*** SPECIAL FEATURE - September'12 ***
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Recently injured in a vehicular crash that killed his girlfriend, a young forester is assigned to a new job in a remote area of northwestern Montana. He is befriended by an alcoholic logging truck driver, whose efforts to move both into recovery helped in no small way by two women who guide them. Centered on the western logging industry, the story focuses on events that bring sudden change to an ideologically resistant area and the men’s unwilling involvement. Upon arriving, he confronts his hard-driving boss rebelliously, but soon learns that finding what he's looking for will require a major effort on his part. The locals, a hard-working, hard-living, idiosyncratic lot take on the task of educating their new co-worker in ways he could never have imagined. Learning lessons that teach him about surviving the horrific he finds himself melding into the eclectic area when changing times force the locals to rely on his assistance. Just as he becomes attached to his new surroundings and the quirky inhabitants, new technology threatens his job followed by news of a hydroelectric dam construction effort planned a short way downstream that will destroy the valley.
An Excerpt
CHAPTER SIX
I
drove with creeping dread riding the seat next to me. Horne had saddled me with whether the
Therriault brothers lived or died on the company books. The stories I'd heard made me visualize the
two as bridge-lurking trolls. Known
county-wide as the meanest, orneriest, wood-chopping sons-of-bitches alive, no
one questioned their reputation. Bar
talk, lubricated by homemade liquor, embellished the stories with each
telling. Frenchy was the oldest by
twelve minutes. Porky came next and
manhood left the twins difficult to tell apart, until the youngest got his nose
smashed by a hardwood chair and earned his nickname. Porky's nose fell victim to a bar fight in
Troy, a fight that left it flat and broad.
Frenchy promptly threw the chair-holder through the building's front
plate glass window and into street.
According to legend, after he and Porky finished wading through the
other patrons, only the walls were left standing.
Neither
man had a neck. Their bodies started at
their chins and followed a long curve that ended at toe level. Both weighed close to three hundred, poundage
that rippled solid muscle and little fat.
Coal black hair covered both heads and chins and their dark round cheeks
bulged with Copenhagen. They wore black
and red checkered wool shirts summer and winter, open in front from chin to
belly exposing a forest of black chest hair between red suspenders and tin
pants. The Therriault brothers lived to
wrestle the rough and tumble kind that sometimes turned into a
free-for-all. Frenchy's reputation as
county arm breaking champion went unchallenged except by tourists and he regularly
won beer by the case holding a Homelite 990 chainsaw one-handed at arms length
to the count of ten.
The
twins owned an old Koehring double-drum cable log loader, with a serial number
under ten, which had once been red. Most
of the faring had long ago disappeared and the engine compartment and operator
cab doors hung lopsided from single rusted hinges. It moved forward and backward on rock-worn
tracks with half the grouser pads missing.
The rest of their equipment consisted of three Allis Chalmers HD-20 skid
cats of the same vintage as the old Koehring, a grease-encrusted army surplus
cable-dozer equipped TD-14 dozer, still painted olive drab, and a service truck
built from a made over school bus. That
any of their equipment ran, much less moved logs, bordered on a miracle.
I
drove into the landing just before noon.
The Koehring stood idle and the landing had not a log in sight. It looked as if they hadn't turned a wheel in
days. I wondered, for a moment, if
anyone was around, yet there were several pickups parked in a group. I stepped out of my company rig, listened for
dozer noise, heard none, and stood looking over the deserted woods
landing. The old Koehring looked like a
rode-hard horse, bone-weary, head down tired, and grave-ready. It sat like an abandoned hulk, boom in the
dirt and cables slack. The army surplus
TD-14 rested beside the school bus service truck. The engine covers lay on the ground and the
left-hand track served as a worktable for dozer parts. Wrenches and big sockets were scattered over
the hood. I found the crew, behind a
pile of dozed-up brush, on the far side of the landing, eating lunch.
There
were six of them, a hard-looking, careless bunch dressed similarly in wool
shirts, suspenders and black jeans. I
approached apprehensively, wanting to put my best foot forward.
"How's
it going?" I said, innocently.
