My first job was delivering newspapers in the Campbellton area, and one of the homes on my route was occupied by a man in a wheelchair. I used to walk up on his porch and put his paper where he could reach it easily. Sometimes, if he was sitting on his porch, he would ask me to sit and chat. I think he was lonely and felt the need to know he was still visible to the world around him. The logger lived in a small house just about where the White Tower Restaurant stands today. He was a nice old guy. I would spend many afternoons sitting on his porch while he regaled me with fantastic tales. It was time spent well.
I can still remember sitting on his porch in Campbellton, watching the traffic go by, knowing the occupants of these autos were totally unaware of the wonderful stories I was hearing. He had so many stories of wonders, I don’t think I heard any yarn more than once. The old timer had started logging as a highball rigging rat in his youth and over the years had earned the right to call himself a bull of the woods. He would recount tale after tale in a deep and raspy voice. He would get a gleam in his eyes as he recounted tale after tale. Sometimes he would stop talking mid-sentence with a faraway look in his eyes, and then, with a smile on his face, he would just continue the narrative. Sometimes, I would close my eyes and envision his telling of how life was for a logger in the twenties. His voice would create movies in my mind that were quite creative in form; his words were spoken in an articulated fashion.
He told me he had begun logging back when he was a teenager, back at the turn of the century. From what I remember from his tales, he was from a logging family. He reminisced about topping trees to rig as spar trees, and there were tales about working on the steam engine trains. I would sit in awe, listening to these captivating recitals about logging.
He had worked his whole life in the Mohun Lake area, employed by the Lambs Lumber Company. They logged in the Mohun Lake area, and lots of the names of other men he had worked with and the places they logged were known to me. This made the recitals so much more interesting in my eyes. I never tired of hearing these yarns.
When I met him, he was missing one leg above the knee, and the other was missing below the knee. He had told me it was due to having diabetes. Even after I had stopped delivering papers, I would still stop by for a chat on his porch whenever I saw him sitting there. Over the next couple of years, I watched him lose his legs right up to the top. Then one day the house looked empty, and a woman was cleaning the place. She told me that her brother had passed away. I would miss this man and his stories. I enjoyed sitting on his porch, watching the traffic go by as he told his tales of logging on the coast. Could you imagine if his stories were put down in a book, what a glorious book that would have been!