Buzz Lein’s PULP
CUTTER of ‘49
A pulp cutter is a husky individual that gets up at the
crack of dawn and goes into the bush where with great rapidity and much skill
he commences cutting little logs out of big trees. He never gets a chance to cut in strips where
the timber is really good. That is
always reserved for the fellow who is cutting alongside of him. From the time he hits his strip until a
little after dinner, he cuts down the
trees and saws them into bolts along the rabbit trail that he has swamped
out. This trail is ten feet wide
according to him. It is only four feet
wide according to the strip boss and the stumps are high enough to be used for
lookout towers.
Along this trail and at regular intervals are little
clearings where he piles up the wood that he has cut. A great deal of thinking and ingenuity goes
into this. It is essential that he get a
minimum amount of wood in a maximum amount of space. To further this worthy ambition he stays
awake nights thinking of ways and means to accomplish it. He has already tried putting in plugs;
crooked sticks and knotty bolts but he knows that that won’t get by the
scaler. So the wood is carefully piled
according to a plan worked out over the years.
When the scaler comes along he will stand back and look at it, wondering
how the hell so little wood get piled in such a large space without leaving any
holes. This worries the scaler but makes
the cutter glow with happiness for the rest of the day.
After battling all day with heat; flies; brush; poor timber;
dirty ground; long walks to work; poor tools; ruining expensive working
clothes; wearing out lousy files; arguing with strip boss’s; scalers; walking
boss’s; contractors and anyone else who thinks that the cutting regulations are
not being followed he drags himself back to camp, completely exhausted after
making about $12.00 in six hours.
In camp, there are about 50 more men all engaged in cutting
pulp. The only difference is that these fellows all have
better timber and are working much closer to camp than he is. After having washed up and put on clean
clothes, he discusses the happenings of the day with his fellows. During the course of these conversations
there may be casual references to women and liquor. By the time the conversational ball really
gets rolling, the bell goes and they all troop in for supper.
For some reason there are never any good cooks in a pulp
camp. The cookees are just about the slowest things that ever skidded a
plate along a table. The table is
invariably bare except for bread and butter; meat and potatoes; Two or three
vegetables; pies; cakes; cookies;
various condiments; tea; coffee and milk. The cutter never stays in the mess hall for
more than six minutes, completing the last of his swallowing about halfway
between his place at the table and his bunk.
He usually takes on during this brief sojourn in the cookery, enough
food to keep a tribe of Indians for a whole winter.
After his post prandial smoke, he ambles over to the
office. He doesn’t want anything but it
is a good way to kill a few minutes. Since the clerk hasn’t done anything all day,
he will be glad to see him and to pass the time of day with him. In between the
time he first gets this idea and before
he actually arrives at the office, he thinks of several things he might as well
discuss with the clerk while the other fellows are lined up behind him
patiently awaiting their turn to buy the few little items that they need. In the first place there is that matter of a
difference in his scale slip of some .0000038 points. He might just as well
have the dough as the company. In the
second place this would be a good time as any to check up on his income
tax. That so and so of a clerk is
picking on him and that’s for sure. He
has no business taxing him as a single man when he has put down on his tax form
that he is personally maintaining a self-contained domicile and is looking
after his three young brothers, a crippled uncle, his great grandmother and
thirty seven orphans.
After this brief and stimulating encounter with the clerk –
which ended in a draw – he goes back to the bunkhouse to read; smoke; talk to
his chums or just loll around till it is time to go to bed. He may or may not feel the pangs of hunger
and go for a coffee. He may even file
his saw or touch up his axe. When he tumbles
into his well- made bed and draws the blankets up under his chin, he drops off
into a deep and restful slumber, so that when he awakens in the morning he will
be in great shape to go forth and give battle.
After spending about 42 days in camp, the cutter discovers
that he has a few bucks on the books and that since the jobber is drawing
interest on this money, he might just as well go for a holiday and spend
it. His nerves are pretty well shot
anyway. The moment this wonderful idea
hits him, there is loud cry for the strip boss and scaler. Orphan number 23 is dreadfully ill and his
presence is required at home at once. The clerk and strip boss and scaler know
how it is. He really should have given
notice ahead of time but since this is an emergency he knows they won’t mind
clearing him at once. The clerk and the
scaler and the strip boss are all suspicious as hell but they can’t take a
chance. Maybe this is an emergency. So the cutter gets cleared and away he goes
in an expensive taxi to the nearest town.
Forgotten are all the things that were worrying him a few days ago.
Once in town, cheque cashed, room reserved and all dressed
up in his good clothes, you can’t tell a cutter from a Woods Manager or a high
school teacher. In fact some woods
managers and high school teachers have been cutters. Its only after the cutter
has been in town for a few hours that you can tell the difference between him
and a high school teacher. He goes into
business for himself then. Invariably the first thing that he tries is to put
the local liquor store and brewers’ warehouse out of business. This has never been done in the memories of
the oldest inhabitants but it isn’t because it hasn’t been tried. Our cutter
won’t make out any better than his predecessors.
Depending on whether or not the cutter gets rolled, his stay
in town will be about two weeks at the most.
During this period, he will be viewing the world through a warm
comfortable fog. He will also purchase
many meals that he doesn’t eat, give away much money to bar flies with sad
stories and purchase one of more taxis.
His popularity will flare briefly and brilliantly. It finishes abruptly when his last penny goes
out of his pocket.
Borrowing enough money from the hotel keeper to go back to
work, our disheveled and sick cutter morosely finds his way back to his camp
the best he can. He rolls into the camp yard and peering painfully through
blood red eyes he looks to see what is new.
He totters over to a bench in the sun and practically collapses on
it. Through the haze he recognizes one
of his chums beside him. He leans over
toward him as if to impart some secret of great importance.
“Boy!” he croaks. “Boy.
Did I ever have a good time!”
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