Will followed the river trail as fast as possible, giving his horse his head and urging the big black gelding onward. Occasionally he had to duck under low-hanging tree branches and splash through mud puddles left by last night’s rain.
He arrived at his camp in record time and slid off his horse’s back. He gestured to one of his men to take care of the horse.
“Sven’s bringing the supplies,” Will called to Cookie. Cookie nodded and waved at him, then turned back to tending his cook fire.
Will knew Cookie’s action meant he’d gotten the word and would be preparing lots of extra food. Some of Will’s men who’d worked in the woods cutting timber in the winter had returned to their farm jobs when the lack of water had stopped their work.
As word about the log run spread, they would leave the farms and rush back to join them for the final push in getting the logs to market. Thank goodness there would be money at last to pay his men for their winter’s work.
Ahead at the riverbank, he could see the huge piles of logs they’d cut during the past winter. His men were already at work, rolling the huge logs into the rising water of the St. Croix. He hurried down the logging road to help them.
Pushing the heavy logs in the ninety-degree heat under the June sun was hot and grueling work. Cookie and his helper were kept busy bringing them pails of fresh spring water and tea to quench their thirst.
Later, as they stopped for a break in the afternoon sun, a man rode in, his horse in a lather.
Dismounting, he yelled, “The Clam River dam’s been blown up with dynamite.” Out of breath, he accepted the tin cup of water Cookie handed him and drank greedily. “The Hermit did it, they say. And they’re opening other dams up-river, too.”
“Damn it all!” Will said, but he knew how the other log owners felt. Once the first dam had been blown up and the process started, they had no choice. They couldn’t afford not to join in. The water from one dam opened was not enough. They needed to open the other small dams on the tributaries of the St. Croix River, the Snake, the Kettle and the Namakagon to get enough water to float the heavy logs.
“All hell’s gonna break loose, now,” Sven declared.
Will nodded. Sven was probably right. But they had to take advantage of the combined surge of water from behind all the dams to get their logs to market, no matter the danger of a logjam from overcrowding the river with logs.
“Lute, you stay here with the regular crew and get the rest of these logs into the water,” Will ordered. “You, you, and you,” he pointed at some of his men, “come with me. With all that water comin’ downriver, we’d better get a driving crew ahead of these logs, so this doesn’t get outa hand. Ben, bring the wagon with the bedrolls and supplies. You’ll have to take the road, we’ll take the river path, it’s faster.”
“Yes, Sir.” The men whooped with pent-up enthusiasm and hurried to continue the job of shoving millions of feet of logs into the river. They knew they needed to rush to make sure the high water would carry their logs down-stream.
“And, you, you, and you,” Will decided, picking his best men, “come with me to the Dalles. We’ll be the jam crew in case of trouble there.”
The men he’d picked grabbed their equipment and mounted their horses, following him downriver along the trail between the tall pine trees.
As they rode along the river bank, Will could see the logs which had been beached by the low-water drives lying on the sand bars in the river bed. He could tell the water was rising because these logs were beginning to lift off the sandbars and float free.
Across the river he could see the crews from other logging companies pushing their huge piles of logs into the river-bed faster than the water could carry them away. The prolonged drought had everyone acting in a panic, afraid of missing the drive. The men stopped using common sense. He could feel their panic like a bad taste in his mouth—the taste of trouble brewing.
As the water rose, the logs moved downriver faster than their horses could travel the rutted path. Immense rafts of logs formed and raced downstream ahead of them.
The men shouted with joy, watching the logs speed toward the booms at the Stillwater sawmills forty miles down-stream. Delivering their logs meant they’d get paid and could go home to their wives and children. Many of them had farms to work.
Will left his driving crew to join the men from other logging companies working at various spots along the river. They would try to keep the logs moving around islands and sandbars, and fallen trees or other obstacles, which might stop their movement downstream.
He and the men he’d picked for the jam crew continued on downriver.
As he rode, he wondered what Carrie had thought about the way they’d all rushed out this morning. She and Louise had put a lot of work into that breakfast and then all the loggers had rushed off, leaving half their food on their plates. Well, a couple of traveling salesmen had stayed behind to finish their breakfasts, he remembered.
