Chapter 1

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Paul Bunyan and His Loggers

By OTIS T. AND CLOICE R. HOWD

Paul Bunyan and His Loggers

_By_ CLOICE R. HOWD AND OTIS T. HOWD

Paul Bunyan was the logging industry; not, to be sure, as it is found in _Forest Service Reports_ or in profit and loss statements, but rather as it burned in the bones of the true North Woods lumberjack. To understand the significance of the Bunyan stories one must know something of the men who first told them.

While the lumber industry has found a place in every section of the country except the treeless plains, it was the pineries of the Lake States which furnished most of its romance. Logging had begun on the Atlantic Coast even before the first permanent English settlement, but it never reached a size sufficient to challenge the imagination until it came to the Lake States. While the industry had begun on Lake Erie about 1800, its development in the West was slow until after the Civil War. By that time saw mill machinery was ready to make lumber rapidly and cheaply, and the fast growing population of the Mississippi Valley brought the market within reach of the forests. After 1865 the lumbermen swept across Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota like a whirlwind, laying waste with ax and saw that mighty pine forest, until by 1900 all that remained were small fragments of the original forest and hundreds of miles of stumps. Then they passed on to the Gulf States or the Pacific Coast.

"Down East" logging had been largely a side line to agriculture or other occupations, although there were some men who were full-time loggers, but with the opening up of the Lake States, logging became a distinct profession, with a professional pride in work and a devotion to it which kept the logger from straying off into other industries. The logger went into the woods early in the fall, spent the entire winter snow-bound in a lonely camp with other men like-minded with himself, a dozen to a hundred or more of them. With the spring thaw they brought the logs down the river in a great drive, and then spent their winter stake in a blaze of glory among the bright lights of a sawdust town. Then they went into the saw mills till it was time to return to the woods in the fall. It was during the long winter evenings in the bunk houses, with the loggers gathered about the red-hot stove and the air full of the smell of drying clothes and tobacco smoke, that the Paul Bunyan tales were born and grew.

These stories find their original in a French-Canadian, Paul Bunyon, who first came into prominence during the Papineau rebellion in 1837, when, by remarkable feats of strength and daring, he won the admiration of his countrymen. Then for many years he was the outstanding logging boss in all the St. Lawrence River country. When the loggers from this region went into the Michigan woods about 1850 they took with them the stories of their great hero, which stories, naturally, lost nothing in the telling, particularly as they served admirably as a form of compensation device for their feelings of inferiority. Nor is it remarkable that the Yankee loggers should parody these stories to ridicule the French-Canadians.

Another element which entered into the making of the Bunyan myth was the tendency to exaggeration which is common to all of us and which finds expression on so many occasions. The lumber camps had long been filled with extreme stories of many sorts, but these were usually only isolated tales. Many of them had been told to impress the tenderfoot, while many others had been wish projections, a sort of day-dreaming in which one was able to do that which he never could accomplish when he had to work with stern reality. After the French-Canadians brought Paul Bunyon to the camps and the practice had begun of improving on these stories, it became easy to invent a new Bunyon tale or connect up one of the other stories with the Bunyon cycle wherever the need arose for over-awing a tenderfoot or of securing a refuge from the sense of frustration, or just for simple amusement. In the process the French-Canadian Bunyon became naturalized into the Yankee Bunyan and all contact with reality was lost. Bunyan, his old Blue Ox, Babe, and their exploits grew to fantastic extremes. Size was never measured in terms of feet or pounds and so it is difficult for us to give exact dimensions, but it was agreed that the blue ox, Babe, measured forty-two axehandles and a plug of tobacco between the eyes, while Bunyan himself once had the misfortune to lose two large logging engines in his mackinaw pocket and did not find them for a month.

