The Stand
Short Story Copyright 2018, Erik F. Helm
Author’s note: This is fiction. The settings and
background are historical, but the events were inspired by a stand of pines on
a small stream full of wild brook trout here in Crawford county in the Driftless
region of Wisconsin.
Part One: The Cutters
My fly-fishing partner Henry ‘Heck’ Bounty and I had made
our way upstream through a road-like cut, the bushes and grasses scrapping and
plunking off the underside of his old Ford pickup. We were in Crawford county
Wisconsin fishing a pristine stream for brook trout, and the day was overcast
and cool, the trout cooperative, and the scenery immense but quiet and bucolic,
as farms gave way to hills, and valleys carved by flowing waters twisted and
wound, separated and joined, offering eagles overhead, wildflowers, and a
gentle humming of bees.
The path we were following curved uphill to the headwaters
of the creek through a narrow opening in a valley, and the hills rose on both
side as the temperature slowly dropped and the sound of flowing water burbling
and trickling provided a counterpoint to the wheels crunching on gravel and
vegetation.
We had spent the morning catching native trout up to 10
inches, as wild and old as the land when the glaciers covered Wisconsin, but
missed this corner of the state, preserving towering vistas of limestone, and a
land full of rivers. Heck decided to drive to the source of the creek to
provide shade for our lunch, and to show me the springs that formed this little
gem of a stream that he had fished since he was a little punter so many-many
summers passed.
He stopped the truck at the end of the cut, and we set up a
little camp table under a large shade tree, and began making sandwiches and
pouring the cool beers. As we ate and poured the hissing cold beer down our
parched throats, I looked into the distance at the top of the valley where it
merged with the surrounding hills and remarked at the enormous stand of white
pines dominating the view.
“Those pines mark the very headwater springs of this valley
and her braided streams,” Heck reminisced. “There is a story in that stand of
pines, something very few people know anymore, more local folklore than actual
history, but the historic part… well… that is for the record. It’s the other
part that my grandfather told me one evening when we were camping in this very
spot. I probably have forgotten some of the details, but the essentials… well,
those are too powerful in image ever to forget. If you have a like for a good
story, I can provide one for you right here, as we rest… that is, if you are up
for another beer.”
I nodded in contentment as well as with curiosity. Another
cold beer would go down well, sipped slowly with a background story. As the
breeze gently shook the leaves overhead, I nodded and slowly sat back in the
camp chair, closing my eyes.
“Those pines mark the end of the logging road, or the
remains of it that we drove in on” said Heck. “Back in the day, 1931 to be
exact, this hill, and all the surrounding hills were covered in old growth
white pines. Many of these towns in the county were lumber towns. The valleys
grew tobacco, and the hills provided lumber, floated down the Kickapoo River to
towns like Soldiers Grove, which back when logging was big before the civil war,
was named Pine Grove. The logs were sawed up into lumber and shipped off to the
cities. These hills probably re-built parts of Chicago after it burned in the
great fire. Anyway, some of the hills were still covered with the last of the
pine growth in the 1920s and 30s, but logging them presented a problem, as no
access roads existed, the hills were steep, and the individual stands of trees
were small. The last of the logging was delayed for many years until it became
economically viable for some company or another to come in and cut. The streams
in this whole area were often warm and full of silt and suckers back then due
to the bare hills where the logging occurred. The floods began around that time
too, as the Kickapoo was and is a relatively small and very crooked river, and
the rain that used to be absorbed by the forests just ran off the hills and
through the row-crops and tobacco fields carrying mud and rock and too much
water for the river to carry. Nobody knew any better in those days. The very land
the towns were founded on was destroyed by the town’s livelihood. The fishing
was poor too; except for this hidden valley and its old growth pines and
wildflower and prairie grass. There were only a few farms up this way, and all
of them hardy Germans and Norwegians. There was only one dirt road in and out.
Grandpa Bounty and his friends used to drive up here on Sundays after church
for a picnic of fresh bread, fried chicken and freshly caught brookies. He is
the one who told me the story of the valley, and the little war that was fought
here. That conflict is why those pines remain standing to this day.”
I took a long sip of the refreshing beer, and continued to
listen, alert to his every word, and nuanced expression.
“In 1931 a logging company began driving a road up the
valley toward the pines. There were no conservation groups in those days, and
permits were easy to come by. The first inkling that anyone had that these
hills were to be logged was probably when the graders showed up with the bulldozers
and dozens of men. Anyway, nobody asked the locals. They cut all summer until
they removed most of the pines on the south hills, and then moved up here in
the early fall. That’s when the troubles began. The company had about fifty
workers, mostly town-folk, some of them local, but many not. They had a
base-camp at the bottom of the valley with a mess tent, and even cabins for the
workers. My great uncle Thomas was the carpenter that built some of the cabins
and all the outbuildings.”
“The company had cut about an acre of pines beginning by the
oxbow of the stream at the bottom of the hill when things began to go wrong.