Will imagined her working in the dining room and wondered again at Carrie and Louise’s obviously close relationship. How odd that she was so tall and nicely curved and her aunt so small and thin.
Will wished he could have had more time to get to know her better. Chances are, now their work would be finished here in a few days and he wouldn’t see her again until next spring. He sighed and turned to pay attention to Sven who wanted to know what he planned to do next.
“We’ll get set up at the Dalles,” Will said as they neared Taylors Falls. “The bend in the river there is the big trouble spot.”
Yes, Will thought, staring at the gorge with a shudder of dread. Here, just below the falls, was a Trouble spot with a capital T. The river narrowed to a deep, sharp gorge between huge perpendicular cliffs of trap rock fifty to two hundred feet high. A high rock cliff had forced the St. Croix River to make a sharp bend, at almost a right angle, around the huge v-shaped cliff, which had been appropriately named Angle Rock.
They tethered their horses under the trees, put on their spiked shoes and grabbed their long, iron peavies.
Joining the other men already on the logs floating in the river, they jumped from log to log. Jabbing their sharp, hooked peavies into the logs, they steered them away from each other to keep them floating free. The men’s greatest fear was having the big logs turn crosswise, tangle up and stop the logs behind from moving freely down the river.
It was hot and tiring work, yet Will knew the water in the river was icy cold from underground springs. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if he lost his footing and fell beneath those heavy logs. Being crushed to death or drowning would likely be his fate. But there was no time to think about that now. They had to keep those logs moving.
All the loggers understood the danger well. If a man slipped under those churning logs, it might well be weeks before his body washed ashore, miles downstream. They used their sharp peavies to help them keep their balance and the spikes in their boots to help them keep their footing. Nimbleness of foot was not just an attribute, but a necessity for staying alive on this job.
Some men had been here for weeks, building booms in the eddies of the Dalles to control the flow of the logs. Almost a hundred different lumbermen owned the logs coming down the river together, and all had men at work to help drive them down to the sawmills. Without good roads, the river was their only practical means of getting the heavy logs to market.
Now Will and his men worked hard along with the men from the other logging companies to keep the logs moving smoothly around Angle Rock and prevent a jam like the well-remembered ones of 1865 and 1883.
When night fell and they could no longer see to work the logs, they built fires along the banks to provide light. They worked around the clock in shifts, some of them working while others rolled up in their blankets and went to sleep on the mossy banks under the tall pine trees.
The first few days, all went smoothly. Millions of logs danced down the falls and over the rapids, and around the bend, carried on by the rushing, swirling white water. Men in their spiked shoes and red-plaid woolen shirts balanced on the logs and kept them moving. The water was still icy-cold, even in June, and sixteen-hour days were considered normal. The town was filled with excitement about the drive, and those who could spare some time lined the banks to watch.
Will slept in a tent and ate at the cook tent with his men. He found himself often looking towards the boarding house, wondering what Carrie was doing. A couple of times, he saw her sitting under a tree on the cliff, watching them work. He wished he dared stop work to talk to her, even for a few minutes. But he couldn’t single her out in front of his men and the townspeople. It wasn’t proper.
Perhaps when their work was done, he’d get a day or two of rest at the boarding house before he had to go back to run his sawmill at Stillwater. In the meantime, he’d best keep his mind on his work.
* * * *
Trouble began a few days later. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, the thirteenth day of June. The little town of Taylors Falls was barely awake. Churches were in session and the sun was shining. Some of the jam crew, including Will, had worked part of the night and were now catching a few hours’ sleep in their tents along the banks.
When the crash of jamming logs woke them, Will knew they were in big trouble. He hurried into his spiked shoes, without bothering with pants or shirt. His long red flannel underwear was covering enough.
The flow of logs had ceased its smooth progress down-river at Angle Rock just below Taylors Falls and almost under the watchful eye of the “Old Man of the Dalles”, the most natural stone face in the world.