Silence.
"Is
one of you Frenchy Therriault?" I
tried again, trying to guess which of the lounging loggers fit the description
I'd heard. All seemed to.
More
silence.
"My
name's Scott Jackson. Company sent me up
because John Davis is sick. I'd like to
look over your operation."
None of the six looked at me or in any way
acknowledged my presence. Was I
invisible? Their disregard for me was
complete and I felt shunned. It was a
standoff and I stood minutes waiting for them to give up on the game. From my vantage point it wasn't hard to pick
out the twins. It also wasn't hard to
distinguish Porky from the crowd.
Everything I'd heard was true.
They both looked intimidating even in daylight.
One man finally moved, yawned and stretched
massive arms skyward. "Say boss, I
don't feel much like working this afternoon.
Think I'll take me a little nap," he said.
"Hell
of an idea," said another.
"I'm sleepy as hell."
"Okay,"
I said, "funs over, I can take a joke.
How about we look over the job?"
The
six loggers filled the air with their exaggerated snoring, eyes closed and hard
hats pulled low. Frenchy and Porky lay
in the duff like a couple of abandoned oil barrels, their massive chests
heaving with nasal somnolence. I would
have accomplished more beating a dead horse.
No one said a single word. I
walked away shaking my head.
I
spent two hours climbing dusty skid trails looking for high stumps, careless
breakage and skipped areas. Gypo loggers
were notorious for ignoring patches of thin stumpage, opting instead for areas
where the trees were larger. After the
first hour, I'd found only an occasional missed log, mostly small, one or two
oversized tops and a half dozen stumps that wouldn't strictly pass the height
requirement. I had expected worse and
started to look seriously thinking maybe I'd missed something. Twice I walked down to where I could see the
six loggers. No one had moved. I couldn't believe they were still pretending
sleep.
Therriault
Logging left little that I could find to complain about. Ranked from one to ten, the job rated at
least an eight and probably a nine, not bad for a gypo crew. There wasn't enough scale left to worry
about. In all, they'd done a fairly
decent job. It was hard to imagine how,
with their trash equipment, they could reach even a five. Gypo loggers, the term coming from the fact
they worked independently under a contract that paid for production and nothing
else. Most everyone in the industry
except overhead was paid by the piece, but the gypos were a mixed lot, usually
under-financed and could only afford sub-standard, worn-out equipment. As a group they were generally fun-loving,
hard-working and a close knit bunch.
Therriault Logging was no exception.
Finally
satisfied, I walked back to the landing where the Therriault twins and their
crew feigned sleep. I selected a spot
fifteen feet or so from the group, folded myself down, tipped my hardhat
forward, stretched out and closed my eyes.
Two could play this game. The hot
fall afternoon sun beat down on us and the smell of conifer pitch floated on
the breeze. Pine squirrels scolded us
and a rotting limb poked me in the back.
An hour went by.
In
spite of myself, I dozed, lulled by the forest sounds and the rare mountain
air. Occasionally I peeked out from
under the bill of my aluminum lid.
Still, no one moved. I determined
to wait them out.
Finally
one of them said something. "You
smell something?"
I
cracked one eye open and scoped the group.
Was this a taste of victory? The
pretense of sleep abandoned, they sat leaning against cull logs staring at me
stretched out across from them. An older
member, missing three fingers, tapped the bottom of a Skoal can, lifted the lid
and scooped out tobacco with his thumb and the remaining forefinger. Both went into his mouth along with the
tobacco wad. He stuffed it between his
cheek and gum. Skoal crumbs fell mixing
with dark chest hair and sawdust. He
didn't bother to brush it off.
Another
sawdust and duff covered logger with a Rasputin beard agreed: "Sure do, its close too."
"Maybe
it's a polecat. Smells like one,"
said a third.
They
spent time discussing my ancestry, my appearance and my male abilities without
referring to me directly. They all wore
high-heeled boots common to woods work, some with the little steel spikes in
the soles that they pronounced "corks" and was spelled
"caulks." Their clothes were
heavy and tough-made, able to withstand constant abuse. Beards wore long and untrimmed kept faces
warm in winter. Snuff cans wore circles
in shirt pockets and grease from wiped hands decorated black pants. Their work was physical in a way only hard
labor can be, sweat-raising and dangerous.
