Poling a raft down the river could be achieved by standing at the back end, jabbing the pike into the bottom, leaning against it and pushing.
Poling a raft down the river
An Excerpt from Life at a North Woods Lumber Camp
Poling a raft could be achieved by standing at the back end, jabbing the pike into the bottom of the river, leaning against it and pushing, or standing in the front end and pushing, as the craft moved, shoving for all one was worth and walking along the side to the stern. And so on all over again, and again, until the outfit had reached the objective of the expedition, if by some miracle the poler lasted that long.
The presence of the flare, just beneath which the suckers were supposed to congregate in expectant mood, complicated the business, and so tonight the navigator stood in one spot at the front and just pushed. Father’s was an extraordinary performance, and we made
better than fair progress. After a half hour or so, Fred spied a long, black form following just back of the raft and in the outer circles of the light. In his excitement, he turned to mention it to Father, only to catch the navigator in the shin with the spear. Father, caught completely off guard, cried, “By the jumping Jeeeehoshaphat and all the little Jeeeehoshaphats,” an expression of his usually reserved for ceremonial occasions. Turning aside to avoid another
flourish of the spear, he slipped and fell overboard in three feet of water.
Photo Courtesy Lawton
L. Williams “Cleanup crews” worked in boats and from shore as a sort of “rear guard” to make sure that every last log reached its destination at the mill. These men combed the banks, freed minor log jams, and got all of the timber that might have been delayed in its downstream journey moving again.
Meantime I had been up and about and in the general excitement caught Old Pat in the midriff with my own spear. The old soldier, erstwhile toast of generals and colonels, who was standing on the outside log, swung out neatly and clipped Fred on the ear, a performance that was rewarded with howls.
When Father had been brought aboard, Fred murmured that he was sorry, a sentiment received by Father with a smile, and presently we were underway again. We had gone two or three bends and as many straight-aways when Pat shouted “Fish!” with the same nonchalance as in the war he had received the General’s encomiums. Fred had seen them at the same time – three huge lunks lying along the bottom tandem fashion. Fred heaved the spear and hauled in one of the trio, a squirming creature that tested Fred’s strength and sang-froid before it was landed in the bushel basket that in supreme optimism we had brought along.
Father told Fred that it was a fancy job and started poling again. Up around where Spring Brook entered the river, Fred caught sight of a group of fish that followed the raft, only to be blacked out one minute and then being again in what they seemed to consider their favorite spot. Something eerie seemed to be afoot when suddenly they remained in sight long enough for Fred to hurl his spear. This gave him his second trophy.
While Father was bestowing encomiums upon Fred’s prowess, we drifted onto a sandbar and here we remained for a few minutes for the excitement to disappear. We made use of it to discuss the disappearing and reappearing fish that had caught Fred off balance. Father worked it out that trees momentarily threw shadows across the stream, which shows that a little worry about trees is sufficient.
Pat, no doubt, was thinking of the battle at Cold Spring when, startled as our prizes began lunging right and left in the basket, I slid off the raft into water almost to my chin, noiselessly and unmissed by the rest of the crew. Father at last looked around.
“Where’s the kid?”