Yet these stories were never told lightly, for a true lumberjack will never, by word, look or tone, give any suggestion that these stories are not the exact truth. In fact elaborate precautions are taken to establish their veracity and citation of proof is nearly universal. Sometimes the evidence cited is the word of one from whom the story was heard, for few of the tales are told as the personal experience of the story teller. The story came direct from one of Bunyan's loggers, from a pioneer, the Bull Cook, or some one else equally well informed and reliable. Sometimes the proof is to be found in the continued existence of something connected with the story. Thus the lack of stumps in North Dakota is cited as proof of the fact that Bunyan drove all the stumps into the ground when he logged off that country, while the story that the Mississippi River was started when one of Bunyan's water tanks broke is proven by the fact that the river is still running.

According to the best authenticated stories, Paul was born in Maine some time before the Revolutionary War, so far back that a century or so one way or the other made little difference. He had been a lusty infant and a good-sizeable boy, but he did not reach his full growth until he went to Michigan. It was then that he really began his life work of logging off the regions south and west of the Great Lakes. He gained experience and some reputation in his logging operations on the Big Onion, the Big Auger, the Little Gimblet and the Big Tadpole Rivers, but it was the logging of the Dakotas that really made his reputation. Legend has played around this event even more than is usual with Bunyan exploits. This was really done to provide room for the Swedes who were coming to the United States. There were many lesser things which Bunyan did, most of which are mentioned only incidentally, such as the logging of Missouri, the accident when he dragged his skiing pole and so made the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, or the building of Crater Lake or the Island of Cuba. Later Bunyan went to the Pacific Coast where he did many mighty feats of landscape engineering; in fact he largely made the West, but he never seemed to find logging on the West Coast congenial, probably due to the fact that machinery had invaded the Western woods by the time he got there. And Paul never could endure those "pesky" donkey engines. While it was sometimes necessary for him to resort to the use of power machinery in his cook house, he would never have it in the woods. Even when he had a crew so large that it took eight cement mixers to stir the batter for their hot cakes and a stern-wheel steamer to stir their soup, the Blue Ox could easily haul all the logs they could cut without help of any donkey engines or any other such "fandangoes."

Bunyan, however, was not alone in his logging ventures. He had many helpers, but none of them were cast in quite such an heroic mould as was Paul himself. There were the seven axemen who helped him the winter he logged Dakota, who kept a cord of four-foot wood on the table for toothpicks, and whose singing could be heard of an evening down on the Atlantic. There was the little chore boy who turned the grindstone which was so large that every time it turned around once it was payday. There was Johnny Inkslinger, the bookkeeper, who made the first fountain pen, which held twenty-four barrels of ink, and who kept two complete sets of books, one with each hand. Brimstone Bill cared for Babe and made for him those wonderful yokes of cranberry wood, which made it possible for Babe to pull anything which had two ends to it. Big Ole, the blacksmith, had two tasks. One was to shoe Babe, and every time he did it he had to open up a new iron mine. The other was to punch the holes in the doughnuts for the cook. Another helper was Cris Crosshaul, a careless cuss, who was responsible for taking wrong logs down to New Orleans, which made it necessary for Paul to bring them back up the river. This was done by feeding Babe a large salt ration and then letting him drink out of the upper river. He drank the river dry and the logs came up stream faster than they went down. Of the other helpers it is perhaps sufficient to mention only Joe McFrau, who was able to ride anything which ever floated and in any water, and the two cooks, Sourdough Sam and Big Joe. Sourdough Sam made everything except coffee out of sourdough. When Shot Gunderson put his winter's cut of logs into Round River and then drove them around its whole course three times before he found that it did not have any outlet, Sam made up a large batch of sourdough and dumped it into the river and when it got to working it lifted the logs over the divide. But Sam was seriously injured one day when his sourdough barrel blew up and Big Joe was employed. His famous Black Duck dinner was so fine that none of the American loggers cared to eat again for five weeks; but he could only satisfy the French-Canadians by dumping a car load of split peas in a boiling lake.

