Leaning Into The Wind: 

free preview... The McGuinness Logging Camp back home...

No one seemed to know much about him. He had worked at this camp longer than any of other the men I spoke with, some of whom had been there for several years. He spoke infrequently, kept to himself and apparently had no friends except for the team of horses with which he worked every day, and in whose company he spent his evenings.

His name was George Longcott and he was 70 years old, but in remarkable condition for his age. He had been called "Longcock" for so long that some of his coworkers believed that to be his true name. Some even insisted that this was the name that appeared on his pay checks.

He was the type of chap that would have drawn attention anywhere, even in a logging camp. He was a tall lanky man with a fierce visage - not the kind to invite idle chatter or probing into his background. His head was topped by a large unruly mass of hair that had probably been black in earlier times, but was now a mixture of grey, white and black. It was unkempt and he wore it long at a time when this was very uncommon. He had a beard that was at least twelve inches long and was just as scraggly as his hair. He also had a huge walrus mustache, which completely covered his mouth and blended in with his beard. It was impossible to tell just exactly where one ended and the other began and his mouth was completely hidden by them. It became visible only at meal times or on the rare occasions when he spoke. He reminded me of a painting of Moses delivering the Ten Commandments.

George wore clothes typical for a logger - a woolen plaid jacket, woolen trousers held up by heavy suspenders, and a plaid shirt, as well as woolen Stanfield underwear commonly called "long johns." In George's case there was one major difference. He reputedly put on a new suit of long johns each autumn and kept it on until he discarded it the following spring. Needless to say, one could often smell George's presence.

Frank had been out on his own for over a year. He was in some ways worldly, but in others still quite naive. For a seventeen-year-old though, he was very mature. He was a gutsy young fellow who dearly loved partying and having a good time. He also appeared to be very popular with the opposite sex and had at least one steady girlfriend back in Creston.

Frank's father had farmed a small orchard in Creston before being killed in World War II. His late grandfather had been a cabinet minister in the coalition government of BC and had acquired his wealth during the nineteen twenties smuggling liquor into the United States during Prohibition.

As camps go this one was not particularly noteworthy. The food was excellent, at least it seemed so to me. It was placed in large serving bowls on a table, which stretched from one end of the dining hall to the other. The food was passed from one person to the next and one had better help oneself the first time around because no one wanted to interrupt their eating to pass it a second time. Such requests were usually met with smart retorts such as; "shut up and eat you dinner."

Much of the food had colorful, but logical as well as highly descriptive names. You would hear commands such as; "pass the iron cow," (canned milk), "send down the cackleberries," (eggs), "have some CPR strawberries," (prunes), "pass the mush," ( oatmeal porridge) etc. Until I learned this new jargon, I was sometimes rebuked for being too slow in responding.

Back in 1951 there was very little mechanization in the logging camps. The loggers felled and bucked the trees with crosscut saws. It was brutally hard work and the men ate huge amounts of food to fuel their bodies from one meal to the next. I have never since seen anyone eat such prodigious amounts at every meal!

We quickly discovered that each worker had his own place at the table and that

newcomers had better wait until everyone else was seated before choosing their seats. I learned the hard way that taking someone else's place at the table was not tolerated. The chair's rightful owner came and stood at the table glowering at me until someone nudged me and whispered that I was sitting in his chair. It was no fun to find my self with proverbial "egg on my face," but for Frank at least, the worst was yet to come.

It wasn't until the first morning at breakfast that Frank got to meet George Longcott up close for he was seated directly across the table from him. Not only was he treated to the smell that emanated from him, but he soon learned that George had other eccentric habits as well.

George began his morning repast by partially filling his breakfast bowl with oatmeal porridge. He next diced up a few fried eggs and stirred them into the porridge. After that he crumbled up two slices of burnt toast and stirred them in as well. He then cradled the bowl in his huge gnarled hands and raised it to his mouth. Accompanied by a cacophony of slurping sounds he sucked in the unholy mess while straining it through his beard in the process. When he was finished his beard looked awful! Poor Frank! He was mesmerized, his gaze riveted by the performance. He completely forgot his own food, and sat entranced by the sight of porridge, crumbs and pieces of egg profusely embedded in the mustache and beard of the man across the table from him. He could not in any event have eaten his own breakfast for he came dangerously close to bringing up the little he had already eaten.

From that day on, Frank ate sparingly at each meal, keeping his gaze focused intently on his own plate. Not once did his curiosity allow him to look up until he had finished his food and escaped from the table. Fortunately for him, we stayed in the logging camp for only few more days before we were able to move in with the rest of our drill crew at the sawmill camp.