The first occurrence was that the saws all went dull overnight. It didn’t delay
them much, as they had sharpening tools, but the company had to bring in more
saws and equipment as the problem continued. There was even a local lawsuit
that never went anywhere when the company tried to sue the hardware store that
supplied some of the saws. That went on for over a week, and very little was cut
down in that time. Eventually the problems grew. Some of the dozers and the
trucks broke down after a few hours of morning activity. The mechanic they had
with them to service the equipment couldn’t locate any problem, until a local
guy who worked at an auto-shop took one of the engines apart. One of the dozers
was missing all the ball bearings in its transmission. On further inspection,
the other vehicles were similarly troubled by missing bearings, and even one of
the cars belonging to the work-foreman had every bearing removed from it
overnight, even in the wheels, and no sign it had been done. Every time
something happened, it happened in darkness overnight. At first the company
turned inward and looked for sabotage within their ranks. A logger who was half-indian
nearly got hung, until one of the mechanics pointed out that it was physically
impossible for anyone to soundlessly remove bearings from vehicles, especially
in the darkness and timeframe of overnight. Rumors and murmuring began amongst
the workers, and some speculated that this was the work of spirits of dead
Indians from the Black Hawk war. How else could the impossible be explained?”
“Soon enough the
equipment and vehicles were overhauled and fixed, and the men went back to
work. It was a Monday morning when the crew was ready, but before breakfast was
even served, some of the guys noticed little ornaments hanging from the trees,
and all around the camp. Hundreds of four-inch long little mayflies constructed
from a strip of birch bark curled in the back, and with duck-feather wings tied
in with a blade of dried grass were suspended from the trees by tiny
vine-cuttings, and moving with the morning breeze. The foreman ordered the
things removed, but several of the workers had had it, and left with their
equipment, and the rest silently grumbled over breakfast. Their pay was based
on the amount cut by each crew, and since nothing much was being cut, no pay
was being earned. Smelling trouble, the company foreman gave each worker
remaining the equivalent of two-weeks pay to compensate them. The company also
hired a retired sheriff and two local hunters to provide security and
investigate the strange happenings. Each guard was armed, and the company
provided a hefty bounty if they could catch the culprits, for by now, the men
and the bosses were convinced that a whole range of natural and supernatural
enemies and boogie-men were behind the sabotage.”
“ The next morning brought new mayhem. The guards were up
half the night patrolling, but retired when by three A.M. nothing had happened.
At dawn the cook came out of his cabin and was welcomed by animals all over the
camp. Skunks and raccoons were everywhere. Small piles and trails of corn mush
and sardines mixed with raisins intended for breakfast crisscrossed the camp,
and the animals were following the trails devouring the free bounty. Two
workers got sprayed, and the cook, armed with a frying pan, was bitten by a
‘coon when he tried to wade into the fray frantically swinging at the animals.
As he was being bandaged, the guards examined the food-store shack, which they
assumed he had left unsecured. The padlock was intact, and no footprints or
sign of entry was discovered. One thing was certain though; someone or
something had crept into camp, and without leaving any trace, had once again
brought the work to a stop. The retired sheriff demanded the key to the lock
from the injured cook, and upon opening the storehouse, was greeted by dozens
more of those little mayfly creations dangling from the ceiling.”
“One wonders what must have been going through their minds,
since none of the sabotage acts seemed capable by human hands. The whole crew
and the guards became jumpy, and arguments and fights began to break out. The
foreman even ordered one of the truck drivers to load all the liquor supply and
the cases of beer for the workers and take them away for storage somewhere. He
was taking no chances. That evening saw silence in the camp, and as the workers
smoked after dinner, many of them brought out knives and began sharpening them.
The guards retired in shifts, with one guard being on patrol at any time that
night. The cabins were locked and secured that evening.”
“The final meltdown began the next morning. The retired
sheriff woke up just before dawn to relieve his junior for the watch. His
holster containing his colt revolver was draped over the bedpost near his head.
When he reached for the belt to strap it around his waist, the holster
disgorged a dozen of those little hand-tied mayflies. His gun was nowhere to be
seen, and the door was padlocked from the inside… The funny thing is that the
guy had seen service as a sheriff for something like 20 years down here and had
seen it all, from murderous drunks, knife-fights, car crashes, farm implement
accidents, bar-fights, and whatnot, but he had never encountered a foe that
crept in on the pre-dawn mists, and had no face, no name, and left no
footprints. He and the hunters turned guards just up and left the camp. He
never spoke a word to the foreman. He just looked at him with a long stare, and
shook his head slowly as he turned to leave. He never did collect any money or
pay.”
“The driver that carried all the booze and beer away was
never seen again, although there seemed to be a few rather oddly jubilant local
family picnics in the area for the next few years… All in all, the crew was
only in camp for less than two-weeks. After the beer and guards left, the
workers followed, until the only remaining workers were two old stoic
Norwegians, the boss, and a truck-driver. They took turns sawing one tree at a
time for a few days until they were halfway through a tree and the saw stopped
with a metallic grating noise. Thinking that the tree was ‘spiked’, an old
trick used against loggers where large nails and railroad spikes were hammered
into trees to cause the saws to fail, the tree was attacked by axes until it
fell. The source of the obstruction proved to be a metal strong-box, which was
quickly recognized as the pay safe for the operation. There were no hollows in
the tree, and no way in hell that it could in reason have gotten in there.
