Logging As an Aesthetic Moment in Clearwater County, Idaho

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Work as art: Logging as an aesthetic moment in Clearwater County, Idaho

James-Duguid, Charlene Anne, Ph.D.

The American University, 1991

UMI 300 N. Zeeb Rd Ann Aibor, MI 48106

IN CLEARWATER COUNTY, IDAHO

Charlene James-Duguid

submitted to the

Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences

of The American University

in Partial Fulfillment of

the Requirements for the Degree

Doctor of Philosophy

Anthropology

Chair: ^nAoM

Dean of /the College USf /W Date f /

1991

The American University

Washington, D.C. 20016 7if

THE AMÊEICM UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. © COPYRIGHT

CHARLENE JAMES-DUGUID

1991

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. WORK AS ART: LOGGING AS AN AESTHETIC MOMENT

IN CLEARWATER COUNTY, IDAHO

Charlene James-Duguid

ABSTRACT

The emphases of this dissertation are: an

experimental writing technique to produce an ethnography

of Orofino, Idaho, and an analysis of the region's major

industry, logging, as a source for understanding the

aesthetics of work. The genre is based on vignettes

derived from interviews. Many are introduced with bridges

that position the writer in the scene. They provide the

reader with a picture of the writer's role in ethnography.

Authorship is shared by the community members and the

writer. Using a "slice of life," approach means that

Orofinoans and the public can read the ethnography as if

it were a literary piece. It provides Orofino with a

voice as it creates a work with broad popular interest.

As the study unfolds, it gives details of the lives of

old-time loggers and contemporary logging contractors. It

sets the stage for examining whether loggers apply an

aesthetic to their work, both in their daily life in the

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. woods and in festival performances. A definition of

aesthetics, applied to those who look at their physical

labor as art, is developed at the conclusion of this

dissertation.

Ill

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many people helped me write this dissertation with

their love, caring, and kindness. Even before I knew

Orofino existed, members of my family: my grandmother,

Frances Piontkowski, father, Sylvester James, and uncle,

Frank Malecki taught me the value of work.

During the thirteen years that I've looked at

Orofino, others played a major part in this work. Myron

A. Loewinger was the first to accompany me to Idaho to see

the festival. Michael Kenny listened for hours as I tried

to convince him that description was enough, that it spoke

for itself, and that analysis could take a different form.

Ingrid Ponozzo, a guiding force in Orofino Celebrations

Incorporated and a loving human being, shines through the

story of Lumberjack Days.

At the office, university, and home, others

created the atmosphere for this book. My professors and

student colleagues at The American University listened

patiently, watching hours of slides of the festival. Then

they switched gears with me when "work as art" emerged as

the central theme of this dissertation. Among them I will

always be grateful for the assistance of: Dr. Brett

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Williams, Dr. Geoffrey Burkhardt, Dr. Lazio Kurti, Dr.

Wilton Dillon, Elizabeth Moore, Lynn Madden, and Eugenie

Latchis-Silverthorne.

At the Smithsonian Institution, members of my

office staff not only gave me a wonderful send-off when I

went quaking into the field, but carried the burden of

management while I labored with draft after draft. To

Nicole Arena, Felicia Duncan, Barbara Jackson, Ann Kirking

Post, Maureen O'Connell, Betsy Sinnott Pash, and Stephanie

Smith, my thanks. Felix Lowe, Daniel Goodwin, and Herman

Viola listened patiently to my ideas. Others who always

lent a sympathetic ear were; Patricia Burke, Alicia

Gonzalez, Richard Kurin, Adrienne Kaeppler, Ivan Karp,

Marc Pachter, and Sylvia Williams. Charles Millard,

Director of the Ackland Museum, helped me to establish a

realistic and logging-centered definition of aesthetics by

saying to me, "Don't give it labels; show how these people

look at their world."

Never more than a phone call away, my mother,

Dorothy James, listened when the words gushed out or when

they hit some psychological brick wall.

And home, home is my husband, James O. Duguid. He

speaks so often in actions. By building a beautiful desk

and bookshelves, he created the ambiance for writing.

Then, when words finally began to flow, he listened

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. intently, judging whether the nuances of my poetry, and

the vocabulary of anthropology, were in actuality,

grounded in good, solid reality. To him and to the idea

that family can mean a unit as small and simple as two

people sharing their life, do I dedicate this

dissertation.

To the people of Orofino, I send my deepest

appreciation but more than a dedication, I acknowledge

that they, more than I, are the authors of this volume.

Many appear as cameos and are acknowledged by name in this

volume. They should receive full credit from the reader.

Others were of constant support during my visits and made

fieldwork easier; though unnamed, I send my appreciation

to them. And to Jim Cochran, my thanks for his strong

injunction, "Don't write anything boring; it's not true of

this town." He was so right, for, as I learned from the

people of Orofino, theirs is a very human story.

Reproduced with permission ot the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT ...... 11

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS . . iv

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xi

Chapter

I. INTRODUCTION 1 The Limner 1

Ethnographic Realism ...... 4

Form and Content...... 16

Method in Research and Writing . . . . 20

Logging, Work, and Art ...... 24

The Evaluation ...... 29

II. LIFE ON AN INCLINE: THE LOGGER'S WORLD . 32

III. BEST LITTLE TOWN BY A DAM SITE ...... 57 Entering the Field: My Calendar . . . 57

Hometown: A Blue Chip Stock ...... 59

Talk and Reciprocity ...... 65

Social Life on Parade ...... 73

The Farmers. What About the Farmers . 92

Educating Orofino's Youth ...... 99

Men of Honor ...... 111

Not Afraid of the Devil Himself . . . 123

V l l

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IV. THE WOMEN'S TALES ...... 129 Breakfast With the L a d i e s ...... 134

Ingrid's Death ...... 137

The Aura of Femininity...... 141

Elbow, Elbow, Wrist, Wrist ...... 145

The Power of Volunteers ...... 150

A Piece of C a k e ...... 152

The Enablers...... 157

The C a n v a s ...... 165

V. LIFE IN LOGGING: THE E L D E R S ...... 176

Remembering Headquarters ...... 178

The Wednesday Luncheon Group ...... 183

Canada Joe, and How He Was a Real Artist . 192

Joe Richardson...... 200

Franklin Randol ...... 205

The Man With a Shed Full of Stuff .... 212

The Porters ...... 216

The Logging Museum ...... 222

VI. LOGGERS TODAY ...... 229 The B a u g h s ...... 229

Don't Mess With M e ...... 239

Raised in L o g g i n g ...... 247

Not All R o s e s ...... 253

Learning to Cut: Clearwater Sawmills . . . 258

V l l l

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The Triplett M i l l ...... 259

The Konkolville Limber Company ...... 262

Toys of All S i z e s ...... 269

What Is Life in L o g g i n g ...... 273

VII. WORK AS A R T ...... 289 The Aspects of Work and A r t ...... 289

Lessons on a R i d g e ...... 292

Jake and Barbara Altmiller...... 303

The Sawyer as A r t i s t ...... 317

The Art of the Loader Operator...... 329

P e p s i ...... 340

A Lesson in Attitude and Skill ...... 348

VIII. FESTIVAL; THE GOOD F I C T I O N ...... 359 Piece of Cake R e d u x ...... 367

Logs as A r t ...... 369

The Perfect Load of L o g s ...... 372

The Birling P o n d ...... 379

The Auction: Continuity Regardless of P r i c e ...... 386

Conclusion...... 393

IX. THE LIMNER REVISITS ...... 400 Flatlander on an Incline...... 406

Anthropologist as Writer ...... 414

Suggestions for Future Study ...... 426

Unveiling the C a n v a s ...... 431

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A. M A P S ...... 438

B. CHRONOLOGY OF LOGGING IN CLEARWATER COUNTY ...... 442

NOTES ...... 447

REFERENCES ...... 485

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Map Page

1. Location Map Showing the State of Idaho and the Clearwater National Forest .... 439

2. Map of Clearwater County, Idaho and Logging Communities ...... 440

3. Sketch Map of Orofino, I d a h o ...... 441

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

The Limner

I am a limner* in the artistic sense and a limnar^

in the anthropological sense. I approach this study of

loggers, work, and art, knowing that I am on the periphery

of their lives, but that I am central as the painter of

their world.^

What image am I trying to capture; what is my

frame of mind as I play both roles? I am, in a real

sense, a limner. As in the early days of America, I

walked into a community, chose a subject, and began to put

him or her on canvas. As a limnar, I stood at the

threshold of Idaho lives, always seeking clues. With the

help of community members who are committed to

maintaining their lifestyle. I've recorded the visions

that they have of their world.**

Limners of the late 17th and 18th centuries

travelled in search of subjects, and I too, travelled back

and forth to Orofino to find exactly the right images for

my literary portraits. As a limner would do, I looked for

the prosperous and the noble, the fresh, and the innocent

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. to portray. I sought those who epitomized a life style;

that of the independent logging contractor^ and his

family. I am a limner of both men and women, for from the

outset it is important to mention the significant role

that women have played in the logging community. Their

influence throughout history and as organizing agents for

the industry will be mentioned in greater detail

throughout this dissertation. Logging in other areas of

the country, periods of history, or recorded by other

disciplines may be different, but my portraits are of the

long-time residents of central Idaho during the 1980s and

1990s (see Life in Logging and ChronoloovI.

As they spoke to me, we both created this

painting, we all authored this dissertation (see

Anthropologist as Writerl.* The people of Clearwater

County would not have thought of themselves as authors;

now they may. And I would not have thought of myself as

someone who would understand the technicalities of logging

technology. Now I do. Yes, I tried to develop a personal

style of ethnographic writing, but this coauthorship was

the major challenge of this dissertation. Perhaps in this

literary treatment I can contribute to experimentation, as

Marcus suggests (1986:262), as

more . . . than the mere demystification of past dominant conventions of representation. Rather, such a critique legitimates experimentation and a search for options in research and writing activity, which

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. would be equal to the claims and ambitions of the influential interpretative styles of analysis in contemporary anthropological thought.

If it is successful, the distinctions between

these people and myself will become unimportant and a

sense of coauthorship and coownership will bring us

together. If it fails to create images that are shared by

the coauthors, I can look forward to real-life social

drama in which the coauthors will assuredly contradict my

findings. What I fear most in this style is what Keesing

(1987:161) says might occur with symbolic anthropology:

. . . like literary criticism and other hermeneutic enterprises, it is dependent on interpretive gifts, leaps of intuition, virtuosity in seeing hidden meanings enciphered as tropes. . . The gifts of evoking other cultural worlds in words are needed too; the word magic of a Geertz can be pretentious and obfuscatory when emulated by a lesser writer.

I have kept these thoughts with me throughout the writing

process.

As Fischer writes, "One of the key ethical

problems in ethnographic writing is avoiding poetically

powerful hypostatizations that may cause damage to the

people being described" (1989:7). He says also that,

"Insofar as the self is an object of ethnography, it is

the networks of associations, the resonances, and the

discoursing that are focal" (1989:9). I know that the

people of Orofino will read this work, and that may have

affected the writing. I was, in fact, a part of this

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network. Though this has been a major concern, I believe

I have been able to develop a relationship that is similar

to those noted as examples of "intimate" ethnography

without jeopardizing the reality of this way of life.

I have tried to follow the suggestion of Geertz

(1988:10), "finding somewhere to stand in the text that

is supposed to be at one and the same time an intimate

view and a cool assessment (which) is almost as much of a

challenge as gaining the view and making the assessment in

the place." Several anthropologists have demonstrated

this skill; for example, Myerhoff (1978:221) was able to

feel that

the desire of people to continue telling me their life story indicated . . . a part of an ongoing reconstruction of experience . . . creating for himself continuity by integrating all phases of a long life into a single narrative account . . . not only constructing a myth, an orderly and moral tale about himself . . . he was constructing a Self.

I hope that my attempts are as successful as hers in

gaining intimacy with loggers and allowing them to

construct "selves."

Ethnographic Realism

Proposing that we can coauthor this work is a

dangerous suggestion, and using a bridge-vignette approach

as a juxtaposition of information to accomplish it adds to

the task. But a literary turn is also part of

ethnographic experimentation. Current thinking encourages

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and allows a belief that more than one voice can be heard.

Marcus and Fischer have tried to synthesize the current

trend in Anthropoloov as Cultural Critique (1986). They

examine the strategies by which ethnographies are

constructed, as well as the major theoretical interest in

the description of culture at the level of experience. A

prominence for the study of "self" emerges. The current

concern is also with how conventional ethnographic studies

fit into the formation of a world historical-political

economy. By the mid 1980s, anthropologists became

interested in culture as lived local experience and the

understanding of the latter in a global perspective. The

question, then, is how are identities negotiated in places

we do fieldwork. I am asking the same question in looking

at individuals in a specific occupational role, "logger,"

to see if there is an identity that sets them apart from

non-loggers.

According to Marcus (1989), the most venturesome

works in the trend of ethnography are concerned with the

shaping and transformation of identities of both subjects

and ethnographer. These are causing anthropology to

question its analytical and descriptive frameworks.

According to Marcus, the modernist problematic of

ethnography that is emerging disqualifies many of the

older structuring devices on which ethnographic realism

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. has depended. 'Modernist' is his term for the approach,

in contrast to the use of postmodern as has come into the

literature.

Ethnography in the 50s and 60s was different from

that of the 1980s, as much because of current political as

well as intellectual conditions. My concern is less for

the interplay between these loggers and the political

conditions of international logging economy, but I believe

that this work begins to look at the compromises that must

be made between the local identities and the

international, economic and ecological whole. But I sense

that, before this problem is posed, it is necessary to

provide information on this occupational group based on

the reality of their lives instead of the lumberjack

folklore of the past.

Marcus provides the requirements for a modernist

ethnography based on contemporary social reality

constructed both by the subject and the ethnographer.

This reality is altered by the ethnographer's, that is, my

presence, in the text. Without knowledge of my position

and concerns, the ethnography of the loggers and their

point of view would be incomplete. My perception of their

world must be registered in order for their world to come

into focus, for my preoccupations have influenced the

text.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. I have tried to follow Marcus' suggestions as to a

concentration on the spatial, the temporal, and the

perspective or voice in creating a realistic ethnography.

But instead of a concentration on the first two issues:

pan-national values and identities and a concern for

breaking totally with history, I have focused on the third

possibility: this coauthorship and fuller voice for the

people of Clearwater County. Yet, I was sharing memories

that recalled a type of historical consciousness that

might not have been recorded before in the official dates

and events. As Marcus says, "Ethnohistory is built on

the memory, of many people, [but there is] a difficulty of

descriptively grasping memory as social process in

modernity" (1989:13). I believe, too, that these memories

have played a part in shaping contemporary social and

occupational goals that I have called the aesthetics of

logging. However, I reserve putting this community in a

larger context for a later date.

As mentioned, it is the goal of this dissertation

to experiment with the third element, that of perspective

and voice. According to Marcus, it

breaks with the concept of structure. It shifts the concern with perspective as voice, and sees it as embedded discourse within the framing and conduct of a project of ethnographic inquiry. In part the modernist alternative in voice, accepting the montage of polyphony is simultaneously the problems of representation and analysis. [It] probably has had as much to do with the changing ethics of the

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ethnographic enterprise as with the dissatisfaction with the structural analysis of cultural phenomena. The changes are rooted in sensitivity to the dialogic, oral roots of all anthropological knowledge transformed and obscured by complex processes of writing which dominate ethnographic project from field to text. (1989:15)

This challenge, both a literary one of coauthorship, and

an ethical one, of the identity of the logger in a larger

context, makes the task monumental. For I am attempting

to coauthor, do it with sensitivity for the loggers, while

at the same time prepare the ground for future works on

the loggers' world, one that is currently being

contested.

The resulting ethnography should cause them to see

themselves, and see the image that they have to non

loggers as well as provide anthropology with a better

understanding of this group and the literary form that has

been used to describe it.

According to Marcus,

Modernist exegesis, is distinctively tied to a recognition of its dialogic character, and becomes a thoroughly reflexive operation. . . It develops a critical juxtaposition made explicit between one's own world (the bridges) and the Other (the vignettes) as subject.

He continues.

The chain of preexisting historic and contemporary connection between the ethnographer and subjects may be a long or short one, thus making bifocality an issue of judgment and a circumstance even of the personal, autobiographic reasons for pursuit of a particular project, but its discovery and recognition

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. remains a defining feature of the current modernistic sensibility of ethnography. (1989:21)

Conforming to this idea, I have tried to be as thorough as

possible in explaining my past experiences in light of the

ethnographic information presented here. I believe that,

as my personal history started me on certain paths, so too

it precluded me from others, and this appears in the

writing. Even so, I believe that my suggestion of

coauthorship is a new approach, even though I have merely

begun to set these loggers in a wider context (see

Unveiling the CanvasI. To this point, the juxtaposition

of identities and translation of discourse to text has

been the major emphasis of this dissertation. There is

still much work to be done in entwining the global with

the local.

