The Pioneer Woodsman as He Is Related to Lumbering in the Northwest

Once more, during the fall of 1874, I had to reckon with this wily Indian, the hunter, as will soon appear in this narrative.

Perhaps the most convenient pack strap used by the woodsman when on an all day's tramp, is one that is commonly known as the Indian pack strap. It consists of a strap of leather about three inches wide and about three feet long, from each end of which, a tapering piece of leather, either sewed or buckled to it, extends finally to a narrow point no wider than a whip-lash. Each of these added narrow strips is from five to six feet in length, so that the whole strap is about fourteen feet long when straightened out. A blanket or a tent is folded into shape, about four feet by six feet. This is laid on the ground, and the strap is folded double with a spread at the wide part, of about three feet, which is the length of the wide strap. The narrow ends are then drawn straight back over the blanket, across its narrow dimension, leaving the wide strap, which in use becomes the head strap, at the outer edge of the blanket. Then the blanket is folded from each end over the narrow straps, the two ends of which project out and beyond the blanket at the opposite side from the head strap. The articles to be placed within the blanket, which generally consist of small sacks of beans, flour, pork, sugar, coffee, and wearing apparel, and blankets, are then carefully stacked upon the blanket, within the spread of the two narrow lines of the pack strap. When this is done, the blanket is folded over, and the two outer edges are brought as near to the center of the pile of things to be carried within it, as is possible. Then the two tapering ends of the pack strap are brought up and over, to meet the opposite ends of the narrow straps, which, as has been explained, are either sewed to, or buckled onto the wide head strap. Drawing these ends firmly together puckers the outer edge of the blanket on either side, and draws the blanket completely over the contents piled in the center, and makes, ordinarily, nearly a round bundle. This load, or pack, the man then throws over his shoulder, onto his back, and brings the wide strap across his forehead, or across his breast, or across the top of his head, when he is ready to begin his journey. Before he has traveled long with this load, which weighs ordinarily from fifty to one hundred pounds, according to the ability of the man to bear the burden, he will be found shifting that wide strap to any one of the three positions named, and will have used all of those positions many times before the party as a whole, stops for a moment's rest.

I had taken with me, on going north on this long campaign, an extra fine red leather pack strap that I had had made to order at a Minneapolis harness shop. I had kept it coiled up, and carefully stored in my belongings, waiting for an emergency when the more common straps would no longer be of service. A number of times the Indians had seen this strap and had admired it, and, as it later proved, not always without envy.

One day the strap was missing, and I could find it, neither by searching, nor by open inquiry of my fellow white men, nor of the Indians, whom I occasionally met. On one occasion, while portaging my canoe to another lake, I found several families of Indians camping at the end of the portage. Among them was the hunter who has been previously mentioned. While stopping a moment for a friendly talk with the Indians, I saw protruding from under the coat of the hunter, nearly two feet of one end of my missing pack strap. I knew it so well that I was sure that it was no other pack strap. Nevertheless, I deliberated slowly what action I should take to recover the strap, not wishing by any possibility to make a mistake. Having surely concluded that the strap was mine, and that the hunter had not come into possession of it honestly—he having previously denied, when questioned, that he knew anything of the whereabouts of the strap—I decided upon a course of action. Going up quietly behind the hunter, and twisting the end of the protruding strap twice around my wrist, and grasping it firmly in my hand, I started with all my might to run with the strap. The effect was to make a temporary top of my friend, the hunter, who whirled about until the other end of the pack strap was released from his body. It was too good a joke, even for the Indians to remain unmoved, and the majority of them broke into merriment. The hunter at first was disposed to take it seriously but soon looked sheepish and ashamed, and tried to smile with the rest of his tribe, as well as with myself.

Having wound the strap carefully around my own body, and having made sure that the ends did not protrude, I bade my friends, including the hunter, good day, got into my canoe and pushed out into the lake. This proved to be the last time I ever saw the hunter, but it was not the last time that I ever thought of the incident.