Accidents were common, frequently crippling and occasionally deadly.
I
finally tired of their game and since it didn't appear they would relent, I got
up to leave. "Okay," I said,
starting to walk away, "you win, I'm leaving."
Faster
than I would have believed someone that big could move, the Rasputin-bearded
one, the one I'd guessed to be Frenchy Therriault, jumped in front of me
blocking my exit.
"Now
what's yer hurry? We was just getting
acquainted. You ain't passed the test
yet."
"Test?"
I said with gut-wrenching premonition.
"The
test to see what yer made of. I'm
Frenchy Therriault and I'm gonna be the referee. We want everything to be fair and
square." Frenchy turned to the
crew, facing a group smelling blood and eyes twinkling in anticipation. "Killer, how much you weigh?"
I
feared that the stout man who answered earned his nickname honestly. Cold steel blue eyes stared at me from behind
a heavy blond beard. His sly smile let
me know that he'd thoroughly enjoy rearranging my body parts. His wool shirt exposed a powerful chest
covered with sweat and sawdust. I had a
wild impulse to run.
"Two-ten,"
Killer said, getting to his feet in preparation for battle. He stood inches shorter than my
six-foot-four, but I doubted it would matter.
His long upper body sat on short stubby legs that would have made him
look dwarf-like if he hadn't been so big.
Somehow, I didn't think my college wrestling experience would help. It seemed unlikely that "Killer"
had heard of the Marquis of Queensberry.
Or cared.
"Here's
the rules," Frenchy declared as if reading my mind. "There ain't any. All you got to do is put Killer down best two
out of three. Should be easy. I'm sure you've read how in a book
somewhere."
Verbal
intimidation, I decided, hopefully, when Killer began to circle, arms low, his
fingers beckoning, calling me in a guttural voice, "Come to me,
scaler-kid." His eyes sparkled,
enjoying himself, a wide grin exposing snuff-stained teeth. The crowd around us hooted and the bets ran
two to one on the first fall. I wasn't
the favorite. Out of the corner of my
eye I could see Frenchy gathering money.
I
circled also, imitating Killer's ape-like stance, the reference to my age
ringing in my ears. I wondered: if I
could land one good punch in his beer-swollen belly, would it be over? While I debated, Killer stepped inside like
lightening and cuffed me open-handed alongside the head. His playful rap rang bells and danced stars,
but I didn't go down. Amazed by his
quickness, I single-mindedly followed him back jabbing for his gut. My punch was carefully planned and artfully
executed. It started out low, arcing
upward at Killer's ample middle. It fell
inches short. Killer stepped back,
waltzing on the slippery duff artfully, surprisingly light-footed given his
bulk. My mighty blow only grazed his
side and while I was off balance, his left jab exploded on my nose.
Anyone
who has ever been in a serious fight knows that pain has one of three possible
effects. You land face down eating dirt
and there's no possible way to get up; or, instinctive rage overrides the pain
and you keep getting up while your opponent beats the shit out of you; or, you
overpower your opponent with the fury of your attack. Here, it was a combination of the last
two. Killer did an admirable job of
rearranging my face before I finally took him down. I couldn't remember his hitting me. In a flurry of swinging blows, we both fell,
with me landing hard on his upper body with my knees digging into his armpits
and fistfuls of his long blond hair in both hands. I tried to pound his head into the soft duff
while dripping nose blood onto his face.
Killer was laughing when hard hands pulled me to my feet, fists swinging.
"Take
it easy, Scaler-kid, you passed the test,"
Frenchy said into my ear, holding me from behind in an iron hammer
lock.
"Lemme
go!" I growled, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps like a cornered
animal, wild-eyed and challenging.
Adrenalin-filled, I was ready to take them all on or die in the attempt.