Originally, I chose this community for its

festival, but then, it chose me. From my first contact

over thirteen years ago, I saw that it could be an ideal

subject for me to portray. Those who befriended me, the

well-established independent loggers and their families,

the members of Orofino Celebrations Incorporated,

(O.C.I.), and members of the business community, have a

sense of mission. It stands out as an example of a small

community's desire to survive in contemporary America.?

Yes, the choice was mutual. My preoccupation was

to find a way of life that retained a sense of community

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while negotiating the dilemmas of diverse lifestyles in a

changing world. And their preoccupation was with living

exactly that type of life, or at least talking about the

possibility.

During my early visits, I saw this sense of

community persona as embodied in their annual festival,

the Clearwater County Fair and Lumberjack Days. I

approached it as an observer, hoping to identify the

symbolic content of the festival activities as an all-

encompassing statement of their life. As members of the

community began to see my intentions, they did, in fact,

choose me, but not only to portray their celebratory life.

They welcomed me and invited me to learn about the lives

that they lead day in and day out.

Instead of a painting of people at play, in

celebration, I am now a limner who realizes that meaning

in this world is not only in celebration and symbols, but

in real actions and work. The festival is a performance

of certain themes, but experiencing their lives with them

held a meaning that was not demonstrated in festive

behavior.*

The reader must know from the outset that this

existence is compatible with my temperament. With them, I

share a belief in negotiating the future in a changing

world. I do not seek nor do I thrive in conflict

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situations, and these people practice this view. There

have been instances of social drama’ such as the Timber

Crisis Day, but in the instances that I have observed, all

conflicts are ameliorated through negotiation as soon as

they arise.

The loggers and the people of Orofino opened their

door to this limner gladly. With their straightforward

ways, they made the investigation possible. For they have

a sincere desire to inform the world outside their county

of their beliefs in the nobility of their occupation, the

intensity of their volunteer life, and the richness of

their existence.

The reader may feel that the rendering of this

core of men and women may seem all too-perfect at times.

I admit that this community understands stagecraft,

perpetually acting out social roles in a community that

values balance.But I believe that they view it as

mature, middle-aged, conservative adults of comfortable

means." They would not be classified as an elite group,

for this designation is not common in Orofino. But I feel

that this group is representing its hopes, if not all the

reality of its way of life, and speak as professionals for

their occupation.*^

This was especially true in the discussion of work

as art. There are numerous jobs in the logging industry.

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Woodsworkers and millworkers perform various functions,

from sawing, to loading and driving large equipment. Some

are more proficient, more artistic than others. Because I

was looking for the best in their class and those people

who could speak about the standards they would set for the

aesthetics, I spoke primarily to well-established members

of the logging community. The images of the workers in

the woods and mills may seem shadowy. I did not interview

these people, nor were they painted in these vignettes.

Perhaps this can be remedied in future studies. However,

I watched their work, listened to their conversations at

social gatherings, and asked about them, especially about

the best workers among them.

In being a limner in the artistic sense, a

portraitist of those who use themselves and their symbols

to make a statement about a way of life, I believe that I

have chosen good anthropological company as well. As I

must put myself into the picture as the tool for making

their images visible, I become a limnar. I feel akin to

Victor Turner, who was often openly subjective. As Colin

Turnbull noted,

liminality is a synthesis of the subjective and objective experience. . . He writes as much as an artist as from the conventional viewpoint of the anthropologist. He writes with feeling of feeling; he is plainly aware of the importance of his own subjective experience in the field, but cannot quite break with his intellectual, rational, objective

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tradition for long enough to explore this further. (Turnbull 1990:51)

And I am truly on the threshold, a temporary, one whose

"whoness" may be dangerous. But one whose presence may,

on the other hand, stimulate motion in the society,

forcing it to flow and change, and to see itself in a

different light (Grimes 1982:149).

At this doorway, I felt myself to be unclassified

in some ways: not male, not female. Nor was I old or

young. But in reality, as a middle-aged woman, I may be

deluding myself as to being without gender or age. The

sitters for my portraits may have responded to these

traits. Yet I never felt that my personal characteristics

were a significant influence in our coauthorship.

I was able to write as much as an artist as an

anthropologist, with feelings, not merely mine, but theirs

as well. I have followed the suggestions of current

anthropologists on the positioning of the writer in the

text and the possibility of experimenting with other

genres.

The reader will see that, instead of the

categories of politics, economics, language, domestic

life, religion, and so forth, this dissertation focusses

on individuals who occupy roles in these defined areas of

society. For example, the three Men of Honor typify the

workings of county politics; Father Michael Spegele

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represents an opinion on religion; and Norman and Sharon

Baugh describe the way successful marriages are organized.

They are representative of a segment of the community that

speaks with conviction about their way of life."

This dissertation takes the theoretical position

that coauthorship or multivocality, is possible. It is

built on long engagement between the authors, the ability

to share experiences, a common language both in vocabulary

and in subtext, and a sense of understanding the emotional

as well as the factual content of everyday activities.

Additionally, very practical considerations are necessary

for coauthorship. These included sharing the written

script as it developed, with sincere criticism on the part

of the non-writers, and open acceptance of the same by the

writer.

If one looks at authorship as a series of

practices, only one of which is putting words on paper, I

believe that the concept of coauthorship will become

clear. In the process of producing a document, especially

one that concentrates on human lives, it is necessary to

have inspiration, experiences, and knowledge, then

interpretation, and finally editing of the form. In all

but the actual act of putting words on paper, the loggers

and the people had, and will have a central role. Without

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their pre-paper involvement there would have been no text.

Without their final editing, there should not be a

publication.

This dissertation, words on paper, is only one

phase in testing this premise, that writing a coauthored

text is possible. Only after this is accomplished and the

text is scrutinized by the people who provided the raw

material for the study, will the follow-up analysis be

possible.

But this dissertation lacks formulae, charts, and

graphs. It barkens back to Ruth Benedict's suggestion

(1947) that anthropology should be closer to the

humanities. She was unafraid of making a statement that

seemed heretical at the time and, now forty years later, I

hope that, though less heretical, the statement can be put

into practice in this dissertation. For my goal is to

concentrate on themes, that highlight the emphases, in a

way that the community members might have done; or might

have written about themselves. If anything, I hope that

the work is seen essentially as a more complete coming

together of the discipline of anthropology with the human

community that contributes to an understanding of the

field."

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Form and Content

This dissertation consists of a series of simple,

direct vignettes that try to delight the reader. I hope

that

sympathetic readership [will] scrutinize them, not with the hope of finding a new paradigm, but rather with an eye for picking up ideas, rhetorical moves, epistemological insights, and analytic strategies generated by different research situations. . . Specific works are of general interest as much for what they are doing textually as for their content. (Marcus and Fischer 1986:41)

It strives to be a kind of poetry about a group of working

people to be read by those people and others who wish to

know of their way of life. I hope that the reader will

keep this in mind when approaching the vignettes.

Orofinoans lead ordinary lives: raise their children, deal

with their environment, celebrate their joys, protest

their hardships, and negotiate their existences one with

another. The vignettes serve in a literary sense as

"slices of life." They really happened. Those reported

as saying and doing certain things, actually said and did

them. I follow Lederman in this ethnographic writing

which is "all about directing readers toward novel modes

of seeing the world in effect achieved by authorial

control, one way or another" (1990:86). Control for me

has been not so much in determining the experience, it has

been in choosing the theme that seemed to evolve out of

the experience.

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In this work, both the form of writing and content

of experiences are admittedly experimental. My entry and

reflections on the scene are noted in bridges, reflective

examples from my own life. They are more than entry

tales. These flow in and out of the text without breaks

in the action. Perhaps the bridges seem obtuse, but, I

can assure you that the bridges and vignettes are

companion pieces, experiences necessary to one another.

Sometimes it was only through the bridge that I could

enter fully into the vignette." For example, touring a

saw mill and sawing lengths of lumber are both necessary

to understanding the materials, components, and skills of

a job (see Clearwater Sawmills). This is similar to

flint-knapping in experimental archeology, or the

experiential learning of contemporary open-air museums.

My reflections fit into the fabric, fit into the whole of

life in Orofino.

Using vignettes for the actual experiences I

encountered allows me to capture, in a few, pointed

paragraphs, the essentials of a theme. I have tried to

choose each word and phrase so precisely that they bring

with them a rich, underlying realization of the specific

occurrences that took place. And I hope that these

occurrences typify some element of life in Orofino.

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But the traditional limner's role was one in which

distance could be placed between the artist and the

subject. Likewise, the definition of a limnar also

assumes one is a non-person. In contrast to these, mine

in Orofino was not. I participated in Orofino's life. I

could not hide behind language or cultural differences. I

spoke the same language, shared the same national economy,

and was a part of the same citizenry in a contemporary

world. I interacted with these people, presumably

conversant with our common culture, only to find that a

small town milieu and loggers' mentality were far

different from the patterns we live in Washington, D.C.,

(see Flatlander on an Incline).

Yet, from what I experienced, Orofinoans have

their own approach to dealing with outsiders. By their

own admission, Orofinoans are friendly and take little

notice of rank, job, status, or economic level in dealing

with strangers. So I was accepted and invited to share

experiences with them and write about our common time

together. However, I am aware that their final decision

to be coauthors will come only after they have read this

material.

I cannot say whether my racial affiliation, age,

or religion came into play, but it is important to note

that this is a strongly homogeneous community. Orofinoans

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rarely encounter people who are not Caucasian or

Christian. Visitors of non-American extraction are

invited as special guests of the community by service

clubs or families opening their homes to foreign students.

It would be difficult to say what reaction an

anthropologist with social characteristics that are

different from those of the people of Orofino might

encounter.

I can say, however, that when a group of

Smithsonian Research expedition volunteers accompanied me

to the festival in September, 1990, there were no

questions about their ethnic or religious backgrounds.

They were able to interact successfully with many members

of the community (see Suggestions for Future Studv).

This whole of life, one that drew me to itself as

an ideal example of social negotiation, emerges chapter by

chapter, first by setting the stage in CHAPTER TWO, LIFE

ON AN INCLINE: THE LOGGER'S WORLD. It looks at the

significance of topography in the people's perception of

where they fit into the environment, with descriptions of

the historical and social changes that have occurred.

These set the context for contemporary life in Clearwater

County.

In CHAPTER THREE and CHAPTER FOUR, you will read

about my attempts to enter the field and about Orofino at

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the present time. Each vignette of contemporary town life

includes insights into the way in which logging is at the

heart of the community and it, along with the spirit of

the place and the natural environment, have helped to

shape the community. Orofino's understanding of the needs

of logging and its historical importance to Clearwater

County, become obvious as people from all walks of life

describe their contact with it. Often the pillars of the

community speak, but I believe that they speak with a

force that determines the direction for all people living

in this area. In a sense they added their own accents to

the canvas here and there.

Method in Research and Writing

As both a limner and a limnar, I had a method,

nearly a ritual in the field. First, the townspeople

became accustomed to my ever-present notebook, which was

often more of a curse to them than a blessing. Second, I

knew that the telephone was useless and only by getting

out and about town would I learn what was going on. I

went everywhere: church, shopping, meetings, dinners,

schools, cultural organizations, restaurants, and even

bars. I'd drop in sometimes with no questions, but kept

open an option for another time. Third, I remembered

birthdays with small cakes and always sent letters to the

editor of the weekly newspaper. Fourth, I carried a

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camera and took photos, distributing them on subsequent

visits. And finally, I watched every videotape of logging

operations, community plays, and high school concerts as

well as classic logging films like "Charlie, the Friendly

Cougar," and "Come and Get It" that was available.

Sometimes these did not provide any additional information

in areas of my concern but it always showed my intense

interest in everything Orofinoans valued. Often these

became the point of departure for a conversation that

eventually resulted in a vignette

In looking at this work, the choice of

occurrences, even before the choice of words, should be

scrutinized, and rightly so, for what may have happened at

a certain time and place may have been idiosyncratic. The

specific incident that was reported may never happen

again, and so the question is, can the information be

reliable? I believe it is, because it typifies an

occasion that I shared with others in Clearwater County.

Each vignette is the result of dual authorship. I may

have composed its beginning, middle and end, and put it on

paper, but the people of Orofino lived it with me and

chose the elements that they wished me to record. More

than mere interviews, most of these are actually mutually

held experiences for Orofinoans and myself. In a very

real sense, I am presenting myself, as well as them, in

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the course of the narrative. But throughout you'll feel

different pacing, varied vocabulary, and diverse emotional

impact were reflected by my co-authors."

Also on the question of validity is whether the

seumple is representative. I admit that not everyone in

Orofino was consulted for this monograph. Nor did

everyone who was kind enough to add to my field notes have

their thoughts included. But anyone who read the weekly

newspaper fClearwater Tribune 9:11:90:1)” knew that their

community was being authored. Even those who were not

quoted specifically played a part in the atmosphere that

created Orofino and the logging milieu for me. I don't

doubt that on publication, everyone, those quoted and

those not, will register their agreement or complaints,

for the people of Orofino are nothing, if not outspoken.

As I mentioned before when discussing my role as a

limner, I realized that when it came time to write this

dissertation, the text would be beset by problems if it

were done as a lifeless rendition of the years that I had

spent talking with these people, visiting their logging

jobs, and intruding on their homes and families.

Orofinoans, my coauthors, those who live the story while I

wrote it, would find it dry and boring. We had

acknowledged the reality of the mundane in our work

together, but more importantly we relished the possibility

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that this community and its members may have risen above

the commonplace to become more than the everyday.

And so what have these vignettes become: anonymous

portraits, nameless paintings, forgotten personalities

that live through the ages and grace the walls of fine

museums only because of their form? Not the people of

Orofino; they like having identities, seeing their words

in print and their opinions on parade. And so there are

no pseudonyms in this work. These people like to think of

themselves as storytellers, not in the sense of tall tales

from unknown origins, but as the purveyors of episodes

from their lives and the lives of those around them.

Rarely did they stop at description, for they are

circumspect about their existence. Often they became

their own analysts. Their words are colorful and thoughts

are deep, and for that reason this dissertation has life

without anonymity.

But, I have an admission and a regret. As much as

my feelings and concerns are with the people of Orofino

and the logging community so central to it, I know that I

can never become a native, nor should it be something that

I attempt. I believe that they have agreed to choose me

as their limner, but I am an itinerant artist; I will

never be a part of their community. That is reserved for

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the select few who have truly put down their roots in

Clearwater County.

Logging. Work, and Art

The vignettes describe diverse segments of the

community and areas of life, but the central focus of this

dissertation is the nature of work, the satisfaction

inherent within it, and its aesthetic quality. Several

loggers have spoken specifically about the idea of work as

art, but townsfolk seem to feel this way as well. Work

and artistry show up their conversations. They use words

like "artist", "emotional," and "perfect."

LIFE IN LOGGING reports my impressions from

experience shared with loggers and sets the stage for WORK

AS ART, which examines this thesis using vignettes to

capture elements of logging in which loggers spoke about

art. I have been influenced by the attempt to explore

aesthetic genres by Steven Feld. As Marcus and Fischer

state,

Feld's ethnography recounts his coexperiencing of the music of his informants, and this provides, through an inquiry in aesthetics, a much more elaborate representation of emotion life. The test for the readers is that one could, with Feld's book in hand begin to evaluate experience in the Kaluli way, thereby gaining a set of conceptual tools with sensory and cognitive bases radically different from our own. (1986:63)

I would hope that the same would be true of non-loggers

looking at the practices and places that loggers have

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mentioned as aesthetic moments. I've tried to infuse this

chapter with thoughts on the nature of the art object and

the nature of the act of art. I have also described the

annual festival in order to reinforce the performative art

form of the occupation. The intention is to extend the

definition of art so that displaying or exhibiting is not

the only criterion for its acceptance as art. I'm

substituting a definition of art that claims it is a

process in daily actions and reality and follows the

suggestion of Robert Plant Armstrong, that art as an

affecting presence, "the creator's intention to produce a

work conveying affect." (1971:5)

My definition suggests an art that demands greater

sensitivity to the everyday world of the logger, for no

one has created an atmosphere such as a museum, nor a

vocabulary like a catalogue to explain their art. There

is no caretaker or curator to handle this collection.