The most authentic group of Bunyan stories came from the Lake States where they originated. A comparison of these older stories with the newer ones from the Pacific Coast shows a marked difference. (And it is noteworthy that the Bunyan tales never had much of a vogue in the South.) According to the Lake States version, Bunyan always stayed in the logging camps or on the drives, he attended strictly to business, while according to the Western tales he branched out into all sorts of enterprises. The Lake States tales were the product of the true, the professional lumberjack, the winter recluse, who was shut in with others like minded with himself and with none but his kind as auditors. The Western logger was not so exclusive a type. There were many of the professional loggers, but there were many men in the woods whose main interest was elsewhere, and so the story teller did not have such a select audience. There were other interests in the West to divert Bunyan from his real job and naturally it suffered in consequence.

It was perhaps inevitable, but none the less unfortunate, that the Bunyan stories did not reach the outside world directly from the Lake States story tellers, but first passed through the hands or mouths of the Western loggers. Of all the publications perhaps W. B. Laughead, in _Paul Bunyan and His Big Blue Ox_, published by the Red River Lumber Company of Minneapolis, has most nearly preserved the Lake States flavor of the stories. Certainly James Stevens and Esther Shepperd in their books of the same title, _Paul Bunyan_, have more nearly portrayed the Western Bunyan than the Eastern one. The same is largely true of the poems here given. They take the Western point of view, and most of them are Western stories. The first of these represents the Western conflict between the professional and the part-time logger, the second is unwarranted in bringing Noah into the picture, where he does not belong, while the others all deal directly with the West. But certainly the Western tales make better stories than do the Eastern ones.

PAUL BUNYAN'S TRICK

This story is one of the well-known Bunyan tales, told from Michigan to the Coast, which shows some of the professional loggers' scorn for the part-time logger.

Come all you stump ranch loggers and slick shod choker men And learn how we gathered the round stuff up on the Skinney Ben.

You fellers call this logging, just sixty cars a day; We kids beat that when I was young and thought that it was play.

My first real throw at logging was in Big Ole's camp When he was racing Bunyan to be the skidding champ.

From sun till sun he drove us, till we were nearly dead, And many times in getting up I've met myself going to bed.

He bought a load of lanterns and made us earn our keep; The bed bugs even starved to death, we got so little sleep.

And talk about a driver! Two men must fall and buck A quarter section every day or they were out of luck.

Now that was not so very hard as it looks from where you sit, For there the trees grew close enough to chop one with each bit.

And every cussed feller used both ends of his swing, And forests went like snow drifts before an early spring.

And talk about your skidding; although, perhaps they lied, They said the trees were in the pond before the echo died.

But I've seen one yoke skidding for seven falling crews, And Bunyan bought an iron mine to keep his stock in shoes.

We sure got out the round stuff, but still we were too slow, And just a trick of Bunyan's had brought us all our woe.

'Twas long and crooked skid roads that made our logging late, And Bunyan took his old Blue Ox and pulled his skid roads straight.

Now when you slick shod loggers call this here logging fast, It sure makes us old timers just hanker for the past.

SOME LOGGER

This is one of the Eastern stories, but with numerous Western additions, chief of which is the introduction of Noah.

In the pre-historic ages, e're the Swedes ruled Minnesota, Fairest spot in all the Westland was the woodland of Dakota.

'Twas a land of timbered ridges long before the axe was known, And there grew the largest timber on which the sun had ever shown.

Many tales are told about it, how it grew so very high, That the tops were broke and shattered where they rubbed against the sky.

And no man had ever ventured in that forest deep and dark Till old Noah got to thinking he would build himself an ark.

So he looked the timber over and decided it would take Every tree if he would carry every bird and beast and snake;

If he just could get it yarded; there he had a serious doubt, Till Paul Bunyan finally told him he would get the round stuff out.

So he harnessed up his Blue Ox, took the big logs on the run. Never even stopped for dinner, worked right through from sun to sun.