"Bring
out the brew," Frenchy yelled, releasing me cautiously. Someone handed me an open mason jar. I put it to my bruised mouth and tipped a
swallow expecting water. I got instead
clear 'shine that set fire to my split lip and blazed a path down my raw
throat. My heart raced like a dog-run
hare. Choking on white lightning, I
tensed when Killer walked up to me.
Holding
out his hand and his unmarked face grinning, my opponent said, "Nice try,
Scaler-kid." I took his hand still
suspicious. The others cheered, patting
us both on the back.
"I
guess you've earned the right to say yer piece," Frenchy said.
I
swallowed hard, letting my heart calm down before I said, "I walked over
your cutting unit and couldn't find much.
I just wanted to tell you that."
I ran my tongue along my teeth.
Only two were loose. I tasted
salty blood every time I swallowed.
"Watch your stumps; there are some high ones up on top." I couldn't resist the chance to get in a
lick.
"There
you are! Scaler-kid says we're doin' a good job!" French yelled to the
group and they all cheered. "How
'bout that?"
I
was fairly sure Frenchy Therriault didn't give a damn if I approved his work or
not. "My name's Jackson, Scott
Jackson." I said. My stomach felt
sick and I swallowed hard.
"Scaler-kid,"
Frenchy said his voice fatherly and patronizing, "you come see us
anytime. We'll be glad to give you the
test again." He had a big sweaty
arm over my shoulder guiding me toward my pickup. "I'd watch myself, be I you. You fall like that again and you could hurt
yourself." I wiped my mouth with my
hand and the back of my wrist turned dark red.
I could hear snickering in the background. The logger crew had followed us. When I was in the truck, Frenchy leaned on
the door and stuck his bushy head in the window. "You got guts, kid, I gotta give you
that. Be smart and stick to
scaling."
I
drove away, my pride smarting almost as bad as my nose. At the bridge over Sutton Creek, I parked the
pickup off the road, walked to the water and washed off most of the blood. I removed my torn shirt and soaked it in the
icy spring water. The cold compress
finally stopped my bleeding nose while I sat on the creek bank wondering if I'd
made any progress. Something told me
that, despite my sore face, our next meeting would be easier. They would wait to see if I had the sand to
come back. It was a small victory, but
one I savored. It puzzled me that it
mattered so much.
The
moon climbed over the timbered ridge behind me before I left the creek. I'd licked my wounds and convinced myself
that I'd done what had to be done.
During the drive back up the moonlit road to Sutton's Landing, I thought
about that dark night on the Seeley Lake Road.
I saw the headlights and remembered the noise again. It surprised me that there seemed a new
cushion in my head, one that softened the pain.
The lights weren't as bright and the noise lessened. I wondered what she would have thought of me,
wounded and bloody, like a returning gladiator, and I knew she wouldn't have
ever seen me that way. I wouldn't have
forced the issue before, never have cared enough to put myself at risk.
I
debated over whether to drive directly to Rita's. I wanted to see her, tell her what had
happened. Most of all, I needed someone
to listen. I stopped at the bunkhouse
first and cleaned up. When I looked in
the cracked shower room mirror the face staring back startled me. Did I know this person? My left eye had swollen half shut and
promised a dandy shiner. My nose and
both cheeks were puffy and bruised. The
split on my upper lip carried dried blood.
Killer did fine work. I washed
gently and changed shirts.
"What
happened to you?" Rita said. Her hand rose to her mouth when she saw me
standing in the dim light of her front porch.
"Nothing
serious," I said. "One of
Frenchy Therriault's boys gave me some serious lessons in ruff and tumble
fighting."
"Come
in and let me look." She held the
door for me and I stepped into the warm living room. Rita guided me back into the kitchen. Under the soft light of the kitchen, she held
my abused chin in one hand and looked me over.
"They did a good job," she said matter-of-factly. "Sit down and I'll clean you up." She went into the back of the house and came
back with hydrogen peroxide and iodine.
With gentle hands she dabbed and clucked and doctored. It was almost worth the fight.
"What
brought this on?" Rita asked.
"Horne
sent me up Sutton Creek. John Davis
turned up sick and I'm the new temporary woods boss. I think I got a lesson in logger
protocol."