There are no art historians to tell the viewer how to

react to what they see (Barzun 1973). It is an art that

is created, appreciated, and perpetuated, not in

storehouses dedicated to it, but in a natural setting that

is used in many different ways by a variety of people. It

is an art of doing and experiencing that is always

directed toward perfection."

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Logging, to most people, is an economic endeavor.

But to those who are willing to learn more about it, it

offers a subtle return in the realm of the artistic. They

can learn the intricacies of a logging job or the beauty

of a well-cut stand of trees. Like the earthworks of

Smithson and temporary environments of Cristo, this art is

ephemeral, never manageable enough for a museum setting,

never individual enough for an art historian's

publication. It lives in the memories of oldtimers and

the everyday visions of contemporary loggers.

This dissertation approaches the problem of work

as art with specific situations in which loggers speak

about the artistic elements of their work. Work as art is

difficult to put into words, for everyone, not the least

of all loggers, but they give it their best try. Often I

read the deeper meaning into our shared experiences. It

is described generally as experiences related to logging

and technology. It becomes even stronger when loggers

begin to talk about the real artists in the woods, the

emotions connected with the passage of time, and the

regeneration of their environment.

Can workers claim the creation and ownership of

art in this way? I began to think it was possible when I

read the many apologies of art historians for their

preoccupation with Western art aesthetics. In a recent

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discussion, art historian Jean Lipman said that when she

approached the concept of "quality," she had difficulties.

"You can't define quality, you can only feel it" (Shaw

1990:2E). I believe this is similar to the nature of the

logger's aesthetic. It must be felt.

But no anthropologist can be that vague. And so,

I have cited past approaches to aesthetics from both art

historians who look at Western art as well as those who

explore the aesthetics of indigenous peoples. However, in

the final analysis, it will be the vignettes drawn from

the words and experiences with loggers that are used to

show that, in logging, work is not physical labor alone.

It is an encompassing sense of the appropriate, the

proper, and the real. It is a constant struggle for a

perfection that is understood best by those who

participate in it everyday. I think the vignettes are a

natural vehicle for work as art. As spontaneous comments

from loggers, these are unique. In some cases it was the

first time the loggers had the opportunity to wax poetic

about their surroundings, work, and life. They took the

chance and described experiences that I would define as

aesthetic.

Here, more than anywhere else, the joint-

authorship emerges. A logger knows that he is center

stage when he stops to show me the different species of

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trees. He begins, on his own, to create, to author, a

vignette about the past, and about the glories of the work

that those he knows have done.

Thus, logging, a product-oriented occupation in a

physically demanding environment, will be viewed as an

occupation that has developed its own standards, both

socially and artistically. The timber that is produced,

the resulting visual impact on the natural setting, and

the manner in which the task is performed in daily life

figure significantly in the end result. The aesthetic,

which is a particular brand of the appropriate, fits into

the rest of the loggers' way of life, which is to say,

that work is an inseparable part of a balanced life. It

is not segmented out. Work, as a part of life, becomes a

social outlet and an artistic pursuit.

There is a grander scheme for the future of this

study. I hope ultimately to foster a new approach to the

definition of art, one that revolves around the

experiences of the worker who may not fancy himself or

herself as an artist. It is not based on the concept of

object as art alone. Nor does it define art as that which

is created by someone labeled "artist." It may begin with

the problem of capturing the artistic moment in the lives

of these loggers than applying it to other occupational

groups. It can be found in real time, space, and

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practical intention, created of materials and with

techniques that are not limited to museums and galleries

in urban areas.

The Evaluation

Finally, CHAPTER NINE, THE LIMNER REVISITS,

examines the methodology used in this work. It cites the

advantages and disadvantages of this type of writing from

the standpoint of the authors, both those who lived the

experience, and the one who put it down on paper. I will

try to assess the bridge-vignette as a form and suggest

alterations to make its use richer and more complete. I

will discuss the difficulties of fieldwork, especially

when done in contemporary American society.

I should be able to state in CHAPTER SIX how this

type of work comes to conclusions, but even in writing the

INTRODUCTION, I can sense that conclusions are not

appropriate, aside from developing a definition of art.

For if another anthropologist wrote of Orofino perhaps a

different picture might emerge, specifically because they

may not be striving for coauthorship. Instead of

conclusions, this approach asks questions about the role

of the observed and the observer, about the everyday and

the elevated, and finally about the realistic, truthful

way to tell the story of anthropology. It continues to

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seek situations and words so well-suited that a better

understanding of the human condition emerges.

I have tried to follow the many fine writer-

anthropologists of the past (Argedus 1958; Llosa 1990)”

(Bohannan 1954; McPhee 1944; Levi Strauss 1955). I have

tried to choose each word in each vignette carefully to

reflect the intent of the individuals that were written

about.

I believe also that this work contributes to

experimental anthropology. Those that have influenced it

most are: Allen (1988), Bruner (1986a), Clifford and

Marcus (1986), Crapanzano (1980), Geertz (1988), Marcus

and Cushman (1982), Marcus (1989), Stoller (1986), and

Swiderski (1986). But the form is somewhat different.

The bridge-vignette is an obvious, direct, and

recognizable style that may not have been used before but

can be seen as a literary contribution that focuses on one

of the goals of ethnographic realism, that of perspective

or voice.

In addition to a new form, the dissertation brings

together two rarely woven threads, work in a specific

occupation and art. It tries to show that this is a theme

that should be explored in the future. It provides a

context for the larger, more universal dimensions of art

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media, tradition, technique, or marketplace.

It suggests that, if approached properly, work and

life can be defined as art.

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LIFE ON AN INCLINE: THE LOGGERS' WORLD

The Clearwater River Valley is beautiful. It

meets the needs of your senses. In the rainy season, your

eyes reverberate with its richness, the freshness of the

trees. Sharp blue or moody grey, the sky is all sky,

without telltale sign of human manufacture. In early

morning a mist settles over in and you live as if in a

movie set with green and greywhite surrounding you. It's

quiet, the quiet of true quiet. It is what a logger sees

and feels; what he'll tell you.

To those of us who rise at 4:30 A.M. every morning, six days a week and go out to meet the day in its infancy there are no words to adequately describe the feeling and the beauty. This is what keeps us going year after year until we die. You can retire a logger and he will still go back to the woods until he is too old to get there. You show me a logger who doesn't think it's the most beautiful place on earth and I'll show you a man who is not a logger. Try to imagine the sun coming up out of the Rockies over a small lake or stream with elk or deer in the background, birds singing, and life in action all around you, and you will see what we see everyday of our lives. Tim Barnett, logger

At the Clearwater's shoreline the water sounds

crystal. As you drive on Highway 12, you feel that it

obeys the contours of the river. Your eyes will not leave

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the water. You see it, but even more, feel it with every

turn of the wheel. In this place, humans have been

subjected to nature's design.

Going from the valley and following a road up to

timberline, you can smell fresh-cut pine, white and

yellow, or cedar, or fir, or other species that thrive

here. You see it in growth and scattered in hulks. You

see the earth, cut with the gashes of a man-colored

machinery that has brought these trees down. Traveling up

the grade, the unaccustomed and uninitiated will fear at

the heights and the weights that surround them.

Topography is supreme throughout the entire

region; it dominates your thoughts. Glaciation during the

Pleistocene created this world and its life. It's the

Northern Rocky Mountain Province, north and west of

Yellowstone National Park.

The landscape is filled with subtleties that only

those who work in the woods understand. The south and

north faces of the ranges lay on different exposures and

cause different timber growth; a feature best known to

loggers. These people live with the contours of an

incline and know the great tracts of land that have been

separated by broad valleys. But knowledge of this

geomorphology often fails from ground level, you're left

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to wonder exactly where these separations should actually

be mapped.

Causing this are the mountains, helter skelter,

never running in a line. They blur the separations.

There are no dominant peaks, no trends, no consistency.

The myriad of minor crests run in all directions; their

residence between the streams of mature drainage systems

are indiscernible. With all this ambivalence, the vistas

can surprise you with a horizontal skyline created by the

neighboring, uniformly-high ridges.

And then, suddenly a ridge or peak, the result of

faulting or unequal erosion, appears, towering over its

neighbors. But the uniformity in heights is so much more

striking than these solitary anomalies. The only way to

know the terrain well is to walk, or drive, or settle in

it, as today's logger has.

The western and southern edges of this land are

the hems of the Columbia and Snake River lava plains.

They rest against the mountains. To the North, the limit,

less distinct and set arbitrarily, is at Clark Fork. The

area hosts the eastern foothills of the Continental Divide

and the Bitterroot Mountains formed by a faulting that is

so out of character with the Northern Rockies (Fenneman

1931).

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But the logger was not the first, nor is he alone

in his knowledge of this region. Human history has made

its mark on the topography and labeled the boundaries of

this great mountainous area. From the earliest times,

because clear natural features were lacking, purely local,

human choices for names were applied.

Specific names for many regions of this area have

come from those inhabiting the land. Sometimes poetic,

occasionally scatological— Weitas is a derivation of Wet

Ass— this nomenclature is often topographically confusing.

For example, a named mountain ridge separates two

rivers that are unrelated in name. Instead of the North

and South Fork of the Coeur D'Alene River draining off the

Coeur D'Alene Mountains, human intervention and creativity

confuse the issue by calling these the Salmon and the

Clearwater Rivers.

Since more whimsy than logic has gone into

designating place names, humans have also modified the

names of other earth features. And so, the Salmon River

Mountains is the name applied to the area south of the

Salmon, a range that does not send its drainage to the

kin-named river. The Clearwater Mountain area is between

the Salmon River and the North Fork of the Clearwater,

and the Coeur D'Alene is actually the district north of

the Clearwater River. To add to the confusion, the entire

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area is referred to as the Bitterroot, whose mountains, in

fact, lie to the east and extend from Nez Perce Pass on

the south to Lolo Pass on the north (Fenneman 1931).

Native Americans, the first in this region, were

familiar with its enigmatic face. Throughout history

they've lived with it, explored it, exploited it, and made

their peace in managing it. It has been forgiving.

Traversed, intruded upon, and cut down, yet, it

perpetuates; staying wild, elegant, and growing back,

proving its superior survival power.

Bands of Nez Perce lived in permanent villages

along the River where they hunted and gathered. It was

there in 1805, while Nez Perce were living a settled

existence, that East Coast nationals, Lewis and Clark

began adventuring into the region. They used Indian

trails, the Nez Perce and the Lolo that provided passage

through the Bitterroot Range and led westward along the

ridges. Only by taking advantage of the continuity of the

ridges' height could these Jeffersonian explorers avoid

the forbidding character of the gorge-like valleys. Their

trek down through the Salmon River Valley failed. It,

like so many of the valleys, was too narrow and rugged to

follow. Steep grades, impossible to cross have been a

protection for the land. Her impassability has prevailed.

A hundred years later in 1905, the one hundred and thirty

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miles of the Salmon were still crossed by only one wagon

road.

Today the only physical indicators of the Lewis

and Clark presence are highway signs remembering the

specific events and hardships that occurred along the

river. Near Orofino the expedition built five canoes used

to go by water to the Pacific. But even though artifacts

do not exist, the historical importance of this trek is a

permanent fixture in the minds of its devotees. They come

to see the signs and experience the landscape, imagining

how it might have been for the early explorers. They

often read from the diaries that recount the lives of men

who were adventurous even in their illness and hunger.

After the coming of Lewis and Clark, few others

ventured into the territory of the Nez Perce. Then, in

the 1850s, gold was discovered by Captain Elias D. Pierce

along the Clearwater River. Since it was in Indian

territory, mining was prohibited. But he returned again

in 1860, when government treaty allowed miners access.^

There, about forty miles from the present town of Orofino,

they made their first significant discovery. Two towns

were established. Pierce City and the original Oro Fino

City, doomed from the beginning because it was situated

directly on top of deposits of placer ore. Miners, mostly

experienced prospectors from California, continued to move

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into the region, and the original town existed until 1867.

In its heyday the mining region was inhabited by about

15,000 people. Throughout those days, the Chinese came to

work the abandoned gold fields, and at one time over four

hundred Chinese lived in the region. In a short period

during the earlier years it is believed that at least

seventeen million dollars worth of gold was mined in Idaho

goldfields.

Changes occurred, paramount among them the

movement of our nation's population westward. With it

came the conflicts between white settlers and Indians. In

this region the Nez Perce War occurred in 1877. In a

still much-debated battle. General Howard caused the

retreat of Chief Joseph. The lands, once merely spotted

with Indian settlements, were now an area of possibility

for townships. In 1895, the lands on the Nez Perce

reservation that had not been allocated for Indian use

were turned over for settlement. Migrants came to clear

the land, plant crops, and establish communities.

Today, the Indian population of Clearwater County

remains stable, but few live in the current community of

Orofino. Most Native Americans are settled in Kamiah and

Lapwai.^ A small Indian population lives in Ahsahka, a

town adjacent to Orofino which was once an old Indian

fishing village. The Indian church and cemetery

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still remain, but The Dworshak National Fish Hatchery and

a second hatchery built by the U.S. Army Corps of

Engineers dominate this section of the River. Further up

river, near Lewiston, there is a concentrated population

of Nez Perce living near Spalding.

The central area of the Bitterroot Mountain

Province concerns us most, for here, in the valley of the

Clearwater Mountains, is the home of the logging community

that I will describe in this work. It wasn't until 1898

that the area was subdivided for homesteads by C.C. Fuller

of the Clearwater Improvement Company. With a newspaper,

the Orofino Courier that began in 1899, and a railroad

line, Orofino became a true Western town.

Before that time, the timber interests were of

little consequence, even though homesteaders were

purchasing fine stands for under one hundred dollars.

Settlers began to stake timber claims and clear the land

for agriculture. Companies from the East and Midwest

began to look for timber, but development occurred in the

Clearwater Forest only after the attractive forested areas

in easterly parts of the country were depleted. At the

turn-of-the-century there were practically no laws

concerning the forest, its use, or protection.

Many settlers situated themselves on terraces,

known locally as benches. These are cut in rock or formed

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Of sediments distributed in narrow and discontinuous

bands. They exist thanks to lava flows on the Columbia

Plateau that blocked valleys causing sediment to be

deposited. The process, born in glacial times, was

assisted by the temporary lakes slowing the downcutting

and causing the streams to cut laterally. Even today

while riding through the area these benches strike you as

a perfect place, a fine landing, to set up housekeeping.

since this formation occurs on three different but

discontinuous levels, it provides settlement areas that

are private, yet neighborly. Many are named for farming,

logging, or ranching families who settled originally in

the area of Orofino. For example, there is Carr Bench and

Bobbitt Bench. Other topographical features also take

their names from individuals or families, like Gilbert

Grade, Russell Ridge, and Maggie Butte.

In these names, topographic features, ideal

conditions for settlement, chronology, and social history

all come together. It's as if the terrain might be an

earthen kinship chart with settlers taking refuge on the

land and giving back to it their names for its geography.

Farming thrived and farmers prospered. Their lifestyle

remained dominant until 1928.

The perseverance of the settlers proved an early

geologist wrong. In 1904, Lindgren wrote of this

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uninhabited and uninhabitable country, as he viewed it

from Bald Mountain near the western edge of the Clearwater

Mountains.

. . . it is a wild and lonely country with not a settlement or even miner's cabin in the first eighty miles. . . Most of the area is embraced in government forests and so far as can be foreseen should form one of the chief permanent forests of the United States. (Fenneman 1931)

Lindgren would be surprised, for today Bald

Mountain is a ski resort. Miners, as well as many of the

farmers, have come and gone. Some towns have boomed and

busted. Nonetheless, today there are communities spread

throughout the area. And the Clearwater, still one of the

chief permanent forests of the United States, is

ministered over by hundreds of federal stewards who now

live, with other government employees, in this region.

Once wild, now it is domesticated, manicured with roads

and stands of new trees that replace the original forests

with their own special kind of beauty.

The community of Orofino, with a current

population of approximately four thousand people, was

incorporated in 1905, when the population was two hundred

and seven people. Its early buildings included the

Orofino Trading Company and the State Hospital. A school

was built in 1910. Originally Orofino served as a supply

center for the largely agricultural community. When the

first advertised timber sale occurred in 1914, no bids

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were received. It was not until 1924 that growth in the

logging industry occurred and fourteen mills were

operating in the region, producing approximately twenty-

eight million board feet of lumber.

Families of loggers began businesses to produce

timber for building supplies. They set up small, moveable

mills, and hauled lumber by wagon. When the supply was

used, they'd move to another area and help other settlers

build communities. Lawrence Olson was one of these men.

He and his family owned and operated "O" Mill for several

decades.