As Will hurried to the river, he could see some logs hadn’t made it around the sharp bend in the river. They had tangled up there between the cliffs. Now the unusually swift current was rapidly piling more and more logs on top of the ones already caught there.
The shouts of the men mingled with the crashing of logs and noise of the water over the rapids in the river. Grabbing their axes, peavies and poles, they rushed out onto the logs, desperately hoping to be in time to stop a jam.
He felt sick as he realized their efforts were too little, too late. The preventive booms they had built to hold water in the eddies had broken.
The river current was too strong and the logs came on. Long pine logs bounced and ground against each other, the weight of the oncoming logs forcing the ones ahead into an impossible tangle, some sticking straight up on end. Soon it was clear to Will this jam would not be broken quickly.
* * * *
That Sunday morning, high on the side of the valley, Carrie sat with her family in the First Christian Church, listening to a very long sermon. Her mind kept straying to the excitement downtown, where she knew the logging crews were hard at work, driving the logs to market. She knew the town would buzz with plaid shirted, burly men like Will Tellers for a while, then the excitement would die down and she’d probably never see him again. At least not until next spring. She sighed at the dreary thought. Her life was pretty humdrum.
Aunt Louise frowned at her sigh, making Carrie sit up straighter. Tom squirmed beside her, casting her an, “I told you so” look, to remind her of his argument that it was much too hot to sit in a stuffy church, listening to a long-winded sermon.
Suddenly Carrie sat up as a loud rumble echoed through the church. She recognized the crashing of logs in the distance and her pulse began pounding with excitement. Everyone sat up. Even the sleeping old man in the pew on the men’s side of the church, across the aisle from her, straightened up.
“Logjam,” he said loudly, forgetting it was improper to speak in church.
A murmur of agreement raced through the sanctuary, stirring excitement. The words, “logjam” sailed through the wooden building like a wildfire on a stiff prairie wind.
The pastor paused mid-sentence, openmouthed. The crashing noises were unmistakable to anyone who’d heard them before. And in this little town, that was everyone. Men started to rise and everyone whispered and fidgeted.
“Can we go?” Tom whispered, pulling on Carrie’s sleeve.
Long held habits of politeness held Carrie to the pew. “In a minute,” she whispered back.
The pastor quickly intoned the benediction and dismissed his congregation, though he was already speaking to the backs of some men hurrying out the door.
Excitedly chattering, everyone else quickly followed. The usual Sunday gossip was forgotten as they hurried to watch the new event unfold. Would it be a big one? Would it top the other logjams that had occurred in their little town? They had to see for themselves.
“Smart man, that Pastor,” Aunt Louise remarked as they rushed outside to their buggies. “He knows when he’s lost his audience.”
“Hurry, Auntie,” Tom said, pulling his short aunt along down the path to the buggies.
“I’m coming. My legs aren’t as long as yours, you know,” Louise scolded.
Tom frantically untied the horse’s reins from the hitching post. “I know. But I’ve never seen a logjam.”
“Sure you have, three years ago,” Carrie said, helping Louise up into the buggy and then lifting her skirts to get in herself. She took her seat beside Aunt Louise and grabbed the reins from Tom, who quickly jumped in.
Carrie frowned at a man who’d already blocked her path with his horse and buggy. He frowned back as though to say he was a man, so he needed to go first. Well, she wanted to see what was happening, too. Maybe she could even report on it this time.
Tom was saying, “I guess so. But I was only nine, then. I don’t remember it very good.”
“Very well,” Carrie corrected automatically.
“Yes, ma’am. We were still living up here at the parsonage then, and Mama wouldn’t let me go down to the river to watch.” His brown eyes sparkled with excitement.
Carrie tapped a foot impatiently as she waited for another man ahead of her to turn his buggy. She slapped the reins to start her horse following him on the rough, rutted graveled road down the steep hill toward downtown. The recent rains had left the dirt road in poor condition. She had to go slower than she would have liked to avoid the ruts. But rushing would only place them in danger of breaking an axle or wheel or overturning the buggy.