"Kind
of a rough lesson."
"Maybe,
but unless I'm wrong, I'd never be able to work with those guys unless I took
it. They're probably taking odds on
whether I'll show up again."
"They
are that way. I've been around loggers
all my life. If you can live through
their hazing you'll probably never have trouble with them again." She peered into my face and studied her
medical work. "Doesn't look like
there's anything fatal here."
"Thank
you, nurse, for those sympathetic words of wisdom."
"Hey,
feel lucky they didn't break your nose."
"I
am, believe me."
I
noticed Jake standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in a T-shirt and pajama
bottoms. He stared knowingly, probably
wondering if I'd gotten the license number of the truck that hit me. "How come your face looks so
funny?" he said.
"I
had a disagreement with another guy."
"Does
he look as bad as you?"
Eight-year-olds always cut straight to the point.
"Nope,"
I said. "I let him off easy."
Jake
grinned at me. "That's what I
figured."
"Jake,
you get to bed. We have to go into town
early tomorrow, you know." his mother said.
"Goodnight," he said and scurried
away.
"I've
got a couple of beers, if you want to sit on the porch a while."
I
agreed quickly and Rita rescued two bottles of Highlander out of the Frigidaire. I noticed lately she kept some on hand. Either she liked me to come around or I was
drinking too much. I hoped it was the
former. We moved out onto the porch
under Northern Lights dancing in long colored streaks waving from the horizon
up into the night sky. The stars seemed
intensified by the aurora borealis. Rita
wore a long blue denim skirt that hid her feet when she sat on the porch steps. She hugged her knees and rested her chin on
them. Her white blouse and tied-back
hair gave her a farm-girl look in the dim light.
"I'm
sorry they did that to you,"
"Don't
be. I'll live."
"Bastards!"
"Actually,
there's something almost child-like about them.
I really think they were playing a game, like an initiation. It was like dueling with a bunch of grizzly
cubs."
"What's
the point? You can't be one of
them."
"I
don't want to be one of them. I just
want them to accept me the way I am. I'm
company and nothing will change that, but I need to work with them. I can't be good at my job unless I can."
"I
suppose you're right, but I'm not thrilled with them hurting you."
"Me
neither."
"Well,
be careful."
"I
will." I changed the subject. "Have you heard anything about the
dam?"
"No." Her head came up off her knees and she looked
at me curious. Her quiet eyes
embarrassed me and I was glad she couldn't see me in the dark. The words that spilled from my mouth
surprised even me. The proposed dam
construction hadn't, until lately, been foremost on my mind. It seemed strange, but the lives of the
people around me seemed strangely intertwined by the dam rumors and I found
myself, however unwillingly, caught by the same rope. I drank long on the icy cold beer surrounded
by the shadowy night, glimmering starlight, an understanding silence between
us, and a mind full of new thoughts.
"Listen,"
I said finally, "why don't I come around Sunday and do some things for
you. You know, little maintenance jobs
that need doing. I'm a pretty fair
carpenter, passable plumber and I've done a little wiring and lived through
it." I stomped the rotting wood
under my foot. "Maybe we can fix
these stairs."
Rita
looked at me for a long time before answering.
I couldn't see her eyes or read her face. Her hand reached over and burned hotly on my
knee. "You don't have to do that."
"I
know, but I want too. What else have I
got to do? Buy me a six-pack and I'll be
your slave for the day." I tried to
make light, my mind concentrating on her intimate touch.
"That's
probably all you'll be worth if that eye closes any more."
"Don't
knock it, my rates are cheap. You can't
expect more from a half-blind man."
"I'll
agree only if you let me cook you dinner."
"I'd
do almost anything to avoid my own cooking."
We
sat in another silence for a moment or two and I felt strangely content listening
to the sounds surrounding the house. The
moon had risen and peeked though thin larch tops. Coyotes sang forlornly in the distance,
yipping high pitched cries that rode on the dark. Their lonesome melody reverberated in the
narrow river canyon several times before dying out. I saw Rita shiver.
"Cold?"
I asked.
"No."
"Just
coyotes," I said.