But there was no need for a management plan

because cutting was low. Not until 1942 was there enough

logging to warrant government planning. The first set of

forest plans were approved in 1955.

At the same time that individuals were

establishing operations and mills, the corporations were

looking at the potential of the Idaho forests/* According

to information received from Sharon Barnett, an

independent logging contractor, and Bob Allen, director of

the J. Howard Bradbury Logging Museum, Clearwater County

actually developed as a major logging area when Potlatch,

a logging company, offered homesteads in this region.

This encouraged the migration of entire families, as well

as unmarried men. Some migrants both homesteaded and took

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up employment with the corporation. For example.

Headquarters, the company logging town that was begun in

1926, began to hire teachers for their school by 1928. It

had two types of residents. Approximately one hundred and

four homes specifically for families living at the logging

camp as well as accommodations for about four hundred

bachelor loggers were built.

And so, two trends were occurring somewhat

simultaneously; the establishment of family-owned

businesses and the establishment of company towns that

were enclaves for families and bachelor loggers. The fact

that family units played a part in the development of this

area and that they have remained strong, is an important

feature in the structure of the logging industry in

Clearwater County (see The Porters).

A railroad for the Clearwater Timber Company was

built from Orofino to Headquarters in the late 1920s. The

company established its first camp at Bruce's Eddy on the

North Fork on the Clearwater River and a second at Jaype

meadows approximately thirty miles from the town of

Orofino.

Many of the independent operations in this area

were threatened by the time of the Depression. From 1930

to 1939, much of the forest land passed from individual

owners to the county in lieu of taxes. Then, it was given

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by the county to the National Forest. Yet, more people

were coming into the region regardless of the economic

downturn. When the need for work and training programs of

young men occurred after the Depression, many came to the

area and learned forest management and logging in the CCC

camps. Local loggers took care of these young men and

guided them in their understanding of the natural

resources of the region.

But as they took resources from the forests, these

early settlers and loggers also cherished it and

established a fire protection association. Much of the

historical writing about the region concentrates on

fighting forest fires, more so that human habitation.*

But one event seems to evoke memories. The

damming of the North Fork of the Clearwater River brings

back thoughts of the old days. The river provided eleven

percent of the water that flowed down the Columbia. It

had caused a disastrous flood in 1948, and so as early as

that date, the Army Corps of Engineers proposed a dam. To

build it, many of the homesteads at Bruce's Eddy were

flooded out. Even today when boating on the reservoir

loggers will point out their homesteads, some of which are

now a hundred feet under water.

With the coming of power in the 1940s, logging

began to thrive and the "gyppo" system, the operation of

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small, independent logging contractors and mills, was in

full force. About fifty operations and mills were

running. Some of these included Johnson at Grangement,

Cardiff at Pierce, Ahsahka Mill at Ahsahka, the Schmidt

Brothers at Weippe, and Richardson at Orofino. Konkol

Mill, established in this time period, is the only one

still in operation.

The settlement that occurred was highly

homogeneous both occupationally and racially. Farmers,

ranchers, loggers, and merchants from the Midwest—

Michigan and Wisconsin— and the Southeast— West Virginia

settled here. Most current inhabitants reckon their

heritage not to European antecedents but to states of

origin.

Racially, the town and the county are almost

exclusively Caucasian. There are no African-Americans and

few Asians who live here as permanent residents.

Occasionally, Hispanic or Asian migrant workers come to

the area, employed by the major corporation to plant

seedlings in reforestation programs. Harvesters of bear

grass, migrants from Asian communities in California, make

periodic sojourns to the area, but they are temporary and

do not reside in the town. Camp sites in federal forest

areas are abundant and provide camping grounds to them.

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In 1990, the state's centennial year, special

editions of local newspapers recounted the history of the

town and the region. With historical photos from the

early part of this century, the newspapers provided a

vivid picture of past settlers and entrepreneurs. But the

visual idiom has not changed. For in those same

newspapers there was picture after picture of backhoe

operators, fence company employees, grocery store staffs,

and purveyors of auto parts. One hundred years from now,

these faces from the centennial edition will stare out,

giving future generations a look at both yesterday's and

today's inhabitants of Clearwater County ( Clearwater

Tribune 1990).

Then as now, the community in the valley, "the

best little town by a dam site," the phrase applied to

Orofino for one of its annual festivals in the 1980s, drew

those who had lived at higher elevations. Its moderate

climate and "banana belt" temperatures were

But, it's popularity is not new. As long ago as 1909, a

promotional brochure read:

Orofino is the natural, financial, commercial, and transportation center for all the vast territory of the Clearwater region. With all these vast and valuable resources, its genial climate, its ideal location, its lime, brick, and cement plants, its excellent schools, its churches and fraternal societies, its excellent fire protection, its pure water, its lighting system, and splendid citizenship, why should not Orofino become the wealthiest and most

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beautiful city in the country? fClearwater Tribune 1990)

Today's boosters of the town point to the

opportunities it provides. Commerce has grown and the

Orofino business community takes pride in its full range

of services and merchandising. Among them are: two banks,

several clothing stores, automobile dealers, motels and

trailer camps, cable television service, real estate

agents, and building supply firms.

Much of the history of the county is on the

landscape, in the names and lives of those who settled

here. Some is in the photographs in official files or

kept by one or another of the elders of the community. An

historical fact here, and another there, hold promise for

future investigators, but at the moment, there are no

comprehensive documents of generations coming and going.

Documentation, both in words and images, often

focuses on the specific elements of a logging operation or

era in its development. There is a volume about the

Clearwater Forests that provides in great detail the

particulars of all the great forests. Other articles

describe the construction of fire towers, still others the

unusual, uncommon occurrences like the mystery of the

"ridgerunner" and the hanging of three Chinese miners.

Ralph Space and Albert Curtis are best known as

chroniclers of the forests, but others like "Red"

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McCollister are known to carry the story in their heads as

well. But all in all, there are no compilations of the

social life of Clearwater County. Who did what, and when,

often seems to be ephemora. Whereas how it was done; that

is the key. The sense of history here is in action, in

technology, and development, in the changes that have

occurred on the landscape.

Human intervention in this region is not without

controversy. Those who live here believe that their

intimacy with the Clearwater Forest, a region with some of

the most productive timber lands east of the Cascades,

preempts suggestions for its use from outsiders.

Meanwhile, national groups cry out that the familiarity

has bred abuse and that the conservation movement's

distance and global understanding alone will preserve this

region and Mother Earth.

This is where our story begins, with the people

who live and have lived in the Clearwater Valley. These

are a people, the independent logging contractors, their

loggers, and the community that supports them, that

believe they understand the proper place of humans in

their environment.

But I can't tell the story of this region and its

people without telling the story of the land, its unique

organization, and the way in which humans have adapted to

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it. From the difficulties that Lewis and Clark

experienced to the careful maneuvering needed by logging

trucks, the land has been victorious over the human desire

for mobility and its need to know what is going on over

the vast and uneven acreage in this region.

Transportation and communication are at the mercy of the

terrain.

This is a community, a logging town, different

from other towns because its activity and its sociability

revolve around nature. It's a place where people comment

on the smell of the rain. Talking about the weather is

not idle conversation. Rain or snow, heat or drought

affect their livelihood. For example, with moisture comes

mud and the impossibility of logging. Deep ruts develop,

and a sensible logger who wants to respect the land as

well as follow environmental regulations can't get a

logging truck to and from a job. Hot weather brings about

the possibility of forest fires, both destructive to the

timber and time-consuming to fight.

This is a community that seems to understand the

difficulties of living in a unique geographical setting

and the mercurial elements of nature. Fear-inspiring

gorges add to the challenges of life, its difficulties,

and to breathtaking moments. Inclines that are

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treacherous under a light dusting of snow are all in a

day's work.

But as it bears up under these hazards, it is also

a community that relishes the benefits of living and

working out-of-doors. These people never hesitate to

point out the incomparable sunsets and sunrises breaking

over vistas punctuated with peaks. To live here in

Clearwater County is to acknowledge nature's supremacy,

draw inspiration from the spirit of the place, and respect

Nature's paramount trick, the dominance of the incline.®

It is this condition that is central to life in

Orofino, life in logging, and to this dissertation. This

community must acknowledge inclines. Being an Idaho

logger means spending most of your life traveling either

up or down mountainsides. It means negotiating grades

from fifteen degrees to forty-five degrees, handling

enormous weights by foot or in vehicles. You must either

carry, drag, haul, hoist, or lift a truckload of logs that

can weigh as much as 80,000 pounds.

You do it throughout your life. You rarely look

straight ahead, rarely see great expanses of open land.

Instead, you look down into a canyon, or up onto a ridge

at a stand of trees. You calculate how to build a road

that follows the contours of a mountainside so that the

incline can be conquered.

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But the incline is more than a physical state of

off-balance. It has permutations. Your entire life

conforms to the incline's whims. Time, daily and

seasonal, brings you closer to the sun and the sky than it

does most men and women. You rise earlier and work

longer, unsynchronized with a normal 9:00 A.M. to 5:00

P.M. routine. Your year is not divided into the four

relatively equal seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and

winter with a two week vacation somewhere within.

Instead, your high seasons and low depend on the weather.

In a crew, as a sawyer, you must look up into a

tree to assess the technique needed, and evaluate the

danger that may befall you. If setting checkers, the wire

cables that are chained around logs before they are

hauled, your gaze is downward to the ground. After

bending and cabling you then watch that log being lifted

up the hill by the hoister on the landing. Your view from

a loader is down onto a truck, and then further down as

you watch the driver negotiate hairpin curves toward the

valley and the mill.

If you work in a sawmill, you watch the log in its

lifting and dropping again, up and down throughout the

process of unloading, debarking, and being milled into

lumber. The mill's efficiency depends on the levels

engineered into it so that the logs have the least

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horizontal distance to travel on their way into timber

products. The longer the distance, the greater the time

spent in the transport, each foot adding the need for more

equipment capable of carrying the heavy loads.

Some inclines are social as well. Stories say

that the lives of old-time lumberjacks, the bachelor

immigrants, went from high to low. They worked hard and

played equally as hard. When in the woods, they were at

the height of their craft. While in town, out of their

element, they were outsiders; drinking, carrying on, and

spending money, plummeting down the economic scale.*

In the 1940s the gyppo logger worked with friends

or other members of his family, taking work by the piece

instead of the hour. He understood the incline and the

best places to make the most money. He banked on his

productivity, to work as hard as he could in the time he

had available, to conquer the weather and the terrain. He

used his own wits to bring economic balance to his

operation and to his family.

The work habits of the logger ran counter to

unionization and the practice of an hourly wage. His way

of meeting the exigencies of economic inclines were to

work longer and harder, not to join with others for the

standardization of labor practices. Perhaps he doubted

whether any corporate group could answer the questions of

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the incline, so he rejected the unions.^ He may have felt

that no outside organizer could understand the ups and

downs of weather and terrain. And no union could set the

incline straight. Only the logger could negotiate it. If

he worked long and hard in the woods, he could guarantee

his own survival and financial stability for his family.

It's also easy to be dragged down by others on an incline;

the tumble is quick. And only those who know every inch

of the path, those you know in the woods can bring you

back up the hillside. No outsider can do that for you.

An eight-hour day, regardless of the possibility of

leisure and associated benefits, could not keep your

family on an economic even keel. But still today the

independent logging contractor maintains his non-union

status, as do many corporately employed woodsworkers.

They meet the incline in their own way.

By remaining independent the logger may appear to

be out of balance with the rest of America's working

class, those that don't exist on an incline. The word

"gyppo" generally means that those who worked by the piece

could outwork and out-earn hourly workers. They "gypped"

by working at their own pace and as long as their energy

held out. Normally, they worked longer and harder. Still

today the independent logging contractor maintains his

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non-union status, as do many corporately employed

woodsworkers. They meet the incline in their own way.

The lone lumberjack is all but gone. Family men

have replaced him in the woods. Today you don't hear

riches to rags stories, men losing their month's pay for

an evening in town. Gyppos may call one another such, but

most are known to those outside the woods as independent

logging contractors, or by occupation: sawyer, loader,

bucker, or logging truck driver. But the incline

principle still applies. Life is still lived at an angle,

with social and economic times having their highs and

lows. One day work goes well, you are paid handsomely;

another the conditions aren't quite right. Money and

satisfaction are scarce.

You are always in jeopardy on the incline. It is

synonymous with danger. It is one thing to be sure-footed

on level ground and another to be nimble when underbrush

covers an imperceptible surface. And driving a tractor in

a field is a far cry from operating a Caterpillar, even in

the safety of a roll cage, on a hillside. Accidents on

the incline are unpredictable even among the most-skilled

loggers. Once they occur, rescue on a slope is ever so

much more difficult.

And when it occurs even so final an act as dying

is less a matter of continuity on a plane, then a state of

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life full and life emptied. You are alive and then you

are no more. Your passing will be marked for a moment;

then everyone will return to the woods and another day on

the incline.

Because of the incline principle, loggers and

those who share their environment see the world

differently. Their terrain— physical, temporal, and

economic— is angled and necessitates careful navigation.

In all these realms, loggers have used social mechanisms

to bring balance into an imbalanced world. The social

relationships at work and in recreation are not based on a

pyramid. There is no stress on hierarchy with vertical

rungs; instead, authority rotates among equals. In crews,

with spouses, in organizations; those most attuned to the

characteristics of this specific incline at this

particular moment, are the people who balance the seesaw.

The incline acknowledges little leisure. In work

and in society the rigors of getting a job done in a state

of imbalance are constant. There is no time to relax.

Bodies and minds are always at the ready, concentrating on

the next step, previewing the next move; thinking ahead,

looking ahead, always anticipating what might befall you.

But always without tension, for it too can throw

you off-balance. Day in and day out, in work and in life,

you take care with your footing. Success occurs when the

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incline, which will not change, can be negotiated. It

works when daily social life can be put into perfect order

with its own, balanced form of interpersonal negotiation.

The first time you hop into a car and go up

Grangemont Road you know that you are going upgrade and

that the twenty-five mile an hour sign means just that.

You are on the mildest of inclines and yet it has its

attendant dangers.

Of course, you can stay safe and remain in town,

in the valley, and only look up at the stands of trees or

logging operations apparent here and there. If you do,

you miss both the physical sensation, the reality of the

setting, as well as the way in which the incline affects

all of life.

As you read this dissertation, you will spend some

time in town, described in CHAPTER THREE and CHAPTER FOUR,

seeing how loggers and townspeople alike negotiate the

realities of life on an incline. You will see the social

consequences of life in this natural setting and the

recreation that is always possible here.

But it is in the woods, with the loggers at their

work that we will brave the incline. For with all its

hardships and its challenges, it also inspires. Life in

logging gives rise to an art form. It transforms work

into art, and logging into an aesthetic moment.

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BEST LITTLE TOWN BY A DAM SITE

Entering the Field; Mv Calendar

Back in Washington, D.C., at a standstill, while

experiencing writer's block, I began to review the

calendar of the most recent six weeks I spent in Orofino

to see if there were any patterns that characterized my

time there.* In all, the meager scratchings and

scribblings there must be something that had happened, a

notation that gave me a sense of where to begin writing/*

There were few notations for the first week; it

was as if I had done nothing. I had been in Lewiston,

without a vehicle, without anyone to drive me back and

forth to the Lewiston Fair Grounds. I couldn't ask people

who were working so hard to come and collect me,

especially since I knew that building a birling pond would

be an unbelievable feat (see The Birling Pond).

Continuing in my review of notes I was sure that

the second week, when I moved to Orofino, would yield some

information. I had been put in the best room, on the back

side of the Helgeson Suites Hotel. It was spacious,

private, and totally isolated from the happenings of

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Orofino. The manager was surprised to hear that I wanted

to move to the front corner of the hotel. It was

considered the "noisy place" with the 3:00 A.M. logging

truck traffic coming through, and the teenagers cruising

in hot rods till 10:00 P.M. at night. Yes, I wanted to be

on the front, able to see people coming and going. And it

worked. Through my window I began to recognize familiar

people, walking down the street or driving past with a

consistent pattern consistency to their movements.

But during that week, I rarely left my room. I

organized. I organized, ad nauseam, finding that an

effective way to stay out of the fray. I kept telling

myself it was for the sake of efficiency, but in fact it

was fear. I was in Orofino's bosom, insecure about how

these people would feel when they were being questioned

about their real life instead of when they were being

observed during festival. I kept delaying the inevitable.

The first real notation on my calendar was May 2, 1990,

"Work and Interview Schedule." Organizing again. The

next note was five days later. May 7, 1990, "Pick up

stamps" and "get film back from Bob."