Many logs he dogged together, took three hundred turns a day; Still Old Noah hollered "Faster," said that snail's pace didn't pay.

Then old Bunyan got quite peevish, sent the loggers all to camp; Started hauling in the sections; he'd put Noah on the tramp.

But he bragged a bit too early, tho each day he hauled eight score, Noah cleared them off by noontime and sat down and yelled for more.

Paul got madder than a logger, cussed and jumped upon his hat; Noah was a domned slave driver, contract didn't call for that.

But old Noah only guyed him, called his ox a lazy slob, Then to keep Paul Bunyan working put a bonus on the job.

Next Paul hooked upon a township and the ox pulled with a will, But the cable only parted when it caught upon a hill;

Broke in twenty-seven pieces; the Blue Ox sure had the power; Then Paul set his splicing record, twenty-six within an hour.

But he never got discouraged, he would still show Noah that A true logger always finished anything he started at.

So he hooked onto the ridges, pulled them all into the mill; Then they say of real hard labor Noah finally got his fill.

Thus the task was finally finished, nor was that the only gain: Naught was left in the Dakotas but a large and level plain

Save in just two places only, where the logging had begun, And where all the refuse ridges were left drying in the sun.

First is called the Black Hills district, there the ancient land still stands, And the pile of broken ridges is Dakota's famed Bad Lands.

THE YEAR OF THE GREAT HOT WINTER

This is probably a true Western story.

I was punching a half breed roader down on Shoalwater Bay The year the nights came together, some called it the great dark day.

We hit the deck at sunrise but the sun never rose at all, So we sat by the light of the lantern waiting the breakfast call.

'Twas an event to call forth stories of wonderful times in the Past, And I listened to marvelous stories till the Bull Cook's turn came at last.

"I was just a lad," he started, "When I worked in Paul Bunyan's camps, Darkness was nothing in those days for we had volcanoes for lamps.

"One year we were logging Missouri, before Bunyan came to the coast, And had just finished building the Ozarks to serve as a snubbing post.

"We were working down an ice chute almost across the state, When the weather turned suddenly warmer, hotter than Satan's grate.

"Twas the year of the great hot winter, hottest I ever felt, And the ice cakes turned right into steam without even stopping to melt.

"Well, that was the end of our logging, but Bunyan must look around, So he left his ox behind him and came to Puget Sound.

"And when he reached the water he picked himself a tree And dug it out into a boat and so put out to sea.

"'Twas cooler on the water and so he sailed around Till in the Caribbean Sea he finally run aground.

"For days he tried to float her, but it wasn't any use, So he went and got his Blue Ox to pull the old tub loose.

"He gathered all the rigging he could from near and far, But chains much larger than your leg were stretched into a bar.

"And all the gear he didn't break was melted by the heat, And there are lakes all over Texas where the Blue Ox braced his feet.

"But every bit of timber was pulled loose from that boat And still the old hulk lay there, she simply wouldn't float.

"Well, many years have passed since then and it's drifted o'er with sand And trees have grown upon it until it's solid land.

"Now boys, that's simply history, as right as God above, And the little isle of Cuba is the place I'm speaking of."

The Bull Cook finished up his tale and went about his task, But there've always been some questions I'd kinder like to ask.

But he is dead and gathered to old Paul Bunyan's side, And so I'll never know for sure if that old codger lied.

THE CHARMED LAND

A Western story of one of Paul's greatest feats of landscape engineering.

Old Hewey wrought, so I've been taught, six days to make the world; He built the sky, and rearing high, the mighty mountains hurled; One only spot he finished not, and then his tents he furled.

But e're on high, above the sky, he went up out of sight, With final shout he called about his workers all of might, And thus he spoke, e're like a cloak he clothed himself with night:

"Good helpers all, both great and small, this is my last command, This place you see must finished be that all may understand I hold it blest 'bove all the rest, the final promised land."

