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Logging Cartoons

wornout wrench

Senior Member
Joined
Feb 17, 2012
Messages
740
Location
canada
Gord
I enjoyed the videos. I am glad that you took the time to preserve the history of our province.
Cam
Absolutely true.
My dad was also great story teller, he remember names and dates.
We tried to get him to write them down. We went as far as getting one of those dictation programs for his computer but I guess it just didn't work right.
And now he is gone.

And for those of you out there that wonder about some of the stories Gord tells, you really need to experience a westcoast logging camp to understand thel crazy stuff happens in camp.

Thanks for taking the time to get them recorded Gord.
 

Camshawn

Senior Member
Joined
Jan 25, 2017
Messages
585
Location
Langley BC
Occupation
retired
I remember bits and pieces of stories from my Grandpa. Nobody thought to write them down as well and now they are lost to us. Grandpa worked logging on the coast in the twenties. One of my cousins has a picture of him on a steam donkey in Theadosa Arm (north of Powell River BC). He always talked about eating breakfast, stacks of pancakes and eggs and taking the coastal boats up the coast from the foot of Alexander Street in Vancouver. I wish I remembered more. Cam
 

Bumpsteer

Senior Member
Joined
Sep 2, 2009
Messages
1,333
Location
Front seat on the Struggle Bus
Occupation
Mechanical designer
My mother is our small towns historian....sadly she started many years to late. There were a few "old timers" left for her to talk to when she started.

Now, they're all gone.....so many questions that'll never get answered, stories that'll never be told.

Ed
 

kshansen

Senior Member
Joined
Mar 11, 2012
Messages
11,129
Location
Central New York, USA
Occupation
Retired Mechanic in Stone Quarry
One more here that wishes his dad had recorded the stories from his youth.
He spent time working in logging camps in northern Minnesota working with his dad cutting pulp wood.
His dad passed when I was about 12 and as I grew up in New York State only really got to meet him twice. So I have almost no recollections of him.

I am very envious of those that grew up knowing grandparents or even great-grandparents. Mom's dad passed when she was in high-school and her mom passed when I was maybe eight or nine. Dad's mom is the only one that lived till I was more or less an adult but living half way across the the country only had briefly knew her. Can only imagine the family stories that I missed out on:(
 

El Gordo

Senior Member
Joined
Oct 18, 2016
Messages
356
Location
Ladysmith B.C.
Occupation
Retired B.C. Logger
Here is my Latest Project...I wrote this Poem Today...For all the Young Loggers in the Forest Industry....



The Cold Deck Pile at Suicide Rock


Come all you young, tough riggin’ boys,
And listen while I relate
To the tale of a High-ball Logger
And his untimely fate.
The tale of this bold young logging boy,
So manly was he, and brave;

Twas at the log pile near Suicide Rock
Where he met his eternal grave.


Twas on a bright Sunday morning in May,
As you will quickly hear,
The logs were piled up, mountain high –
We could not keep the Landing clear.
The foreman cried, “Turn out brave lads,
Have hearts devoid of fear!
We’ll break the pile at Suicide Rock,
Then to Vancouver town we’ll steer.


Some of the boys were willing,
And some of the boys were not;
To work on a Sunday log pile –
They didn’t think we ought.
But some of our bravest loggers
Did volunteer to go,
To break the pile at Suicide Rock
With their new guy, Mike Monroe.



They hadn’t rolled off too many logs
When they heard a clear voice sing,

I want you guys to be on your guard
For the pile will soon start to swing.”
These words were scarcely spoken
When the log mass did let go,
And it carried away six logger boys
And the young logger – Mike Monroe.


The rest of the loggers heard the news
And headed from camp at Boulder Creek
In search of their fallen comrades,
Their expectations were very bleak.
They found their mangled comrades
Under the pile of Logs below.
And with the crushed and bleeding bodies
Was the corpse of Mike Monroe.


They dragged him out of his Hemlock grave
And brushed back his raven hair,
But there were no fair forms among them yet,
Whose cries would fill the air.
Then the first fair maid arrived at the pile,
And her cries were heard down below
Down in the valley each villager knew

Twas her lover, young Mike Monroe.

Milly Monroe was this young girl’s name
and she married her high-school friend;
She and her widowed mother, dear,
Lived at Camp near River’s Bend.
The wages left by Mike Monroe
The boss to Milly did pay,
And the loggers took up a collection,
A generous purse next day.
They buried the loggers in sorrow,

Twas on the twelfth of May,

Come all of you bold riggin’ boys,
For all your comrades you must pray;
Now, engraved upon a Hemlock tree
That beside a grave did grow,
Was the name and date of the sad, sad fate
Of the young logger, named Mike Monroe.


Scarcely two months later,
The grief broke Milly’s heart,
She looked on death as sweet relief
And Death would play its part.
Her last request was granted, she let everybody know,
She wished to lie beside her lover –
The Young Logger....Mike Monroe.

Gord Barney Dec 1 2019
 

Tugger2

Senior Member
Joined
Mar 22, 2018
Messages
1,366
Location
British Columbia
Enjoyed your videos Gord. I could tell you stories of going thru Eve River on the way back to Naka after a nights in the Salmon River Inn .Keep up the good work!!
 

old-iron-habit

Senior Member
Joined
Nov 22, 2012
Messages
4,233
Location
Moose Lake, MN
Occupation
Retired Cons't. Supt./Hospitals
One more here that wishes his dad had recorded the stories from his youth.
He spent time working in logging camps in northern Minnesota working with his dad cutting pulp wood.
His dad passed when I was about 12 and as I grew up in New York State only really got to meet him twice. So I have almost no recollections of him.

I am very envious of those that grew up knowing grandparents or even great-grandparents. Mom's dad passed when she was in high-school and her mom passed when I was maybe eight or nine. Dad's mom is the only one that lived till I was more or less an adult but living half way across the the country only had briefly knew her. Can only imagine the family stories that I missed out on:(

I share your envious Ken. My fathers Dad and Mother passed when I was 4 and 9 respectively. They moved from St Paul when my dad was 4 and homesteaded in the middle of know where. I have heard many stories from my dad and his siblings growing up but now as I get older I realize what I could have learned from my Grandparents.
 
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