Now I'm amazed at the schedule, how many minor

things took precedence over fieldwork: doing laundry,

sending mail, and writing letters and post cards.

Luckily, later it developed that many of these cards and

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letters revealed a good deal of information about the

field experience.®

I established rules, and I lived by them: Be calm

and don't make fieldwork disturbing to them or me. Listen

more than talk; don't preclude any information; and verify

information from several sources. Don't make promises.

Stay out of politics. Most importantly, I believed that

field work was learning to be subtle and I had to be so.

I worried too, about being "good company" to the

people of Orofino, for I suspected that even the most

sociable person runs out of steam and needs to take time

off. I learned that everywhere I went in Orofino, people

knew what I was doing and wanted to talk. Conversation

was their typical pattern with everyone, but for me,

sometimes I wanted relief and the luxury of climbing into

a closet and staying there for a while.

Cowardly, but finally, I went out of the door,

onto the street and it all began to happen.

Hometown: A Blue Chip Stock

A man stands on the bridge that crosses the

Clearwater River. In his hand is a shotgun. He wears a

white shirt with a red decal, "Hometown Proud." He plants

his feet. He is a sentinel, no one will pass him. He is

a perpetual, untiring guardian never moving for food or

sleep, breathing every breath for his hometown, thinking

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Remembering the promises he made to his father, he

imagines the perfect hometown with all its friendly

charms, yet with cosmopolitan amenities. His idea is to

turn his town into a blue chip stock.

This stubborn stand against the onslaught of

undesirables never happened. It is an image based on a

comment of an Orofinoan who wanted to emphasize the role

of Paul Pippenger in the community. I was shocked at this

seemingly dictatorial description, until I spoke to Paul

and learned the strength of his convictions. The thought

of hometown being the best investment comes from Paul and

his staunch position of protecting and investing in it.

In his heart, he knows his are the best of intentions, and

he will do whatever is necessary to guarantee the well

being of his birthplace.

As is so often true for men in this region of the

country, their fathers have had a compelling influence on

their lives. Wayne Pippinger, Paul's father and Louie

Porter, Paul's uncle (see LIFE IN LOGGING) had been in the

logging business together. The day came when they

realized that the mill could not support both of them.

So, by the flip of a coin, Louie bought Wayne's interest.

But Wayne's sense of being a part of the logging community

didn't end when he left the woods and became a merchant.

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Throughout his life, in planning the growth of

Glenwood IGA, grocery, Wayne operated for profit but also

for service. In a community of severe economic

fluctuations, credit was not a luxury, it was a necessity.

The logger must find a sympathetic and understanding

merchant who knows the cycle, to feed his family in times

of unemployment, and Wayne was that man. Trusting in the

integrity of the loggers, Wayne Pippinger extended credit,

offered services, and began a tradition of concern for the

community.

Paul picked up his commitment to the community and

the loggers' way of life from his father. His store

reflects some of their special needs. Because he deals

with the necessities of life, Paul was able to tell me

about many of the daily, real-life patterns of the

community. In his dad's day, approximately 70 percent of

the community and clientele were loggers; now the

percentage has dropped to about 35 percent. Today, there

is less fluctuation in the economy and associated buying

patterns due to more government jobs in the area.

Recently, habits have changed that reflect current life

way s. Prepared foods are becoming more and more popular,

with the increase of microwaveable items necessitating

another new cooler. There is a trend away from preparing

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food at home, and more people are buying from his

delicatessen counter.

Glenwood IGA has good merchandise and fair prices,

but Paul provides more than food stuffs. He provides

services: UPS, faxing, film developing, check cashing,

moving and storage boxes, lottery tickets, USPO boxes,

senior citizen discounts, child-sized shopping carts,

recycling bins, coupon exchange boxes, a community meeting

room, and a town bulletin board. If there is a new

service possible, Paul will try to incorporate it. He'd

have an automated teller system if the bank would only

install one. Every employee wears a shirt, "Hometown

Proud," and Paul sees to it that pride is reflected in

service.

Open twenty-four hours a day, Glenwood IGA

guarantees that, at any time of the day or night, loggers

are supplied with tobacco, caps, gloves, or even motor

oil. That had been his dad's philosophy, "be there with

what they need, when they need it." An attitude like this

made Wayne Pippinger a town father, a man who wanted

growth and helped in any way he could. When he was alive

he didn't talk much about his beneficence, but from 1945

to 1975, he was involved in town politics and city

concerns. He was active in everything. For example, when

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municipal monies were not available, he bought city water

bonds for a much-needed sewer system.

Wayne, along with other early boosters, did much

of their town management without benefit of elaborate

regulations or discussions. One man's word to another

could seal not only a personal business deal but also the

course that the town might take in zoning, utilities, or

development. Paul remembers his dad's traits, sees him as

a hero, and acts as his dad would have acted in all

dealings. He also has had a taste of the logging life

through his strong ties with Uncle Louie and Aunt Faye

Porter.

Paul sees the need for diversification. Be it a

prison. Forest Service facility, or retirement home, Paul

is behind anything that makes Orofino a better place. If

buildings in the downtown are run down, he'll buy them,

fix them, and rent them to keep the main street alive. At

times, this makes him a controversial figure. He is

realistic, but often opinionated in his support of certain

projects.

Paul joins all the right civic organizations and

attends all the right meetings. He purchases property

wisely, but sometimes stretches himself to make sure that

a piece of real estate is renovated to have an image that

adds to the appearance of the town. But Paul says very

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little, and is nearly invisible when it comes to politics.

He understands local values and the distinction drawn

between social responsibility and power. He is always

responsible, but he also knows that power, or the

perception of power, can thwart a project that may be good

for the town. You don't demand, insist, or throw your

weight around. Your possessions are a private matter for

they are not the measure of a man. Orofinoans don't seem

to talk about money or the specific dollars and cents that

a person has.

Not everyone in town agrees with Paul's tactics,

nor would they sanction the apparent monopoly he may have

over certain segments of the community. But there is no

question that he believes he is following the directives,

to the smallest detail, of his deceased father. As a good

son, he always buys a pig and a steer at the county fair,

and provides a scholarship to the high school annually.

What is important is that he shows support for the

community and demonstrates his concern for the future of

Orofino.

Orofino has its social and political intrigues.

Not everyone remembers Wayne Pippinger or sees in Paul's

actions the qualities of a selfless community supporter.

But Paul can easily and automatically state his dream for

the future.

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a proud community, one for everyone, with people behind all the projects that will make it great. There must be diversity but there is no reason for disharmony. When attacked by the outside world, community support should be strong.

Paul will help fight for Orofino's well-being, to keep it

healthy, strong, and growing together.

Talk and Reciprocity

Information is a valuable commodity in a logging

community and for the loggers of Orofino. It is freely

given and gladly received.® It is exchanged as if a gift

from one member of the community to another and shared as

a common source of good. Each morning, in the restaurants

loggers meet. On occasion, sports or television will

arise as topics of conversation, but generally loggers

stick to the facts they need for their occupation. They

rarely discuss national or international affairs, although

they may mention state policies concerning land use as it

affects the logging industry.

In the conversations during these early morning

coffee sessions, loggers brief one other on the status of

their jobs, giving details of each step of the operation.®

They negotiate the free loan of privately owned equipment

that is scattered throughout the area. They know that a

loan now will mean use of another's machinery at a later

date.

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To understand this reciprocity of facts and

materials, it is necessary to understand the conditions

under which loggers work. A logger, equipment operator, or

mill worker is physically handling heavy materials of

unwieldy shapes and sizes. He must find techniques to

lift, drag, and stack trees as they are changed in shape

throughout the process. Equipment is expensive, and it is

difficult for anyone, other than a large corporation, to

have a full complement of machinery. Where ownership is

impossible, borrowing and lending are practical

alternatives and paramount to the logger's everyday life.

In this system it all works out in the end.

But loggers also deal with the uncertainties of

climatic and natural conditions, and continuously changing

plans in the Forest Service operation. They depend on up-

to-date information spread through free conversation. The

wisest of these loggers understands that thoughtful

planning necessitates daily intelligence. He wouldn't

miss a morning's informal coffee in town.

Since the web of information-gathering benefits

everyone, there are no consultant fees. Knowledge is not

for sale. It is based most often on who in the group has

seen the conditions most recently. Add to this a

knowledge of the history of the site, and experience with

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the equipment for the particular job, and you have the

expert of the day.

But in a broader sense, these loggers think past

today's job and take a long-range view of manipulating

nature to gain a livelihood. They have a sense of

yesterday and tomorrow. To keep the hillsides bountiful

for the future, they talk about their experiences with

successful logging operations that span long periods of

time, not five or ten year increments, but the period

necessary for a stand of trees to regenerate. A likely

measure of history for a logger is forty to fifty years.

Often his breakfast conversation revolves around timber

stands he knew as a boy or those from which he will not

reap the benefits. Much of what today's logger knows

about the husbandry of forested areas he learned from his

father. He conveys this information freely to younger men

who can use it in the future.

This desire to share information is mandatory, not

only because of the length of growing time, but also

because of land tenure patterns. Independent contract

loggers seldom own the land that they work. They pay

stumpage, that is, the money agreed upon to cut a specific

area in a given period of time. Lands and their yield are

actually owned by other individuals, the National Forest

Service, or major lumber corporations. It is imperative

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to know current policies, saleable lots, and, in order to

win a job, the bid requirements. All this information is

discussed informally over coffee.

Communication is generally face-to-face, and

although the telephone is used sometimes for setting up

appointments, it is rarely used to transact business. It

is as if people don't trust the phone as a proper vehicle

for total communication. In fact, after leaving Orofino,

I realized how rarely I had heard the phone ring either in

a private home or office. I look back on the calls I

tried to make, only to realize that very few resulted in

conversation. No one ever seemed to answer. If they're

not at home, someone in town is bound to know exactly

where they are. You can get a message to them by telling

any number of people. Often answering machines are

without messages. There are no requests for callers to

leave information. All in all, the best way to reach

someone is on the street or in the coffee shops.

I found this practice an interesting departure

from the current belief that you can "Reach out and touch

someone," through a mechanical device. In part, I believe

that it is a carry-over from the use of CB radios and

their role in logging operations. Radios are used as a

lifeline, only to convey necessary information. To keep a

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job rolling, a contractor, having been contacted by his

crew, may call his home where his wife is waiting.

Sharon Barnett shared her feelings about the role

of the radio with me. It has ultimate utility but often

an oppressive nature for the person in charge of the

logger's communication network. Traditionally, the wife

would be at the radio, nearly tied to it. She would

handle equipment needs, or in the case of disasters, move

swiftly to get emergency help. The CB air space becomes

sacred in a disaster, no one intrudes until the problem

has been solved or the trauma is passed.

If conversations do take place via the telephone,

they can be halting, brusk, and without a sense of emotive

content. Telephones seem to be used as a necessity like

radios, only when face-to-face conversations are

impossible and then always in a guarded manner. People

don't chat on the phone. You'd never tell someone on the

phone what you might tell them in person.

Tim Barnett and Ted Leach filled me in on the

principles of having, holding, sharing, and using

information and equipment. Both men have been logging

contractors and still work in logging. College-educated in

engineering and forestry, their breed is proud of their

profession, and during the course of my visit they not

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only described, but also analyzed the way in which

logging in this region operates (see WORK AS ART).

Tim and Ted are practical men, but they can become

philosophical about time, history, and their part in the

stewardship of nature. We three drove up to the top of a

ridge, got out of the truck and looked across a canyon.

There was a road, a stand of trees, a job in operation,

and a clearcut. Both Tim and Ted, or any number of other

local logging contractors, could explain in great detail

how the area was harvested: when, with what type of

equipment, and probably by whom. To them, the quality of

the current stand reflects the jobs that had been done in

years past. Connoisseurship is not a word commonly used

in Orofino, but its definition as a "discerning eye," is

exactly what these loggers have when they evaluate timber

or the results of a logging job. They see it and share it

in free conversation.

Through the concrete realities of their jobs and

memories of work experiences, they can explain the

practical elements of their work as well as their belief

in a positive relationship between humans and nature.

They believe that time is long, measured in lives, not

years or decades. Logging reputations persist because the

environment, readily on view, reflects the skills of an

individual logging contractor long after the job is

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finished. Tim and Ted share their knowledge about logging

operations and hope that they can foster a healthy

profession and good forestry practices in the coming

generations.

Tim and Ted as well as the other loggers

introduced in this dissertation relate actual everyday

experiences in a straightforward manner but also with a

style and spontaneous fashion about them. Perhaps because

of a love for their subject, they weave people, places,

and events together in a lively fashion that captures the

quality of a life in logging.

Not only are their stories loaded with

information, they also radiate with a pride in history and

occupation. As a surefire way to hold the listener's

attention, they blend an awe of the past with an

appreciation for the need to change in a mechanized

society. Many of their heros are innovators, men who knew

that change is a constant part of logging.

Orofino shares modern communication devices:

telephones, CBs, newspapers, radios, and televisions, with

the rest of the country. But when it comes to the actual

dissemination of essential information, it is done only

personally and face-to-face. Talk is rarely chatter, it

is normally focused on daily necessities or on

embellishments that add to an understanding of this way of

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life. Tales are real stories about those living in the

past and the ways they performed their jobs. History is

written on the landscape all around and conveyed often as

a guidepost for action.

Most importantly, information is free. It is not

sold as books or tapes. Nor is it valued more highly, or

trusted with more certitude if it comes from an outside,

impersonal source. Knowledge is derived from experience

and conveyed directly, sometimes sparingly, but always

with good nature. Ask a question about logging, either

current or past, and loggers will answer in great detail,

covering all the technology, topography, and environmental

concerns.

Extending this view of communication, a similar

type of open exchange of information occurs in a wider

circle than that of the loggers' world. It is the life's

blood of Orofino society. Conversation is constant,

interaction is perpetual, and no one is eliminated from

the discussion of the past, facts about the present, or

opinions on the future. Townsfolk as well as loggers

convey information to one another. Word on any issue

spreads instantaneously without the need for telephones,

in part because of the constant interchange that happens

in town, on the street, and in the restaurants.

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You might call Orofino an open communication

system with its assets as well as its associated

liabilities. People may provide essential advice on

topics as wide-ranging as insurance premiums, legal

matters, and loan rates. But it also means that one's

personal life is an open book. All the joys and sorrows

associated with everyday living are open to community

scrutiny. When in distress, one is blessed that others,

knowing their plight, will help, or have the sensitivity

to avoid speaking about the dilemma. But in so open a

system there is little that can be hidden. To secret away

a fault or scandal is nearly impossible.

Social Life on Parade

You don't have to go far to see the social life of

Orofino. Merely walk out of the Helgeson's and at almost

any time of year, in any weather, you are in the center of

Orofino's social life. From that corner you see both the

Ponderosa Restaurant and Jean's Bakery, the primary

gathering places for business and recreation.

Walk two blocks to the riverside park and on

almost any evening you can see a baseball game, hear a

high school jazz concert, or be in the middle of a family

picnic. Returning from the field you can glance in on the

local salons and pool halls. They're nothing fancy;

linoleum floors, bar stools, and beer signs. They cater

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to loggers, especially young woodsworkers, who drop by for

a drink at the end of the day.

Although occasionally those people in the

professional segment of the community have private parties

and pride themselves on unusual cuisine, most of Orofino

has an open face in its social life. People meet, greet,

and interact on the streets and in the restaurants.

In the early morning they come seeking news, by

day they shop and transact business, and in the evening,

everyone checks in again to see what's happened during the

day. For recreation, there's always The Rex movie theatre

where you can see first-run movies Thursday through Monday

nights.

A great deal of business as well as social

interchange takes place at the Ponderosa, a combination

coffee shop, restaurant, and cocktail lounge. It is the

focal point of the community, an informal center for

social life. Likewise, Roy Clay, the proprietor and

former mayor of Orofino, may not seem like a bona fide

city planner, but his intuition made him an astute analyst

of what the town needed as a gathering place. Roy's

establishment serves as the seat of community activity

from informal, early-morning coffee discussions, to

important civic gatherings.

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Roy Clay was born in Idaho. His father had been

in logging and, as a young boy, Roy went with his dad into

the woods. He'd stayed at the "O" Mill camp of Lawrence

Olson and, in his words, "They babied us, especially the

people working at the cook house." He knows logging from

those days and his years in Oregon where he logged, drove

(a) truck and hooked on a jammer.®

Roy tells his life story in rapid, telegraphic

succession. After his experience in logging, he came home

to help his uncle run the flight service at the local

airport. He broke his foot, moved to Lewiston, met, and

married Rose. He worked as a carpenter, in dry cleaning,

and for Potlatch Forest Industries. He ran the creamery

in Orofino for a while. But these jobs held no appeal.