In justice to the Indians as compared with white men, I am glad to be able to say, that, after mingling with them more or less for many years, and becoming sufficiently familiar with their language to be able to use it on all necessary occasions, I believe that the Indians are as honest and as honorable as the men with whom they mingle, who have not a copper skin.

Captain Martin was the last white man whom any one of our party saw for four months. Winter closed in on us before the beginning of November. The snow became very deep, so that it was absolutely necessary to perform all of our work on snowshoes. The winter of 1874 and 1875 is shown to have been the coldest winter in Minnesota, of which there is any record, beginning with 1819 up to, and including, 1913.

The party was mostly composed of men who had had years of experience on the frontier, and who were inured to hardship. With a few, however, the experience was entirely new, and, except that they were looked after by the more hardy, they might have perished. As it was, however, not one man became seriously ill at any time during this severe winter's campaign.

All of the principal men of the party wore light duck suits, made large enough to admit of wearing heavy flannel underwear beneath them. Either boot-packs or buckskin moccasins, inside of which were several pairs of woolen socks, composed the footwear. Boot-packs or larigans, as they are commonly called by the lumber-jack, are tanned in a manner that makes them very susceptible to heat, and the leather will shrivel quickly if near an open fire. It cost one of the party several pairs of boot-packs before he could learn to keep sufficiently far away from the open fire, on returning to camp from his work. It will be surmised by the reader that he was one of the inexperienced of the party.

Many incidents, amusing to others, happened during the winter to this same man. He had started on the trip in the summer months, with a supply of shoe blacking and paper collars. The crossing of one or two portages with his loaded pack sack on his back was sufficient to convince him that there was no need of carrying either shoe blacking or paper collars, and they were thrown out to reduce weight. Each man carried a hank or skein of thread, a paper of needles, and a supply of buttons. Soon after winter set in, this man, who might ordinarily be termed a tenderfoot, complained of lameness in one of his feet. As the weather became more severe, he added from time to time, another pair of socks to those he already had on, never removing any of previous service. This necessitated, not infrequently, his choosing a larger sized boot-pack. Before the campaign was over, although he was a man of low stature and light weight, his feet presented the appearance of being the largest in the party. Still he complained of lameness in the hollow of his foot, and no relief came until March, when the work was completed. Arriving once more back in civilization, he removed his much accumulated footwear. There, under this accumulation of socks, and against the hollow of his foot, was found his skein of thread, the absence of which, from its usual place, had necessitated his borrowing, whenever he had need of it, from some one of his companions. Before starting out on this campaign, he had been one of the tidiest of men about his personal appearance.

One evening in midwinter, when sitting around the camp fire, by reason of the pile of wood for the evening being largely composed of dry balsam, we were kept more or less busy, extinguishing sparks that are always thrown out from this kind of wood when burning. Sometimes one would light on the side of the tent near by, and unless immediately extinguished, would eat a large hole in the cloth. That evening, Fendall G. Winston and I were sitting side by side, when we saw a live spark more than a quarter of an inch in diameter light in the ear of our friend who sat a little way from, and in front of us. It did not go out immediately, neither did it disturb the tranquillity of the young man. Mr. Winston and I exchanged glances and smilingly watched the ember slowly die. The time to clean up had not yet arrived for at least one of the party.

The compassman's work that winter was rendered very laborious from the fact that his occupation made it necessary for him, from morning until night of every day, to break his own path through the untrodden snow, for it was he who was locating the line of the survey. I was all of the time running lines in the interior of the sections, following the work of the surveyors, and choosing desirable pine timber that was found within each section. I had no companion in this work, and thus was separated most of each day from other members of the party, but returned to the same camp at night.

In the morning, each man was furnished by the cook, with a cloth sack in which were placed one or two or more biscuits, containing within, slices of fried bacon and sometimes slices of corned beef, also, perhaps, a doughnut or two. This he tied to the belt of his jacket on his back and carried until the lunch hour. Ordinarily a small fire was then kindled, and the luncheon, which generally was frozen, thawed out and eaten. Under such mode of living, every one returned at night bringing an appetite of ample dimensions.