They tied up the horse in front of Uncle Joe’s newspaper shop, since that was closer to the river than Aunt Louise’s boarding house. Climbing out, they hurried toward the banks of the river to see what was happening.
“Mind you don’t get your Sunday suit dirty,” Aunt Louise cautioned Tom as they picked their way around the puddles.
“I won’t. I’ll just look.” He had to shout to be heard over the deafening noise of crashing logs.
Aunt Louise eyed the scene for a moment, then said, “You two go watch. I’ve seen enough logjams. I’d better get some extra food started. This is bound to bring more people to town. Carrie, I’ll need some help in a while.”
“All right.” Near the bridge, Carrie and Tom moved to the right and climbed the path through the rocks to the bluff overlooking the river. It was filling up fast with the huge logs, which were still in motion, but sticking out every which way as the force of the water and the weight of the oncoming logs pushed them about. Loggers were hard at work with their peavies and poles, trying to straighten some of the logs at the front of the jam.
“Look, Carrie, those men are in their undershirts and drawers,” Tom said with a laugh.
“So they are.”
“Why didn’t they get dressed first?”
Carrie shrugged, embarrassed for the men. “Maybe they were asleep when the jam started,” she guessed. “And maybe they thought if they could straighten out the lead logs fast enough, they could keep the logs from jamming up.”
“Yeah, but there are way too many logs to do that, now, aren’t there?”
“I’m afraid so,” Carrie agreed.
Below them and downriver to their right, they could see logs piled high between the trap rock walls of the Dalles all the way to Angle Rock. They walked past the world’s largest glacier holes, another legacy of the ancient glacier that had formed the unique valley and attracted visitors to their little town and Aunt Louise’s boarding house.
Carrie smiled at the strange sight the loggers made in their long red flannels and drawers and spiked shoes. She found herself looking for Will, holding her breath each time one of the men leapt from log to log. Shoving the logs with their peavies, they worked hard trying to untangle them so they would move downriver again. But she didn’t see him. There were too many men working to pick him out of the crowd.
“Let’s go farther downriver so we can see what’s happening past Angle Rock,” Carrie said.
She and Tom hurried down the rocky path between the towering cliffs of rock formations. When they reached the lower boat landing, she was disappointed to see the river at a low level there, with only a few logs floating in it.
Climbing the steep path to the top of Angle Rock, Carrie could see the problem. Logs were jammed every which way against the solid rock walls of the cliffs. Those rocks had stood for thousands of years against wind and storms, and they weren’t moving to accommodate the logs. The logs were now jammed together so tightly, they even held back most of the water.
Just below them and across the river she could see the forty foot high cross nature had made in the rock wall for which the river and valley was named.
Carrie shuddered as she glanced below them. On this side of the river was the tall needle of rock called the Devil’s Chair.
That needle of rock was a bone of contention between her and Tom, because he and his friends seemed to think it was a challenge to climb. More than one boy had fallen and broken a bone, and she didn’t want her brother to be next. With both of their parents dead, he was her responsibility now.
“Look up there,” Tom said, pointing to the top of the cliff across the river. “There’s Mr. Sargent, taking pictures already. See his tripod?”
“I believe you’re right, Tom. He sure didn’t waste any time, did he?” She envied the man. He could just go work; he didn’t have to ask permission from someone else first. She ached to have that authority, to be the one to write about this exciting event for their newspaper.
“I’ll bet he can sell lots of pictures to the city folks, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure he will,” she agreed. “It seems like half the people in town are already here watching. More will be coming from the cities, as soon as the news goes out over the telegraph wires, I’m sure.”
Picking their way carefully along the rocks, she and Tom made their way back to the little town.
“Let’s go change out of our Sunday clothes,” Carrie said. “We’re not dressed for climbing around on the rocks like this. Then we can sit up on the cliff to watch. We don’t want to get grass stains on our Sunday clothes.”
“Let me stay and watch a while longer first,” Tom begged.
“As soon as you change your clothes,” Carrie insisted. “And be sure you stay back out of the loggers’ way. It’s dangerous out on the logs. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I’ll watch out.” Tom sighed and followed her back to their rooms on the second floor of the boarding house.