When the lunch room on Michigan Avenue came up for sale,

Roy, with no experience in this business, took the plunge.

He hired two cooks and with a lunch counter of ten stools

and three booths he began a restaurant.

The name of the restaurant was something that Roy

and Rose thought about for some time. It had been called

"The Fountain" but with the change in image, it needed a

name change as well. Would it be "Henry's", Roy's given

name, or "Rosie's"? Neither. They just weren't right.

Then, one day as Roy and Rose rode through the countryside

they looked up and saw the surrounding pines in all their

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glory. The name, "Ponderosa," was perfect, once you

realize the significance of the landscape and the

dominance of the stands of ponderosa pine.

During the last forty years, Roy Clay has changed

the food habits of Orofino as well as provided the town

with a place in which social and business life thrives.

He introduced new dishes into the community, an

undertaking that was difficult, to say the least. Prime

rib, now a staple when dining out, was his first

challenge. Most of his customers chose steaks and

hamburgers, and no one knew how to prepare prime rib. It

was up to Roy to learn and then introduce it onto his

menu. This was true of chicken Kiev and beef Stroganoff

as well. Diners didn't know these dishes and were

reluctant to order them. Even lobster was considered an

unusual choice. On the other hand, chicken fried steak

has been, and still is, the Ponderosa's most popular menu

item.

The Ponderosa's dual role as a commercial

restaurant and community meeting place played a

significant part in the introduction of this new cuisine.

Many civic organizations had their weekly luncheons in the

banquet room. Roy would serve these new dishes to them in

hopes that later, when dining with family and friends, the

members would remember the tastes and order these off the

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menu. For example, a Chamber of Commerce member,

recalling the fettuccine Alfredo served at the Friday

meeting, might suggest it to his wife during a night out

in family celebration. Roy's intuitively clever marketing

plan worked, and eventually he changed the palate of

Orofino.

Not only was Roy faced with expanding the choices

of foods with an ever-changing menu, he was also

confronted with long-standing food consumption habits.

Loggers and their families were accustomed to volume:

good, hearty, substantial portions. Today, Roy serves a

goodly-sized, though not embarrassingly large portion,

especially for breakfast. But he also recognizes that,

even in this community, health-consciousness is important.

When the rigors of physical work lessen because of

mechanization, cutting calories is a must.

From its earliest days, the Ponderosa catered to

the time schedule, as well as the tastes, of loggers. It

opens at 4:00 A.M. so that loggers on their way to the

woods can drop in for coffee and conversation. During the

early morning, they check out the location of equipment,

discuss the crews assigned to each job, and gain tidbits

of local knowledge that are necessary to keep all logging

companies in-the-know about current events.

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Observing the activities in the Ponderosa

throughout the day provides an excellent view of its

function in community events. Beginning on Monday morning

at about 4:30 A.M., loggers drop by for coffee.

Contractors and woodsbosses arrive to check out the daily

news from the forest. Informal trading of equipment and

current information on logging conditions occurs before

they are on their way. After an hour, they're off to work

and their booths, already warmed for the morning, are

taken over by the oldtimers, retired loggers who can't

stay in bed anyway. They drop in to share a cup of coffee

and a tale with their old buddies. They are supplanted by

members of the business community. Insurance men,

bankers, lawyers, and accountants arrive before going to

their offices for a day of paperwork. During each

transition, friendly greetings take place and, if

necessary, business is transacted. If you understand this

timetable, you have the important knowledge that is

central to operating in this community. You know where to

find the person you are looking for at any given time of

day.

Do people in this community have massive morning

appetites? Not really. Few people actually eat

breakfast, but they all drink large quantities of coffee.

Roy's estimates say that in an average month approximately

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30,000 cups of coffee are served. He believes that each

consumer drinks an average of three cups. This means that

the Ponderosa has about 10,000 visits by coffee drinkers

in a month. Although some of these are luncheon and

evening diners, the vast majority are morning coffee

drinkers. The consumption pattern shows the high

frequency of people who come in the morning as well as the

repetitiveness of their visits that I have observed.

Throughout the morning, a steady stream of

tourists and farmers in town on business come into the

coffee shop. But it isn't until noon when the Ponderosa

again becomes the community's gathering place. Between

12:00 noon and 1:00 P.M., Orofino all but closes down.

Offices are empty. Rarely do businesses have answering

machines, but at this hour they would be unnecessary

anyway. Everyone knows that the professional community is

at lunch either at the Ponderosa or one of the other six

restaurants in the area. If it is urgent to find a local

lawyer or realtor all you do is check the eating

establishments. They are probably there with other town

personalities.

From 1:00 P.M. to 3:00 P.M., activity quiets down,

but again by 3:30 P.M., business people come in for a

snack or school teachers drop by for a frozen yogurt.

They barely finish their occupation of the Ponderosa when

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the road and logging crews return for an evening's

libation before going home. Most loggers return home by

nightfall, because their day will begin before dawn the

next day.

Throughout the week, the Rotary, Chamber of

Commerce, Kiwanis, and other civic and professional

organizations hold luncheons in the banquet room. Women's

professional groups meet for breakfast, and sororities

meet for dinner in the Garden Room.

Weekends and evenings are less busy at the

Ponderosa. Saturdays and Sundays are reserved for

families and outings into nature. Town business is rarely

transacted, and so the Ponderosa is quiet. On Friday

night the Ponderosa might be taken over by a local

merchant entertaining his friends and employees. On

Saturday night, aside from a few tourists and young

bachelors, the Ponderosa cedes its business to the other

watering holes in town. The Oasis, Jet Club, and

Homestead provide music, drinks and a more lively

atmosphere for relaxation.

Roy recognizes this need for a place to gather in

town, and he observes the daily schedule that has been

established. He also sees the territorial staking-out

patterns of the loggers and the farmers as they come to

the restaurant. He can identify the strangers from the

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old-timers at a glance, not only because of their

appearance, but because of the places they choose to sit.

Most people who frequent the Ponderosa have a special

place and a special time. They will sit in exactly the

same booth or on the same stool at a given time of day.

You can almost set your watch by their presence. Often an

elderly couple from the farming community will stand

waiting for "their booth" even though many others are

empty.

Several years ago, Roy bought the adjoining

buildings and expanded. He created a spatial universe and

set thé social character for the different sections of the

restaurant by thinking about how the community was

changing and what type of atmosphere it would want for its

dining and social establishment. He consciously defined

the social worlds he incorporated into the Ponderosa. The

coffee shop retains its homey quality, while the Garden

Room is perfect for women's breakfasts, luncheons, and

family social occasions. It is a plant-drenched, dimly

lit room, that has become the height of elegant dining in

Orofino. The banquet room comes equipped with an American

flag, movie screen, and storage area for club

paraphernalia. The Brass Rail and its adjoining pool room

are fashioned after a Spokane cocktail lounge. It is a

sophisticated version of the traditional saloon.

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appropriate for women but comfortable enough for young men

from road crews who come in to play a game or two of

billiards. "But it isn't a beer joint," Roy makes that

very clear. There are no beer signs in the windows, and

Roy has never been taken to task by the "church people" in

the community.

The back area of the coffee shop, between the

booths and the banquet room, has no name and is something

of an anomaly. It has no specific decor, but the tables

can be set up for small or large groups. It is this

section that has a rotating population in the morning and

provides the setting for loggers, town merchants, and

politicians to meet. On some evenings, good friends with

special interests like farming or ranching gather to "chew

the fat." The area, though important in the social

scheme, has no fixed identity; instead it changes with the

clientele.

According to Roy, "people sort themselves out."

They understand the atmosphere of each room and choose the

appropriate place for the needs of the occasion. There

are no price differences throughout the Ponderosa

universe, so neither of the three areas caters to a

specific economic level. Yet diners dress and act just a

bit differently as they eat and drink in each sphere.

Business is transacted in each room, often by the same

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people, but always appropriate to the matter at hand. For

exemple, a local lawyer may visit with her colleagues in

the back room of the restaurant, have a casual drink with

her clients in the Brass Rail, but take a deposition in

the quiet relaxation of the Garden Room. Roy Clay has

created the atmosphere for gathering; a premier social

place. He encourages use of the facility, not only

because of financial gain for himself, but because it

provides an atmosphere conducive to good feelings and

accomplishing successful community business in the Orofino

manner. Roy can point proudly to creating a place, the

Ponderosa, that Orofinoans have made a part of their

social habit.

Roy's tenure as mayor tells another story of the

intermingling of personal, social, political, and economic

activities, the multifunctional web so typical of life in

Orofino. Roy had been on the city council for four years

when Mayor Albert "Bert" Curtis became ill. Bert was no

easy act to follow, and perhaps Roy had no intention of

doing so. In over thirty years as mayor, Bert's many

accomplishments included bringing considerable economic

growth to Orofino through the coming of the Dworsak Dam to

the community.

When Roy took over as mayor, his roles as

restauranteur and public official complemented each other.

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To him there was no conflict of interests. As both an

entrepreneur and mayor, Roy began to create a downtown

simply by providing free parking areas that would

encourage people to come into Orofino. He saw a need to

create more retail opportunities as well as a stronger

bond between business, logging, and the agricultural

communities. In order to do this, Roy could not divorce

his lives as mayor and restauranteur. Neither position

had office hours; both were a twenty-four-hour-a-day

activity. As mayor, he was available whenever his

constituents came into the Ponderosa. He would spend as

many as twelve hours a day listening to, and acting upon,

town business. He activated his business skills to manage

a city budget of over three million dollars and tried to

deal fairly with the needs of his citizenry.

To be a leader in Orofino is not to be a leader,

not to decree or make proclamations (see Men of Honor).

Instead, elected officials listen carefully to what appear

to be the facts. They may have to make decisions, but

they hope that before their arbitration comes into play

everyone will work out the problem on their own. If

necessary, they will suggest why the parties should agree

to the matter in a certain way.

Orofinoans can take care of conflict resolution,

one with another, on a friendly basis. This doesn't mean

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there are no hard feelings. Some disputed situations have

caused grudges between individuals for decades. "People

in the community may be 'touchy' when they are personally

threatened. But, all in all, they will not buck the

system on major issues," at least in the eyes of the

former mayor. Normally the need for legal proceedings

occurs when an issue involving someone from outside the

community arises.

Roy Clay, with logging a mere shadow in his past,

jumped at the opportunity to tell me about Timber Crisis

Day. It was the ultimate demonstration of community, a

group of people committed to the stability of their way of

life. Roy proudly offered the Ponderosa as the nerve

center for the monumental community demonstration of

solidarity. Though low-keyed in most of his comments, Roy

became excitable when he spoke of that day. It had been

years since he had skidded with his dad, or done the

round-the-clock truck driving necessary to make a living

in the short logging season. Yet, as he described the

"almost scary" atmosphere of a town closed down without

logging, which was the intended goal of Timber Crisis Day,

that part of Roy that would always be in logging came out.

He explained the changes in the logging industry

to me. Throughout the past thirty years the family-

operated sawmills in this area had been closing. They

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disappeared with great rapidity in the past ten years, in

part because of high operating costs, smaller timber

supply, and the strength of Potlatch Forest Industries,

the major corporation in the area. More than once I heard

people speak about Potlatch as "the company they love to

hate." But in the same breath they would say that they

know that it is irreplaceable in the economy. Recently,

Potlatch has tried public relations efforts to improve

their image both nationally and in small logging

communities. They have put forth considerable effort and

have demonstrated sensitive concern for both the

preservation of natural resources and the logging way of

life. But on August 7, 1985, Potlatch didn't act on these

concerns. It decided to eliminate its operations in Idaho

to make the company more profitable.

Loggers and their supporters knew that in order to

sustain their way of life it was necessary to act.

Potlatch had moved toward closure rapidly, and the

announcement to shut down came nearly overnight. The only

recourse for the logging community was to take symbolic

action. In the quiet, dignified way characteristic of

this region, Orofino closed down. It stopped all

operations. It became a ghost town. Nothing was open.

No banks, stores, or services operated. Signs that read,

"Closed to support our logging community," were seen

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everywhere. No one was on the streets. The town was tied

up with a yellow ribbon. All the churches and civic

organizations were involved. All differences of opinion

were set aside. A line of trucks eight miles long parked

along the major roadway. The media from throughout Idaho

came to cover the rally, and the evening ceremony in the

park would be remembered for a long time.

Through the rain the loggers stood in support of

their cause. What is rain to these men who work in worse

conditions for over half of the logging season? Even

Senator Steve Syms joined them saying, "If you can stand

out here, so can I." This was a display of unity. As Roy

said.

It did your heart good, because sometimes they (the loggers) think that the retail community doesn't care. The loggers needed this 100 percent participation; without it they couldn't declare war on the mill's closing.

The entire community had come together to support

its loggers and show what would occur if the logging

community no longer existed in Orofino. It was an effort

that, at least for a time, melded the community,

regardless of profession or political view. It was the

ultimate acknowledgement of the necessity to maintain an

occupation and a way of life for Orofino. Without

loggers, it would lose an important part of its symbolic

identity and its edge over other communities in the

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region. For Roy, it was the epitome of what this small

Idaho town stood for. Yes, the demonstration was based on

a logging crisis. And yes, it was based on economic

necessity. But the way the community carried it out

demonstrated that Orofino was, as a whole, a place, a

town, a community of people committed to staying alive.

In Roy's words, "It was a milestone for Orofino."

Potlatch reconsidered its decision. The mills did not

close.

As a long-time resident and one-time mayor, Roy

can comment personally on what he has seen in the past

forty years. For one, the population never seems to

change in size. Aside from periodic fluctuations when

construction workers come to the area, it never really

grows or decreases. Some segments move away and others

arrive, but in his memory, there has been consistency in

numbers. Government-related jobs at the dam, hatchery,

and prison have helped the economy, but these are "no

growth" industries. They do little more than replace the

loggers, who had left the area because of the depression

in the timber industry, with federal employees. Small

industries that would be welcomed in Orofino, have not

settled here.

Orofino has an open door for retirees coming to

the community. Roy has observed them moving here, many

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having lived in this area at one time and now wishing to

return. Orofino welcomes them. "These people will have

steady incomes, that will contribute to the economy," says

Roy. But because of their age, they may see limited value

in contributing to the educational system and community

needs related to the young. Only time can tell.

Orofino has yet to come to terms with developing

institutions like child care for needs that not so long

ago were handled within the home. Families were so close

that there was rarely a need for social services. Even

today you will find some women who have "grandmommy day"

when they take over the care of their children's children

on a designated day every week. Until recently, men and

women played roles that were based on a domestic lifestyle

in which all members of the community, as family menibers,

had natural support groups. Roy is nostalgic for those

days, the closeness of relationships and the fact that

"there was nothing wrong with life then." But he knows

that economic pressures and evolving lifestyles will

change his town.

Roy is a real booster of the town. He is at all

the civic meetings either as a member or merely overseeing

that the group is well-served. For years Roy has been a

supporter of O.C.I. Lumberjack Days and the Clearwater

County Fair. He admits that it is good for his business.

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but he's always been supportive because the Fair is an

excellent example of the friendliness and unique quality

of Orofino. He says, "It's something special; it shows

our logging tradition and the families that support it."

The Ponderosa and its multiple functions is one

example of the subliminal way in which the community uses

one means to accomplish several goals. It provides an

atmosphere to meet both gastronomic and social

necessities. There is an economy to the way in which

Orofino operates. Orofino is a small community with

limited resources, but through the ingenuity of its

residents it can handle many social needs simultaneously

in a given situation. Roy, Rose, and their son. Hike have

also combined several needs, those of making a living as

restauranteurs with being important supporters of their

community through their business.

For the Clays, ties to logging are not only

through Roy's past and their daily contact with loggers.

It is more personal. Cindy, their daughter, married into

a logging family. As the wife of Fenton Freeman, a Jaypee

plywood mill supervisor and past president of O.C.I., she

is a link. She, as so many women, is a bridge by marriage

and occupation between the logging and entrepreneurial

communities. Today, many loggers' wives work in offices

and retail establishments, spending their days in town.

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keeping an eye on business activities while their husbands

are in the woods.

Again, the process of "overlapping" seems to help

Orofino operate smoothly, keeping the community that is

small in number, working as a cohesive unit, and handling

all eventualities with limited personnel and resources.

This theme, developed further throughout this

dissertation, can be seen again and again in the high

degree of reciprocity and the untiring volunteerism of the

community (see Piece of Cake).