Departing for camp, the four of them visited the office, where sure enough, the
safe was not in the locked desk, but instead found inside the live pine tree.
The money was not missing, but a single one of those eerie little mayflies sat
on top of the cash inside the locked box.”
“Well, that was it. The camp broke the next morning without
further incident, leaving the final pines shading the headwater springs
untouched to this day.”
I whistled low, popped the cap on another cold beer, and
leaned back in the chair as the afternoon clouds darkened and the sound of the
rushing waters of the headwaters seemed to increase not in decibels, but in
clarity and intensity. One could hear voices in them, if one took the time to
listen.
“Did anyone ever find out what or who was behind this?” I
asked.
Part Two: The Interloper
“Good question…” Heck replied with raised eyebrows and a
quizzical expression.
“There was an investigation by the Sheriff of the county,
but nothing came of it. Officially, the case was closed with a note that the
most likely cause was a disgruntled worker or two. They worked them pretty hard
in those days.”
“Unofficially, my Grandpa figured it out. He was fishing one
day when he ran into a tall thin fellow on the creek. The guy was fly-fishing
with a bamboo rod he made himself, and with hand-tied flies. He introduced
himself as Earl. Grandpa ran into him several times and they talked. Evidently
the guy was some sort of educated gentleman from back east… college and so
forth. He owned a large cabin in the woods at the top of the hill above the
springs, and hunted and fished in the surrounding land. Now Grandpa was a
farmer, but he was also a reader, what you might call a self-educated man,
always with a newspaper or book and a slow pipe to smoke while he read in the
evenings. Somehow he and Earl got to talking, and Earl invited him back to his
cabin.”
“As he described it, the cabin was full of interesting
stuff. A large library, a wine cellar all home-made, bottles of herbs, and
antique firearms and even a wooden long-bow. He had artwork on the walls too.
Not just everyday Saturday Evening Post cutouts badly framed, but actual art
from Europe and back East. He served grandpa imported cheeses and home-baked
bread and venison sausage and he talked of his love for the poetry of Robert
Service while a phonograph played opera, La Boheme he remembered it as. That
sort of thing was kind of unheard of back then. Some guy living in the woods
who was educated and cultured, and who turned his back on the world. Apparently
he was also some sort of armature magician too, for while several bottles of
wine disappeared legitimately, Earl also made several vanish into thin air and then
made them appear again. Who knows why he turned his back on society, or what
made him pull up roots and move to a hill in Crawford County, my Grandpa never
did find that out.”
“What made your Grandpa think it was him?” I asked.
“It was those little mayfly things that gave him away. See,
Earl had a sort of thing… a mobile I think you call it, full of dozens of those
birch bark, feather and grass legged mayflies hanging from the ceiling over his
table. Every time the breeze blew in, they danced up and down and twirled. Earl
said he liked to watch them late in an evening. Said they reminded him of
spring on his little stretch of river.”
“Did your Grandpa ever report him, or tell anyone?” I asked.
“Nah…” Heck smiled… “Nobody would believe him anyway, but he
only told dad and me, and that was after a few pulls of local whiskey. See,
Earl did some good for the valley. Those pines are still there because he took
a stand. He single-handedly defeated a logging company, and did it all
non-violent. Other than the damage to equipment and the bite the cook got from
the raccoon, nobody ever did get hurt. He haunted that valley and those hills
himself. He was a one-man conservation group. How the heck he did it nobody
will ever know, but Grandpa always referred to him as ‘special’. That magic he
knew must have been special too, but anyone who read as much as he did, and
knew about math and architecture, plants, and built all his own tools and
fly-rods, and the cabin too probably knew a thing or two most men don’t know,
and never will. Most folks can’t think beyond their own nose, much less imagine
things and ways that may exist beyond our little mundane world.”
“That is one amazing story… too bad there is no real
evidence that it was true.”
Heck smiled and turned to me. “Come on, I will show you
something. Just a short hike up the hill.”
We slowly ascended the steep incline in the shade of the
pines, passing the springs and seeps that formed the creek, and found ourselves
in a sort of clearing near the top of the ridge. At the center amongst the
raspberry bushes and cow parsnip were the foundation remains of a wood cabin.
Hanging from a small apple tree next to the ruins were a dozen or so of those
little hand made mayflies, looking fresh and newly created, and blowing in the
breeze like they were dancing.
“Earl must have left several years after that stand he took.
Nobody ever saw him again anyway, Grandpa included. He may have left those 85
or so years ago, but part of him, that special part must never have left. Something
of him is still here, looking over his pines and the creek, a sort of
river-keeper spirit… and watching his little mayflies… dancing into eternity.”
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