Old Puget then lined up his men, he asked each one to work, Three mighty men stood by him then and labored like a Turk, While all the rest refused the test and did their best to shirk.

Paul Bunyan drew his fingers through his long and tangled locks, He hardly spoke but took the yoke and sought his old Blue Ox; He said "Watch me, I'll build a sea, you two may use the rocks."

With cunning stroke the soil he broke, he flung the dirt aside; The rocks he tore with mighty roar and flung them far and wide, He piled the earth till hills had birth and grew on either side.

The old Blue Ox he hitched to rocks and tore the big ones out, He rolled them out and all about and called each one a mount, And lest I lie, against the sky, they witness if you doubt.

At reach and bay he dug away, he shaped a thousand isles; By headlands steep dug channels deep where rippling water smiles; With generous hand he took the sand and built the beach for miles.

Like golden gleam of painter's dream he built old Puget Sound, Where skies of blue the waters woo a thousand isles around, With emerald sheen they're always green and always spring abounds.

Then old Cascade took up his spade and reared against the sky, A row of peaks whose summit seeks a marriage with the sky, A super land whose wonders grand enchant the human eye.

Olympus then laid down his pen and built with cunning hand A place so rare that e'en the air seems wilder and more grand, Of hill and stream beyond our dream, a greater Switzerland.

And thus these three, as you may see, beneath the Western skies Have built a land that's super grand, an earthly paradise; When God looked down they say it found great favor in his eyes.

BUILDING COLUMBIA GORGE

Bunyan frequently went hunting or fishing, and on such occasions anything might happen.

When Mount Rainier was a hole in the ground, e're Midad made his stake, The land to the west of the Rockies was all a mighty lake.

And there of a summer's evening Paul Bunyan came to fish, For a mess of steelhead salmon was ever his favorite dish.

With a rod that was only eight leagues long and keen and strong and light, And a wondrous fly he'd made himself he lured the fish to bite.

This day he'd landed some small ones, less than a league in length, But at last he hooked a beauty that tested the big boy's strength.

It was fight from the time he hooked it, Oh, boy, but this was bliss! Who would fool with a pyramid when he could live like this?

The light line sang through the ferruls and the water foamed like beer, The big fish raged to seawards but ever he drew it near;

It was back and forth till the sunset and the stars came out anon. The fish was giving inch by inch but ever the fight went on.

'Twas a fight that once in a lifetime comes to a fisher man, And having thrilled to its power he's wed to the fishing clan.

Morning found Paul Bunyan ready to grasp the prize, But the fish in growing larger had, too, grown wondrous wise.

And dashing towards the nimrod it tried to foul the line Around some broken branches of a waterlogged old pine.

It was nip and tuck for a moment but Bunyan was forced to see The strong line part like a raveling and the fish go tearing free.

With one quick burst of anger he sat down limp as a rag, And when he wended homeward his feet would scarcely drag.

But rest brought resolution and an overpowering wish: He'd camp there by that lakeside till he caught that cussed fish.

For weeks he fished those waters in sunshine and in shade, A thousand different spots he tried, a hundred lures he made.

But often as the sunset his dream fish would arise And sport its lazy beauty before his longing eyes,

And ever it seemed to laugh at him and ever he madder grew, He cussed and fought it in his sleep till he knew not what to do.

But finally said Paul Bunyan, "There's one way left to try, I'll have that fish by sunset or know the reason why;

"I'll drain this cussed puddle right through the old Cascades, And grill this fish for supper on the hottest plate in Hades."

The old Blue Ox he harnessed, he didn't give a dern, As around old Mount Baker he took a double turn;

He almost pulled the Mountain loose but he pulled the Range in two, And all those inland waters like mad came tumbling through.

And right where the torrent widened he stood with his mighty spear And said "I'll get sir mister fish when he comes out through here."

Well, Paul had his fish for supper and there's no more inland lake, And the Columbia River rages through right where he made the break.