And so for many Orofinoans, the day begins and

ends at the Ponderosa. They know that with Roy Clay in

charge, the community and all its interest groups will

have a place to meet, both formally and informally. It is

an unrestricted place, where food and refreshment are

served, but are often merely an excuse for gathering. Roy

is a restauranteur, and a good one, but he also provides

the community with a place, a space for belonging and

working out the details of their life. There you can see

personalities from many spheres and time periods come

together. For the Ponderosa is a stage for communications

and a critical locus for the town that its residents call,

"the best place in the world to live."

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"The Farmers. What about the Farmers"

The moment I finished my slide show, a logger

jumped up, immediately, joined by several others and said,

"And what about the farmers; you forgot the Fair and the

farmers." And I had. The presentation I did for the

Chamber of Commerce and Orofino Celebrations Incorporated,

to which the entire community was invited through

announcements in the newspaper, focused on logging and the

strength of its tradition. It totally disregarded the

agricultural segment and its long-standing ties to

Clearwater County.

Perhaps they were less visible, without the

colorful logging accoutrements, but they too were

Orofino.7 I had insulted them, as well as the loggers, by

ignoring their presence and contributions. And so,

contrite and hoping to rectify my error, I arranged to

speak to the man who was said to have the best

understanding of farming in Clearwater County. The result

was interesting, for he registered a disbelief that the

logging community had an appreciation for farmers. He was

pleasantly surprised to hear that it was because of their

insistence that I had asked for an interview with him.

No one can step into his shoes. He's retired now,

but he's still the only, real authority on farming in the

region. Norm Fitzsimmons, former extension agent* and

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president of the Rotary, has all the answers to

agricultural questions in Clearwater Country.

Pioneers, using horses in pre-mechanized times,

changed the face of the land and the economy of the

county. They had the seme stamina, resilience, and

perseverance of the loggers. Even so, the saying goes,

"if your money doesn't smell like sawdust, your money is

not welcome in Orofino." At least this was the way it had

been. Farmers went to Orangeville and Lewiston where they

could buy farm equipment and feed, and feel like respected

customers.

Today only a small portion of the county's acreage

is devoted to farming. But the amount of land in farming

is misleading if you are trying to determine the number of

people who actually farm. Most of the people in the area

are at the least part-time farmers with another means of

subsistence in either logging, ranching, or jobs in town.

For many it is a good recreation for after-hours or, as

Nona says "when they hung up their boots, it's a good way

to put food on the table." Barbara and Jake Altmiller are

a good example of this form of combined economy of farming

and logging (see WORK AS ART).

But farmers, those that concentrate heavily on

agriculture, have been eclipsed by the mystique of the

mighty woodsman. The hardworking toilers of the soil

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rarely receive notice. Clearwater County farmers are also

in the shadow of those who harvest the romantic Palouse

because the local yields are not as rich. Norm cites,

"acid, thin, never very fertile" as characteristics of the

soil that keeps the yield low.

Farmers congregate on the highlands above Orofino

in Cavendish, Kendrick, and Southwick. Cash crops in the

region include: wheat, barley, green peas, rape, white

dutch clover, and lentils. As if second-class neighbors

to their compatriots in the Palouse, they do their best

and do as well as can be expected. And according to Norm,

they are actually at an advantage, because the soil is not

overused, it suffers less erosion. "It isn't blowing like

sand dunes, as is the venerable Palouse." Norm claims

that many farmers here are not aware that, even though the

area is less fertile, the average yield is not far behind

the richer counties in the state. Norm feels that

generally the farmers in this region have a weak

understanding of the total industry. Marketing is foreign

to them, and disease control is more of a reaction than a

preventive technique.

How then can farmers feel the recognition and

satisfaction in their occupation? Certainly through daily

successes but also through the community celebration, the

Clearwater County Fair, that gives the 4-H a chance to

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Show Its stuff. It's a time when neighbors get together

to demonstrate community spirit, regardless of their

occupation. They get together and appreciate one

another.* Interestingly, even though Orofino is not known

primarily for its agriculture tradition. Norm says that

prices for prize livestock at fair time are higher than in

any other farming community. He feels that this, in

itself, is a show of support.

Interaction between loggers and farmers is rare in

everyday activities. Their cyclical and daily schedules

don't mesh. The annual cycle of the farmer and logger

does not coincide. The logger's season is best when the

ground is hard, in the dry season or through freezing; the

farmer uses this time to work in his shop, to upgrade his

equipment, and attend meetings. When the logger must

leave the woods because of spring rains and summer fire

danger, the farmer is seeding and fertilizing. In mid

autumn, farmers can take a break from harvesting and

participate in the fair. It's only during fair time that

the lives of the logger and the farmer harmonize somewhat.

Loggers come to town every morning. They have

ready places to share information: the Ponderosa, Jean's

Bakery, and Konkolville Restaurant, but not so the

farmers. They may share information when called upon,

". . . but rarely do they go out of their way to join in a

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gathering of talkers," says Norm. In the past, business

was transacted at Grange meetings along with socials and

card parties. About ten years ago, these organizations

lost their hold on members and today farmers may meet only

on rare occasions in the feed store or when doing general

shopping. It is there that they swap information.

Farmers are also different from loggers in their

spending and saving patterns. First, they can meet their

basic subsistence needs from the land. Their equipment is

less expensive and lasts longer. "But farmers are also

very conservative, they don't spend money when the only

way to survive is not to spend money," says Norm. "Often

their money is tied up in assets, not cash, and so they

don't spend it." They are less likely to buy "toys" like

snowmobiles, fancy rigs, or antique machinery so often

found in the yards of logging families.

One similarity they do share is that, just as with

the independent logging contract families, women form one

half of the production team. Even though there is

"women's work," which they do, women receive respect.

According to Norm, spouse abuse does not occur. Divorce

rates are low, and children are important members of the

unit. "Farmers pride themselves on having stronger family

ties than any other occupational group in the area," says

Norm.

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Perhaps too, farmers are more conservative

regarding changes in technology. A logger will search out

new mechanical innovations in production. Farmers,

especially oldtimers, are reluctant to accept any type of

change. One example is the rejection of chemical farming

that was introduced in the 1960s. Farmers felt that these

additives would burn the crops. Only through extensive

demonstration did Norm prove that there was value in the

new technique. And then, even though the new way proved

successful. Norm was confronted with other skeptics. When

new pests arrived, the farmers' beliefs were vindicated

and Norm quotes them as saying, "we didn't have these

problems till you [Norm Fitzsimmons], an old weed-fighting

fool came." Norm's good-natured reaction to criticism of

his approach was, "Well, these farmers may not be

progressive, but they sure are persistent."

In contrast to the original farm families of the

area, newcomers began arriving in the 1970s. They were

non-farmers trying their hand at agriculture. They didn't

know that you need, "a bunch of money" to make agriculture

break even in this region. Many lost their land or handed

it over to absentee owners and farmed it as tenants. By

1983, the depression hit this region and the newcomers,

with no support from a stable, family, financial unit, all

but disappeared.

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Recently, environmental issues have begun to

encroach on the farmer. Though not heavy users of

aircraft spraying, a controversy has arisen when lands

that surround the town are sprayed. The current

immigrants— sophisticated newcomers, generally urban

dwellers looking for a second source of income— are trying

to cultivate grapes. But Norm says, "they have two

strikes against them." First, the region is known to have

a fungus that attacks grapes, and second, farmers in the

surrounding areas, rich in wheat fields, use 24D, a

chemical that kills grapes as it drifts with the wind.

Questions arise as to the rights of the long-time

agriculturalists, who exist by farming, over newcomers who

do not gain their subsistence from the soil, but wish only

to supplement other incomes. The problem is thorny and

yet to be solved, but it shows that farmers are sharing

the difficulties of loggers when confronted with a

diversifying economy.

By the time I spoke to Norm, I had already begun

to suspect that, for many people who labor in nature, work

was art. When I asked him about the aesthetics of

farming. Norm Fitzsimmons responded immediately.

It may be a science, but it is so very much an art. There is a "green thumb." Looking at a field, knowing when and how it was worked is like playing a piano, like being a Liberace.

And how could he recognize these artists?

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By looking at the front gate; that gate will tell you how the fields look. They predict straight or crooked rows and skips, the little things that count in good farming.

Norm's last comment, "This community levels

everyone; there are no stars," put me back in touch with

the reaction to my slide presentation. The loggers had

enjoyed the limelight that my photos suggested, but it was

against the "rules," against the nature of the community,

to suggest that they were the sole population. Loggers

receive the support of merchants and farmers. The

loggers, many of whom were themselves part-time farmers,

would set me straight about what their community was like.

Support for Timber Crisis Day, the 4-H auction. Lumberjack

Days, and the Clearwater County Fair were all a part of

the same cloth.

Educating Orofino's Youth

I drove to Orofino High School, having first

overshot the road, traveling five miles up stream to the

Dam. How could I miss a large building painted electric

blue? Well, it had happened and now I wasn't quite sure

I'd be on time for my formal presentation, or at least

that is what I thought it would be.

As I entered the hallway burdened with slides, a

projector, books, and a bundle of notes, I was met by a

young man in levis and plaid workshirt who was eager to

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take over my burden. What courtesy! Well, not exactly,

it was his way of getting out of a "boring English class."

Hum, the handwriting was on the wall— boring. What would

they think of slides of Washington D.C. and a museum of

which they had never heard? Nothing ventured, nothing

gained.

Several classes filed into the library to hear a

teenage rendition of a talk I had given at the Rotary Club

just hours before. The club had been attentive, jocular

and responsive to my quips. As I started speaking to the

students, I knew this would be different; half-way through

I realized why. Many of these students had never been out

of Orofino, or Idaho, let alone east of the Montana

border. The sights were foreign in scale and style.

The group was bright, lively, and smart, but my

slides of museum artifacts made no sense; they were as if

from another planet. Knowledge might be coming to these

students from capable teachers and good textbooks, but

they were receiving little exposure to the wider world.

They weren't sheltered; I'm sure they knew as much about

pop music, drugs, and sexual practices as any student in

an urban school. They had been exposed to these, but not

to the many levels of the background information necessary

to understand each of my slides. I had taken so much for

granted. There was nothing I could do except fill the gap

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of one hour, showing pretty pictures of unusual places and

things.

But I was curious. What was being conveyed to

them by the high school that would contribute to their

outlook on life and on the world? How were they being

educated? Immediately after the talk, I stopped in the

principal's office to make an appointment with "Skip"

Wilson for the next day.

Skip Wilson is the dedicated principal of Orofino

High School. His is the responsibility to prepare these

kids for life. His, the choices to be made for them and

the community. A mighty job for a man who has never left

Orofino. He was born and raised in this area, went to

school at OHS, saw his father work in the timber industry,

coached here, and took office about ten years ago. He's

seen the children of farmers, loggers, and government

employees come up. He has experience in farming and

driving a truck. He, as so many people in the area, has

had experience in the woods, even if it is limited. His

dad was in the logging industry as a foreman for the

Carney Pole Company. Skip knows of the dangers and the

deaths in logging and feels concern from the young men who

choose it as a profession and the role of the school in

helping potential loggers.

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The situation is better with more safety

consciousness and fewer accidents, but improvement is

still necessary. So he and members of the logging

community are devising a course in woods knowledge and

forest management for the coming school year.

Perhaps somewhat different from a non-logging

area's interpretation, this course will look at biology

and ecology but will also teach actual work in the woods.

It will include experience at sawing, skidding, and

loading. It's a natural for the vocational education

department to use funding designated for that purpose. It

will also provide good opportunities for young people.

Out-migration by some of the better lumberjacks occurred

because of the depression in the logging industry during

the mid-1980s. It has been difficult to hire good

woodsworkers. Nowadays, the young people, strong and able

for work in logging, leave for greener pastures. Several

local, independent logging contractors and logging experts

will help develop the course.

Skip feels that logging just may return as a major

industry. The glories of the 1950s and the stands of

virgin timber may be gone, but because of reforestation,

government employment in timber and related jobs, and new

techniques to produce sustained yield, there may be jobs.

It may not be the number one occupation, but it will

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provide a decent living for some of the young people

willing to work in it.

The course in logging knowledge will be

coeducational. It will begin with no preconceived notions

about the environment. It will be action-oriented with

experience with cables and chokers but also in ethics and

safety. Even Potlach Forest Industries wants to become a

partner in education, especially with grants for teacher

training. Recently, they offered courses in zoology and

botany at Timberline High School. They've donated a tract

of land for environmental studies and computers to the

school.

Skip, and probably most of the faculty, feel that

Orofino High School is no different from any other school,

as most of the town feels that Orofino is really no

different from any other town. But if you look at the

student body, approximately 30 percent come from families

that are related to logging in one way or another. Sons

follow their fathers into the woods and are able to get

jobs in logging operations at an early age. "Maybe," Skip

feels, "there's something mystical about trees falling."

Of the students, approximately 40 percent are

bound for additional education and, of that number, 20

percent will finish. Therefore, in any graduating class

of one hundred, eight will finish advanced training, the

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rest will go into the labor market immediately."* some few

will remain in Orofino, but often graduates leave for non

skilled jobs in larger cities in the Pacific Northwest.

Because of the current problem of a growing dropout rate,

it is understandable that the curriculum revolves around

practical skills and less-rigid academic courses. Every

student must attain a grade of "C" or better in the core

courses like English and mathematics. But students can

take assessment and proficiency tests to give them a

chance to pass if grades are low. Orofino High School

meets state requirements, but it must also meet the needs

of their majority, students that are not bound for

college. Since the faculty is not large, it cannot meet

all the vocational and academic needs as well as special

education and individual programs at all times. Some

areas receive less attention from time to time.

Coupled with the school's desire, but sometimes

inability to meet all needs, are the students'

preoccupations. Skip's one wish is that there were a way

to motivate the students. Everything else becomes more

important to them. For example, a new rig becomes a

desirable commodity intruding on thoughts of good grades

or a college education. Students may go into debt for a

good portion of their young lives just to buy a 4x4 or a

customized truck.

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Skip is painfully aware of the periodic population

changes that have occurred in the area. For example,

although the overall population size of Orofino doesn't

change, there have been spikes in the number of students

in recent years. The high school student body grew, then

shrank significantly. Prior to the 1970s, there were

three hundred students.

In the 1970s, with the construction of Dworsak

Dam, it increased to over five hundred and fifty students.

With the coming of the dam, the school experienced the

problem of rapid growth with not enough room to

accommodate all the students. The dilemma of trying to

blend an almost equal number of new students from various

parts of the country with the existing local student body.

Now the school's size has returned to three hundred and

thirty students necessitating cutbacks, an equally

difficult situation to handle.

Skip is sincere about his concerns and honest

about his interpretation of the problems of Orofino. He

feels that these conditions may be widespread and typical

nationally. As he sees it, students are losing the

attitude of self-worth and feeling good about themselves.

Whether a result of a national malaise or the immediate

fear that the family will be unemployed, students carry

this feeling with them. Skip believes that drug and

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alcohol abuse are tied less to occupation than to social

and recreational issues. He acknowledges the hard

working, hard-drinking, hard-playing reputation so often

attached to loggers, but he can't admit honestly that this

is the reason for the current abuses.

The future may be difficult for Orofino High

School and School District #171. If senior citizens, who

continue to migrate into the county, are not concerned

with education, the schools may not receive necessary

funding, or additional tax levies. Currently,

approximately 20 percent of the population is over fifty-

five years of age. Within the past year the levy failed

on the first referendum and then passed on the second,

due, in great part, to the efforts of student lobbying.

They got the message out in person, with parades, and

radio announcements.

And what about the future of the graduates of

Orofino High School? Although the area is product-

oriented with logging, farming, and merchandizing, small

industry has never been a part of the landscape.

Government employment may be a possibility for some

students, but the job market is small and often draws from

outside the area. Where once production from natural

resources was the economic base, in the future, service

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industries may predominate. Is the school and student

body prepared? According to Skip, that's hard to say.

So why does Skip stay in Orofino?

It's a great place to raise your kids; secure, with no robberies or rapes. You can leave your door open while you're on vacation. You know your kids are associating with people just like you. Someone will help you in need. There is a good moral basis in the community. Parents are concerned about their children and are supportive of school policies and discipline. The bottom line is that all of us— the school, the parents, and the community— are working to grow better citizens.

Orofino High School is proud of its successes, as

evidenced by those students who rise to the top and go off

to the United States military academies— West Point,

Annapolis, and Colorado Springs. Scholarships to these

outrank any other awards and were mentioned often as the

epitome of success by educators and parents in Orofino.

But the general education for most students appears to

concentrate on physical development and vocational

training. It is as if they are being prepared for life as

it is lived here in Orofino. This means the choices are

complementary to the region, but perhaps not so in regard

to the rest of the country.