Aunt Louise had already changed out of her black silk Sunday dress and now wore a red-checked gingham one with a full white apron covering it. She was busy rolling out piecrusts in her kitchen as they walked through and told her their plans.
“We’ll probably have extra people for supper,” Aunt Louise warned.
“I’ll be back to help,” Carrie promised. “I’m sure Uncle Joe will want me to give him all the details about the logjam, too.”
“I’m sure he’s chafing at the bit, wanting to be there to see what’s going on for himself,” Aunt Louise said and chuckled. “He sure hates not being able to get around like he used to.”
After donning his everyday cotton britches and shirt, Tom ran on ahead to sit under a pine tree on the cliff to watch the men attempting to break up the jam.
Carrie followed, but stopped at Uncle Joe’s house to tell him what was happening.
Aunt Louise was right about Uncle Joe being impatient, Carrie thought, as she sat in his parlor, listening to him fuss. His wife, Esther, eyed him worriedly, but said nothing, only pursed her lips and continued her knitting.
“What a time for Hank to be off visiting his mother,” Uncle Joe said. “A reporter should be where the action is.”
“You promised him the day off,” Aunt Esther put in, raising an eyebrow. “He couldn’t know this would happen.”
“Humph,” Uncle Joe said, leaning on his cane as he put down his pipe and hobbled over to add another log to the fire in the fireplace.
Carrie thought the room was already stifling, but Uncle Joe liked extra heat due to his constant aches and pains. “Why don’t you buy one of those new Franklin stoves, Uncle Joe? Fireplaces are so old fashioned.”
“I like a fireplace,” he said, returning to his armchair and puffing on his pipe again. “I like to see the flames burning. I can watch them while I think about what I’m writing. I can’t do that with one of those iron monsters.”
“I suppose. But I hear they don’t smoke up a room like the fireplace does.” She didn’t mention the smoke from his pipe, which was adding to the stuffiness of the room.
“It doesn’t smoke if you manage the vent properly. Don’t change the subject, girl. I need you to go get some details on this jam.”
“Yes, Sir,” Carrie said.
“The rain is making my joints ache worse today. I can’t possibly go out and see the jam for myself.”
“I heard some of the men say it’s going to be a big one, Uncle Joe. They already have teams of horses trying to pull out some of the lead logs, but aren’t having much luck. I’m sure reporters from St. Paul will be arriving on the train to-morrow to write about it.”
“Humph,” he repeated. “No doubt. Though I don’t know why they can’t use what I send them over the telegraph wire instead of wasting money sending out their own people.”
“We saw Mr. Sargent up on the cliff already, taking lots of pictures.”
“I’ll bet he’s happy as a lark, thinking of all the money he’ll make selling them to the tourists,” Esther said.
“I imagine Louise will be pleased to have extra tourists for boarders, too,” Uncle Joe said.
Carrie smiled. “And you won’t mind selling a lot of extra copies of your paper this week either, will you?”
“Sassy girl.”
He snorted, but she saw him hide a smile. “I’ll need to get out an extra edition. So, since I can’t go see for myself, and Hank’s not here, you tell me all about it, so I can write something for it.”
“Why not let me write it this time, Uncle Joe?”
He scowled. “Don’t start going on about that again. I told you people won’t read regular news written by a woman. It ain’t proper.”
“Then leave my name off of it,” Carrie offered, though the very thought of doing the work without getting the credit for it rankled.
He shook his head. “I’ll write it. You just go see what’s going on and tell me about it. Off with you, now.”
“Yes, Uncle Joe.” Carrie sighed, biting back further protest. She’d told him of her frustration often enough. No sense irritating him by repeating how much she resented that he refused to take her seriously because she was a woman.
Picking up her notebook and extra pencils, she went back down the hill to the river and then climbed the rocks to the high bluff overlooking it, where she would have a good view of everything below.
Off to one side, she could see some of the loggers’ tents. The flaps were open, revealing the disarray inside. Their “turkeys” or duffel bags and bedrolls were scattered about. Apparently this was where the jam crew who’d been on night watch had been sleeping this morning. Since some were still working in their red flannel underwear, they must have left their bedrolls in a hurry when they’d been awakened by the noise of the jam forming.