One of the most acceptable of foods to such men at the supper hour was bean soup, of a kind and quality such as a cook on the frontier, alone, knows how to prepare. Plenty of good bread was always in abundance at such time. Usually there was also either corned beef or boiled pork to be had by those who wished it; generally also boiled rice or apple dumplings, besides tea and coffee.

In a well-regulated camp, where men are living entirely out of doors in tents, a bean hole is pretty sure to be demanded. The bean hole is prepared by first digging a hole in the ground, sufficiently large, not only to make room for the pail, but also for several inches of live coals with which it must be surrounded. After supper is over, the beans are put into a large pail made of the best material, with ears always riveted on, so that the action of heat will not separate any of its parts. The beans are first parboiled with a pinch of soda in the water. As soon as the skins of the beans become broken, the water is poured off; then the beans are placed in the bean pail, a small quantity of hot water is added together with a sufficiently large piece of pork; and, when a tight cover has been put on the pail, it is placed in the bean hole. The live coals are placed around it, until the hole is completely filled and the pail entirely covered several inches deep. Then ashes or earth are put on the top of it all, to exclude the air. Thus the pail remains all night, and, in the morning when the cook calls the men to breakfast, the beans, thoroughly cooked and steaming, are served hot and furnish an acceptable foundation for the arduous day's work about to begin.

The work of the frontiersman is more or less hazardous in its nature, and yet bad accidents are rare. Occasionally a man is struck by a falling limb, or he may be cut by the glancing blow of an ax, though he learns to be very careful when using tools, well knowing that there is no surgeon or hospital near at hand. Sometimes in the early winter, men unaccompanied, yet obliged to travel alone, drop through the treacherous ice and are drowned. Few winters pass in a lumber country where instances of this kind do not occur. One day, when alone, I came near enough to such an experience. I was obliged to cross a lake, known to have air holes probably caused by warm springs. The ice was covered by a heavy layer of snow, consequently I wore snowshoes, and before starting to cross, cut a long, stout pole. Taking this firmly in my hands, I made my way out onto the ice. All went well until I was near the opposite shore, when suddenly the bottom went out from under me and I fell into the water, through an unseen air hole which the snow covered. The pole I carried was sufficient in length to reach the firm ice on either side, which alone enabled me, after much labor, impeded as I was by the cumbersome snowshoes, to gain the surface. The next absolutely necessary thing to do, was to make a fire as quickly as possible, before I should become benumbed by my wet garments.

The survey went steadily on, the snow and cold increased, and rarely was it possible to make an advance of more than four miles in a day. Frank Hoyt remained at the warehouse and watched the supplies which were steadily diminishing. One day, Philip B. Winston, two men of the crew, and I, set out to the supply camp to bring some provisions to the cook's camp. The first day at nightfall, we reached an Indian wigwam that we knew of, situated in a grove of hardwood timber, near the shore of a lake, directly on our route to the supply camp. Our little party stayed with the Indians and shared their hospitality. It was a large wigwam, covered principally with cedar bark, and there was an additional smaller wigwam so close to it, that a passage way was made from one wigwam to the other.

In the smaller wigwam lived a young Indian, his squaw, and the squaw's mother; in the larger wigwam lived the chief, his wife, his daughter, son-in-law, and the hunter, his wife, and two daughters, all of whom were present except the hunter. There was an air of expectancy noticeable as we sat on the mats around the fire in the wigwam, after having made some coffee and eaten our supper outside. Presently the chief informed us that an heir was looked for that evening in the adjoining tent. Before nine o'clock it was announced that a young warrior had made his appearance, and all were happy over his arrival. The large pipe was brought forth, filled with tobacco, and, after the chief had taken the first smoke, it was passed around to their guests, and all the men smoked, as well as the married women.