"I
know, but they give me an eerie feeling, like something bad is going to
happen."
"It
won't, I promise."
"I
just don't like them." She slid
across the wooden porch next to me and I put my arm around her tight. She laid her head on my shoulder and her
silky hair smelled faintly of wood smoke and shampoo. Her lips brushed my cheek and left a hot spot
on my bruised face. She felt comfortable
nestled in my arms, a fact I found disconcerting. These were feelings I thought I'd lost.
"You
know, you put up a pretty good front, but I think, deep underneath you are a
pretty nice guy." Rita whispered
the words and I tightened my grip.
"Got
you fooled, don't I."
I finished
the beer and left her there sitting on the porch waving to me in the dark,
watching me disappear into the shadows.
I
walked down the road instead of taking the trail back to the bunkhouse. Underneath, I felt as though I was running
away, trying to escape the woman on the porch.
I realized that I'd been holding her at arms length, not thinking about
how I felt and taking her for granted. I
could still feel the touch of her gentle kiss lingering among the cuts and
bruises on my battered face. It helped
me sort out the day and I walked the road though crisscrossed tree shadows
kicking small stones. Like Daniel, I'd
picked a thorn. I hadn't tamed the lion,
but then he hadn't eaten me either.
I
almost convinced myself that night that it was possible to inject myself on the
locals and make a difference. Then,
standing in the dark road wrapped in my thoughts, I saw it, and I knew there
were changes coming that I couldn't stop.
It looked out of place in the moonlight.
An obviously man-made feature where nature ruled. The brutal wide stripe, like a death band,
girdled a three foot pine. I dropped off
the road into thick dogwood and mountain maple for a closer look. The axe had left cut marks in white wood,
cutting through thick corky bark and skinning the cambium layer five inches
wide. Bright yellow paint colored the
cut all the way around the tree. They'd
begun to mark the high water line.
"Damn,"
I said, and no one answered.
Book Trailer
Lesser Known Facts about Finding Jennifer:
1.
Many of my readers guess that I am Scott Jackson in the book. Some of them are right.
2.
The area depicted in the story was flooded by a large dam construction in 1970
3.
The moose story is true.
So, I got ask Scott Jackson the same 'This or That' Questions that Charlie Draper had answered last week. If you have missed that out - you can check it Here.
Fact or Fiction?
I never lie. This story is the absolute truth especially
about the moose.
Book or Movies?
No moose were harmed during the
writing of this book.
Shakespeare or Dickens?
I like Dickens. Shakespeare is too hard to read under a
Coleman lantern
Jack Sparrow or Mad Hatter?
Who is Jack Sparrow? Most loggers have to be a little mad to work
in the industry
Ocean or mountains?
Mountains are the best.
Forest or Beach?
There is something quiet and
peaceful about being alone in the forest.
iPod or Mp3 Player?
What’s an iPod or Mp-what?
Desktop or Laptop?
My desktop is usually cluttered
with scale tickets and the butt of a log truck driver, neither one of which I’d
want on my lap.
Baked or Fried?
Anything I can’t fry isn’t worth
eating.
Shaken or Stirred?
You never shake a moonshine jug. It stirs up the sediment.
Oh Well! Even though those weren't the answers I was looking for, I think I like Scott Jackson. Don't you?
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Giveaway
Now for the most amazing news! The Giveaway! Mr.Folsom has very kindly agreed to a Very Special Giveaway. This month there's going to be 2 very lucky winners.
First winner in US only a signed copy of winner's choice any of Dave Folsom's books in trade paperback. Second winner choice of ebook copy of any of Dave Folsom's books - gifted through amazon in kindle or smashwords in other formats.
So,what are you waiting for??? Go Enter NOW!!
Rules:
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2. If the compulsory entries are not completed properly, additional entries of that person will not count.
3. The Giveaway is open to US for Trade Paperback & Internationally for Ebook.
4. I will select the winner through Random.org on 30th September and will send an e-mail. They have to reply with their mailing address/e-mail id within 48 hours, or I will select another winner.
5. Please do not leave your e-mail id in the comment section.
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