She found a shady spot under a small tree and sat, spreading the full skirt of her blue checkered gingham dress to protect her legs from the ground. The weather was hot and sunny. Flies buzzed around crumbs of biscuit the loggers had left on the ground. Nearby, a scrawny black dog chewed on a bone, watching her with sad eyes.
A hundred feet below, along the riverbank, men were hooking ropes between teams of horses and the huge logs, trying to pull them out of the jam. Men leapt from log to log, fastening ropes to the logs, letting the horses pull them out, one by one. The men shouted at each other and the horses, trying to make themselves heard over the noise the logs made crashing and grinding against one another.
The men struggled to find the key logs which lay cross-wise keeping the others from floating on downstream, though she couldn’t see how they’d ever find them in the huge mess in front of her. As far as she could see upriver, logs filled the river. She could no longer even see any water, only logs.
She watched the men working and scribbled words furiously to describe the picture of the whole scene in her notebook. Concentrating on her writing, she didn’t hear her friend Martha come up beside her until she spoke.
“Is Joe letting you write about this for the paper this time?” Martha asked, surprise and delight in her voice.
Carrie looked up and smiled ruefully at her chubby blonde friend. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “No, I’m beginning to think he’ll never let me do that. I’m only taking notes so he can write the article.”
“Oh.” Martha sounded disappointed. She settled herself on the ground beside Carrie, spreading the full skirt of her brown cotton dress to cover her short legs. “Was he crabby because he was drinking again?”
She nodded. “I suppose I should be grateful Uncle Joe allows me to work with him at all,” Carrie said, sighing. “Not many women are allowed into the newspaper business.”
“That’s true. But I keep hoping things will change soon. Maybe we’ll be allowed to do more than serving jobs or nursing or teaching.” Martha’s blue eyes looked sad, but her voice was hopeful.
“I doubt it will change out here,” Carrie said ruefully. “At least, not where old-fashioned men like Uncle Joe are in charge. But maybe it has changed for someone like the president’s sister in a big city.”
Martha nodded. “Yes, I heard Miss Cleveland got an editor’s job. At a literary magazine in Chicago, wasn’t it?”
Carrie nodded. “There was a story about it in all the papers, even though she said she was tired of reporters following her about.” Reading about the success of Rose Cleveland had sent hope through Carrie, until she remembered that life had always been different for the wealthy.
Carrie knew her uncle felt an obligation to her and Tom because they were his sister’s children. That’s why he’d given her a job when her father died a couple of years before. Because her father had been a minister and they’d lived at the church parsonage, they’d lost their home as well. When a new minister had arrived to take over the parsonage, she and Tom had moved in with their late mother’s sister, Aunt Louise, who had never married and owned the Falls House boarding house.
“You’re lucky to have a second job with your aunt to earn your room and board,” Martha said. “And I’m glad I can live with my parents. Most jobs barely pay enough for room and board.”
“Trouble is, most of the year, Aunt Louise has little enough work there to keep herself busy. Besides, I hate waiting tables. The men are mostly crude, ill-mannered and loud.”
Martha let out a derisive laugh. “So your newspaper job is better? That office is dusty and reeks of machine oil and ink. And that reporter your uncle hired, his name’s Hank, isn’t it? He doesn’t seem very well-mannered to me. I don’t think I’d like working with him any better than waiting tables at the boarding house.”
Carrie shrugged. “Most of the time Hank is rather uncouth. But I try to ignore him.”
“Look,” Martha said, jumping to her feet and pointing to the river. “There’s Tom, standing out there on a log.”
“Oh my God! That boy’s going to be the death of me, yet!”
“Tom!” Carrie shouted, scrambling to stand up as her heels tangled in her long skirt. She ignored the rip of fabric as a heel undid the hem. “Tom! Get back on shore. You’ll be hurt.”
“I don’t think he can hear you over all the noise,” Martha said as she struggled to her feet.