The next morning, we continued our journey across the lake and on to Hoyt's camp, where, it is needless to say, he was glad to see some white men. Their visits were rare at his camp. Filling our packs with things the cook had ordered, we started on our return journey, arriving at the Indian camp at nightfall. As we left the ice to go up to the wigwams, we met the mother of the young warrior who had made his first appearance the preceding night, going down to the lake with a pail in each hand to bring some water to her wigwam. The healthy young child was brought into the wigwam and shown to the members of our party, who complimented the young mother and wished that he might grow to be a brave, worthy to be chieftain of their tribe.

That evening a feast had been prepared at the chief's wigwam, in honor of the birth of the child, to which our party was invited. The menu consisted principally of boiled rice, boiled muskrat, and boiled rabbit. The three principal foods having been cooked in one kettle and at the same time, it was served as one course, but the guests were invited to repeat the course as often as they desired. This invitation was accepted by some, while others seemed satisfied to take the course but once. I have always found the hospitality of the Chippewa Indian unsurpassed, and more than once, in my frontier experiences, I have found that hospitality a godsend to me and to my party.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Entire Party Moves to Swan River

It was in the month of February, 1875, when the surveying party completed its work east of Bow String Lake, and finished, one afternoon, closing its last lines on the Third Guide Meridian. At the camp, that afternoon, preparations were being made for a general move of considerable distance. It is not always possible for the frontiersman to reach his goal on the day that he has planned to do so. An instance in point occurred next day, when our surveying party was moving out to Grand Rapids. The snow was deep and the weather intensely cold when we broke camp that morning, hoping before nightfall to reach one of Hill Lawrence's logging camps. Some Indians had been hired to help pack out our belongings. Our course lay directly through the unbroken forest, without trail or blazed line, and the right direction was kept only by the constant use of the compass. All were on snowshoes, and those of the party who could be depended upon to correctly use the compass, took turns in breaking road. Each compassman would break the way through the snow for half an hour, then another would step in and break the way for another half hour, and he in turn would be succeeded by a third compassman. This change of leadership was continued all the way during that day.

About the middle of the afternoon, the Indians threw down their packs and left our party altogether, having become tired of their jobs. This necessitated dividing up the Indians' packs and each man sufficiently able-bodied taking a part of these abandoned loads in addition to his own pack; and thus we continued the journey.

Night was fast approaching, and the distance was too great to reach the Lawrence camp that night. Fortunately, there were some Indian wigwams not far in advance. These we reached after nightfall, and, as our party was very tired and carried no prepared food, we asked for shelter during the night, with the Indians. They soon made places where our men could spread their blankets around the small fire in the center of the wigwams. Then we asked if we could be served with something to eat. We received an affirmative "Ugh," and the squaws commenced preparing food, which consisted solely of a boiled rabbit stew with a little wild rice. It was once more demonstrated that hunger is a good cook. After having partaken of the unselfishly proffered food, and, after most of our party had smoked their pipes, all lay down about the fire, and fell asleep. Even the presence of Indian dogs, occasionally walking over us in the night, interfered but little with our slumbers. The next morning our party started out without breakfast, and by ten o'clock reached the Lawrence camp, where the cook set out, in a few minutes' time, a great variety of food, and an abundance of it, of which each man partook to his great satisfaction.

From Lawrence camp we were able to secure the services of the tote team that was going out for supplies, which took our equipment through to Grand Rapids. From that point, we were able, also, to hire a team to take our supplies to the Swan River. Crossing this we went north to survey two townships, which would complete the winter's contract.

