Ontario. This was before the arrival of chain saws, which made life so much easier for those trying to make a living in the bush. As you may note, accommodations were very primitive, though I must say that the food was always good. Harsh winters and lots of snow made for a hard life and the pay was far from grand. Many of these workers had come as immigrants to Canada as single men and spoke very little English. It made communication difficult and life lonely. As it was, most of us were too tired to make much effort. A warm bed often seemed more inviting than to indulge in much small talk.
LIFE IN THE BUSH
Dire need drove him to cut pulpwood
With four pound ax and four foot saw.
Two, three foot deep, in snow he stood
Till spring would bring the early thaw.
His shabby clothes were always damp..
He’d dry them again each eve at camp.
He notched the trees with deadly blows
Then sawed them through above the notch.
They’d fall to lay in mute repose.
The standing woods could only watch.
He trimmed the trees with all his strength
Then sawed again at four foot length.
Through snow he lugged each four foot piece.
He piled them high to make a cord.
To earn his pay he could not cease.
He had at least to earn his board.
His cord was eight feet, four times four.
He’d pile no less, nor any more.
Repeating same, again, again
He logged and lugged from dawn til dark.
Lunch only broke the constant strain.
He’d boil his tea over birch’s bark
And ate his lunch without remark.
The blue jays did his interest spark.
At eve he walked his way to camp
And joined to eat a heavy sup.
In silence, by a sputtering lamp,
They ate their fill and then got up.
The cook had said: “Here is the deal.
No talking, if you want that meal.”
The bunkhouse was his home for now
Its center dwarfed by a barrel stove.
Around it wedged twelve beds somehow.
Not even the mice could freely rove.
Above the beds from wall to wall
Did hang damp clothes in endless sprawl.
The wet and sweat was rank in smell.
Socks, shirts, coats, hats and gloves hung out.
Layers of underwear as well.
The stove roared with tremendous clout.
The clothes would dry by early morn.
Were none too fresh as they were worn.
To speak with some was a wearing need.
Confusing were the tongues he heard.
Frenchmen, Fins, Poles, and one old Swede,
Made all attempts somewhat absurd..
His English bore a heavy brogue.
Just as well, he didn’t hear, nor spoke.
Ax was sharpened and saw was set.
Some notes penned, to a far sweetheart.
Soon all were sound asleep in bed.
The day had been too long and hard.
Midst the silence, a coyote’s howl,
And the camp dog’s bark and growl.
Each day began again at six.
Ablutions? Pumped water in a pan.
Relief? Pine rail, across a ditch.
Breakfast? Ample for every man.
At seven he was again at work.
Meager pay assured he would not shirk.
Survival drove him to cut more wood.
With four pound ax and four foot saw.
Two, three feet deep, in snow he stood
Till spring would bring the early thaw.
His time had come to take his pay.
He left convinced, ne’er to return this way.
Village Peasant Jan. 10, 2008
Tags: hard labor, life in the bush, logging, primitive bush camp