It has been stated that this winter of 1874 and 1875 was the coldest of which the Weather Bureau for Minnesota furnishes any history. Besides the intense cold, there were heavy snows. Nevertheless, no serious injury or physical suffering of long duration befell any member of our band of hardy woodsmen. Not one of our number was yet thirty years old, the youngest one being eighteen. Two only of the party were married, Fendall G. Winston, and myself. On leaving Grand Rapids in August, we separated ourselves from all other white men. The party was as completely separated from the outside world as though it had been aboard a whaling vessel in the Northern Seas. No letters nor communications of any kind reached us after winter set in, until our arrival in Grand Rapids in the month of February following. Letters were occasionally written and kept in readiness to send out by any Indian who might be going to the nearest logging camp, whence they might by chance be carried out to some post office. Whether these letters reached their destinations or not, could not be known by the writers as long as they remained on their work, hidden in the forest.

I had left my young wife and infant daughter, not yet a year old, in Minneapolis. Either, or both might have died and been buried before any word could have reached me. It was not possible at all times to keep such thoughts out of my mind. Of course every day was a busy one, completely filled with the duties of the hour, and the greatest solace was found in believing that all was well even though we could not communicate with each other. As I recall, no ill befell any one of the party nor of the party's dear ones, during all these long weeks and months of separation. Every man of the party seemed to become more rugged and to possess greater endurance as the cold increased. It became the common practice to let the camp fire burn down and die, as we rolled into our blankets to sleep till the morning hour of arising.

Not every night was spent in comfort, however, though ordinarily that was the average experience. The less robust ones, of whom there were very few, sometimes received special attention.

It was during the arduous journey, getting away from the scene of our first survey to that of the upper waters of Swan River, that one of our men fell behind all of the others, on a hard day's tramp. P. B. Winston, who had all the time been very considerate of him, observing that he was not keeping up to the party, but was quite a long way back on the trail which the men were breaking through the snow, said that he would wait for him until he should catch up. Concealing himself behind a thicket close to the trail, he quietly awaited our friend's arrival. He told the following incident of the poor fellow's condition:

Mr. Winston allowed him to pass him on the trail, unobserved, and heard him saying, as he rubbed one of his legs, "Oh Lord, my God, what ever made me leave my comfortable home and friends, and come out into this wilderness!" At this instant Mr. Winston called out, "What is the matter –?" "Oh, I'm freezing, and I don't know that I shall ever be of any use if I ever get out," he replied. He did live to get out and to reach his friends, none the worse for his doleful experience. He did not again, however, go north into the forest, but tried another portion of the western country, where he became very prosperous.

Long living around the open camp fire in the winter months, standing around in the smoke, and accumulating more or less of the odors from foods of various kinds being cooked by the open fire, invariably result in all of one's clothing and all of one's bedding becoming more or less saturated with the smell of the camp. This condition one does not notice while living in it from day to day, but he does not need to be out and away from such environments for more than a few hours, before he becomes personally conscious, to some degree, that such odors are not of a quality that would constitute a marketable article for cash. On arriving in Minneapolis at the close of the winter's campaign, without having changed our garments—as we had none with us that had not shared with us one and the same fate—Mr. P. B. Winston and I engaged a hack at the railroad station, and drove to our respective homes.

It was Mr. Winston's domicile that was first reached, and it happened, as the driver stopped in front of his house, that his fiancée, Miss Kittie Stevens (the first white child born in Minneapolis), chanced to be passing by. Of course their meeting was unexpected to either, but was a pleasant and joyous one, though somewhat embarrassing to Mr. Winston. The wind was blowing, and I noticed that he took the precaution to keep his own person out of the windward. He had been a soldier in the Confederate Army, and I smiled with much satisfaction as I observed his splendid maneuver.

On meeting me next day, Mr. Winston inquired whether his tactics had been observed, and, being assured that they had, he said that that was the embarrassing moment for him, for he did not know but that the young lady might have considered that she had just grounds for breaking the engagement. Both of us, however, knew better, for she was a young lady possessed of a large degree of common sense and loveliness. The young people later were married, Mr. Winston becoming mayor of Minneapolis, remaining always, one of its best citizens. Often, afterwards, incidents of that winter's experience, a few of which have been herein recorded, were gone over together with great pleasure by the parties interested.