Often areas of emphasis take the direction set by

a dedicated teacher who can influence student choices.

For example the current music teacher, Darold Kludt, has

been able to coalesce the teenage musicians into a jazz

band that is gaining recognition in the Northwest.

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Because of strong family ties, there is little chance that

he will leave the eurea, but if he would, there is a strong

possibility that music education would become less

prominent.

If an inspirational teacher of literature,

language, or social science arrived, perhaps the students

would follow in that direction. But currently, the high

school must address the problem of the process of going

through life and prepare the students with the rudiments

for success in a working class world.

Several weeks after my conversation with Skip

Wilson, I attended the Orofino High School graduation.

Governor Cecil Andrus, considered by most a native son,

gave the commencement address. He used the opportunity of

a visit to Orofino to designate it a "Gem Community" and

attend the announcement of the new retirement facility.

"Cece," as he is known locally, doesn't doubt his support

in this clearly Democratic region. In 1990, during his

fourth run for re-election, he garnered 73 percent of the

votes in Clearwater County. Host people think of him not

as the governor but as the young man who ran the "green

chain," the convey that takes green timber to the drying

kiln and "mechaniced," performed work on the machinery for

Joe Richardson. Or they think of him as a past president

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Lumberjack Days.

The graduation was a fine occasion. Almost

everyone in the community was there since in one way or

another, someone they knew, or were related to, was

graduated. Smiling faces and for good reason. They were

not only being graduated but being honored by the presence

of the governor. On stage, the occasion seemed to speak

of the community. Instead of bouquets of flowers, there

were potted pine trees of various species, symbolizing the

inherent character of the region. And just as the decor

was unique, the event took on a quality indigenous to the

people. For one, it started on time, to the moment. Some

of the parents may not be seated and the formally clad

ushers may not have finished their job, but the occasion

began, on time as do all events in Orofino.

Throughout the ceremony, it was as if speech after

speech followed the same theme; that of looking back on

young lives. There was a magnitude of nostalgia you might

not expect from high school students, people of so young

an age. It was topped off by a slide presentation. In

it, each student's graduation photo was preceded by his or

her baby picture, as if playing a parlor game, "Where are

they now?" There were howls, laughs, and sighs as the

current appearance of the person was flashed on the screen

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and recognized. For many of these students, this would be

their first and last graduation, their final appearance in

cap and gown, and they, their families, and the community

were proud of their high school accomplishments.

Scholarships and awards given by service

organizations were many and varied. Some went for

academic achievement, but often funds were given for

advanced vocational training. The academic highlight of

the evening was the awarding of a full scholarship to the

Naval Academy. It was given to Kenny Weller Jr., the son

of a local logging contractor.

Again and again there were words from their elders

praising these young people for past achievements but

stressing their role in a changing world. They were

encouraged "to make this world a better place through the

smallest actions and the biggest dreams."

But perhaps the best of all the night's quotable

quotes was the Governor's. He captured the challenge and

quandary of these particular graduates. He said, "As you

leave here, you will be entering a world in which you

don't know everyone you meet in a day."

For me, someone who had experienced, for the first

time the intensity of interaction in a small community,

these words had profound implications. As I realized

during my slide show that the experiences of the young in

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a small town are circumscribed, now I realized the social

impact of living in a community in which everyone is

numbered among your relatives or friends. I had to learn

the intensity of constant interaction, and these students

when they left Orofino would experience the crush of

strangers day in and day out. I take for granted,

strangers on the subway, strangers in restaurants, and

strangers in shopping malls. Anonymity in urban society

is an accepted fact, but not in Orofino.

"Not knowing everyone you meet in a day," there

are no better words to explain adult living in an urban

setting. If only the Governor might have known how aptly

he had put the lives of Orofino's youth in perspective for

me.

The evening ended without much ado or even a

recessional. It was over, so why continue the ceremonial,

why remove the graduates from their families with a

closing typified by pompous circumstances. Instead,

graduates bounded off the stage as families flocked to it.

It was over."

Men of Honor

The Clearwater County Commissioners, X.E. "Buzz"

Durant, Don Ponozzo, and Jim Wilson, meet every Monday

morning and continue into the afternoon if any petitioners

show up. With Alice Hardy, the county welfare officer and

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secretary of the council fielding phone calls, pouring

coffee, and clarifying legal points, they carry on

business and seal the fate of the territory. None of the

three members stands out, nor would they try to stand out.

There is no dissent, even though they might not agree on a

particular matter. They've been together, elected again

and again too often, to lock horns. Two Democrats and an

improbable Republican, three honorable men with only one

goal: the good of the county; the peace of the place."

The meeting proceeds simply. A citizen comes in

to be heard. If it is an issue concerning members of the

county staff, they are called from their offices on the

floors above and come down to clarify a matter. Often the

commissioners act as interpreters of the regulations of

the outside world to these petitioners.

They have the ultimate authority and power to levy

taxes over approximately 10,000 inhabitants in a 2,236

square mile region of Idaho and have proven their

competence in the political arena." They, and their

predecessors must have made the right decisions, because

Clearwater County is still intact; its highways are good,

waterways clean, and school district graduating fine,

young people."

Perhaps there are major requests or times when

conflict resolution is intense, but chances are that most

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of the issues are immediate, personal, and handled without

future debate. Committee reports are never requested. On

this particular day, June 4, 1990, five people appeared

before the committee, each with a different problem but

all focused on the same goal, advisement from these

honorable men.

Why should a young man, representing his fifteen

friends, challenge the council with a lawsuit on excessive

assessments? He knows that it is an empty threat and that

the honorable men will be sage enough to set him straight

in a kindly elders' fashion. In this friendly atmosphere

these men could tell a petitioner he would have to sell

his soul and they would be acknowledged authorities on the

matter. Without malice they explain, it's just something

you have to do, you must pay the assessment. Their

advisory is gentle but unequivocal, be a good citizen,

conform.

It's not great news but all in all, the petitioner

didn't waste much time; he was first in line and could

come in his work clothes. He parked his rig right outside

without paying as much as a nickel in the parking meter

for there are no parking meters nor is there a traffic

signal in Orofino. In less then an hour, he could be back

on the job, and in the course of the afternoon, earn

enough to pay the assessment.

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The matter is closed, perhaps not to his total

satisfaction, but he gave it his best shot. He shrugged

matter-of-factly and left. Perhaps he and his friends

would talk about it over a beer. He could tell of his

confident manner before the commissioners, their denial of

his request, and the fact that life goes on.

Issues never seem too troublesome for the

commissioners, and sometimes it's even a delight to sit on

the board. Should the commission give Bob Burnham and the

"No-Name Fishing Club" an endorsement? Is it another

group looking for county money? Well, not quite, that is

not Burnham's intent. The anglers have already received

$4,000 from the Fish and Game Department. With it they

will improve Campbell's Pond by putting in new picnic

tables that will make it an even more popular place for

families to fish. Does he want money, supplies, services?

No, merely the right to tell the newspaper that he has

appeared before them and they think it is a good idea.

With that in his pocket, Burnham is sure that

volunteers will come out to help with the job. Volunteers

do this as they do so many other projects: cleaning the

city and the highway, repairing scenic areas, and being

all-around, good neighbors. The Campbell's Pond project

will call for a substantial effort from a small group.

They estimate that over 2,500 hours will be necessary;

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well worth it since it is a special place, amply stocked

with fish and accessible to families and the elderly. If

only there were some way that the commissioners could

prevent people from stealing the signs. But even that

becomes a joke more so than a matter of concern.

Next, the Sheriff comes in and assures the

commissioners that an accurate tabulation of compensatory

time is being kept. Then, George Summers, supervisor of

the county highway commission presents his request for a

Radio Shack computer to take care of his nuts and bolts.

It is denied. Fine, he'll be retiring in April, he says,

and someone younger can computerize the inventory.

George didn't get his computer, but that's alright. He'll

still find an efficient way to keep the hillside at Bobbit

Bench from sliding off. His good, old, on-the-job know

how provides techniques to fix problems and keep the

entire county highway system in good order. There's no

need to send out a quality control committee to monitor

the highway work. He knows, and they agree, "it's not a

perfect deal anyway, but we'll do it [the highway work] as

best as we can. And, we'll be saving money for the county

by not contracting it out."

He talks about his staff. Putting the best

operator on the new John Deere gets a lot more work done.

Innovating to fix a machine is all in a day's work and

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When told he'd have to do without a new trailer, he admits

he'd find a way to do without. Yet, with all his loyalty

and community spunk he lets the commission know again that

in April, he turns sixty-two and he's "history," gone,

retired. Of course the commissioners respond that it

would be impossible to do without him.

The discussion closes; everyone will just wait and

see. A man's decision is his own, and there's no changing

it once it's made. How will they replace him? What does

it take to be the supervisor of highways in Clearwater

County? According to George, "just a man with a lot of

experience, even if he's a guy's got a forgettable mind."

Finally, Bill Snook, the town gadfly, comes in

with an apology for misinterpreting a recent local issue

to the newspaper. His opinions are appreciated, but the

facts must be correct. The commissioners know that Bill

will find another issue and he knows that the town of

Orofino will expect it of him.

All these matters are dispensed with deliberately,

but without extended discussion. Simultaneously, the

commissioners have taken care of mail that has accumulated

since last week, giving it to Alice for disposition. What

is behind it all? How are they dealing with the

governance of the county? Perhaps first and foremost,

they are concerned with the proper use of county monies.

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There will be no waste. Second, they will maintain the

county's reputation both with their sound judgement on

issues that affect their constituents as well as with

their own good conduct. Each has an impeccable reputation

in the community. One has been asked to be the grand

marshall of his town's annual parade, another is central

to the Clearwater Resources Coalition, and the third is

known for his fine service in the State Senate. But let

no one misunderstand, they are a decision-making board.

They are the budgetary officers for the county,

accountable to the state.

There are some difficult issues that will become

more trying in the future. For example, an area of

growing concern for the county is its indigency law. Any

person can appeal to the district court to be declared

indigent, thus relieving him or her of debt. A new

arrival, following her spouse to be nearby while he is in

the state prison, may have an accident and incur hospital

bills. She can be declared indigent. Then the county is

expected to pay her bills. It was an unforeseen problem.

Initially, the coming of the prison meant more jobs and a

potential boost to the economy. Now the commissioners

must deal with the social aftermath of the new facility.

But their financial concerns don't stop at the

personal problems of any one resident. They are charged

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with managing the three million dollar annual budget of

the county. Sales and liquor taxes bring in revenue, but

so does timber money coming with the timber industry.

Currently, the federal government owns over 70 percent of

the land in the county which receives a payment when

timber is cut from the area. And so, the commissioners,

two of whom have been loggers, must also concern

themselves with the economic fate of logging.

It is good sense and the ability to handle even

the most delicate of situations without official action

that makes the commission work. Once elected,

commissioners are re-elected again and again until they

decide to retire from the board. Creating an atmosphere

of responsiveness, a casual informality that breaks down

any possible barriers between the powerful and those that

must petition power, these men carry on in an atmosphere

of congenial county government. And how do they negotiate

grievances? They listen to all the individuals involved

and, based on the facts they uncover, they come up with a

decision. It is a highly personalized process, but most

importantly, everyone is treated equally.

I was sure that, on this particular morning,

during this commission meeting, not all the major issues

that currently plague Clearwater County arose, and so I

asked the Commission about them. They responded: road and

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bridge maintenance, zoning, unforeseen emergencies, and

solid waste disposal. In their responses, social problems

never came up.

Yet, everyone knows that periodically the police

will find a marijuana patch someplace outback, and that

there is alcoholism and family abuse. But none of the

commissioners deal with city issues, even though two of

them live in Orofino. The city, an incorporated entity,

has its own mayor and municipal government. And besides,

the commissioners are busy with committee meeting with a

five county cooperative for central Idaho. They must and

do know the entire territory; the conditions of the

terrain, the state of the infrastructure, and their

relationship with other counties. Good services to the

residents of their county, based on regional needs and

resources, are their major concerns.

When asked what makes a good commissioner, they

jokingly highlight the characteristics they themselves

have: they are U.S. citizens, they are good listeners,

they are highly intelligent, said with knee-slapping

joviality, and they accept the role of decision-makers.

Imperative to this position, judging from my observation

of their meeting, a county commissioner must have a

heightened sense of diplomacy, or in their words, "Have

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the ability to tell someone to go to hell and maike them

look forward to it."

These men, all of whom hold or have held important

roles in the business community, are not complacent. They

know that the future means change and that it is going to

take a good dose of common sense. It will mean

acknowledging that every day, those with authority must

learn that the rules and the laws are changing. The

society of yesterday, the halcyon days when small town

America could remove itself from the travails of urban

society are gone.

Each commissioner has his own view of his

honorable position. For example, "Buzz", the token

Republican, in fact the only elected Republican in

Clearwater County, banks on his common sense to help him

make the proper decision. He tries to be non-partisan,

"mostly friendly," hold no negative feelings, and in both

intent and appearance, shows no favoritism. But at the

same time he realizes, "you can't satisfy everyone,"

especially when you realize that "everyone is related to

everyone else and everyone is involved in absolutely

everything."

Jim Wilson, the second member of the commission,

is also active in the Clearwater County Resource

Coalition." He is an avid supporter of the role, rights.

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and sensitivities of loggers. He feels that "loggers are

environmentalists," that from long years of experience

they have a grasp of natural resources that no amount of

armchair study or laboratory work can provide. But

somewhere down the line there must be a settlement of

these forest issues. To a great extent he feels that

management of lands is an important issue of state's

rights. That the people of Clearwater County, "rugged

individualists" living in a locale of natural beauty and

resources, are the best stewards of the land.

He, "Buzz," and Don all know that they need a

diversification of industry to supplement the logging

industry. But they all agree that there's no place they'd

rather live. This country has so many things going for

it. "It's the best kept secret in the West; all we need

is a little better economy.""

Comparing the county and state to the world

outside the Clearwater River Basin, the general feeling of

the Commission is that the state is we11-protected from

the problems of other states. They are as well-informed

as need be and they don't need any more regulations.

Easterners have no comprehension of life in this rural

area; they don't understand, nor could they ever survive

living from the land.

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The commissioners' wholehearted boosterism is far

from uncommon in Orofino and Clearwater County. It is an

attitude that many people hold. The area is rugged, and

yet you can ski at Bald Mountain, golf at the nine-hole

country club, or boat on the reservoir. As a group, the

three commissioners and Alice qualify as quotable

supporters of Clearwater County, "We live in Paradise.",

"We're not ignorant, not rural rubes." "Wouldn't trade

this country for anything."

There are certain things that the commissioners

can count on: Alice will take care of business from

Tuesday through Friday, the highways will be maintained

properly, and the county sheriff is conforming to labor

standards. They see the principles of operating the

commission meetings as working in the following manner:

First, if you can, bring in all the principals to discuss

an issue face to face; second, there's no reason to

quarrel, we have to live together for too long a time to

fight; and third, we must know what's going on outside the

county but we don't have "to buy into it." The tone of

the Board of Commissioners is good-natured and measured,

always maintaining that social balance so necessary in

this environment of inclines.

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"Not Afraid of the Devil Himself”

Sunday mornings in Orofino are quiet; the loggers

aren't in the restaurants. So what was there for me to

do? What better than to activate those feelings and

habits of childhood and go to the Roman Catholic Church?

It may not be a balanced view of religious practices in a

logging community, but it was the only denomination I

understood. And so, off to St. Theresa's Church and my

encounter with Father Mike Spegele, a missionary of the

Order of the Precious Blood.

Perhaps he's stuck in the sixties and that's just

fine with him. It was a good era; of fire, fervor, and

activism, of doing God's work for civil rights down in the

trenches. But for the past twelve years. Father Mike has

been in Orofino ministering to the two hundred families

that attend the Roman Catholic Church. At seventy-five

years of age, nothing is new to him; he's marched for

civil rights in the Midwest, fought to keep a linden tree,

and has been denounced for being too ecumenical. Yet, so

far, the people here accept him and congregate to his

ministry.

His Sunday is more active than many who are

nowhere near his age. It begins at the first Mass at the

church followed by parish coffee hour, continues through

to confessions and Mass at the prison, and finishes up

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with visits to the those who are sick or unable to leave

their homes.

Every one of his sermons is a tour de force. They

are never drawn from the crib sheets prepared by the

diocese for the clergy. He never has them, as he says,

"in a can." Each is spontaneous. Father Mike never knows

what he'll say until he gets to the pulpit. On this

particular Sunday he spoke about civil rights and his

participation in demonstrations for Black equality. In a

community without any African-American presence, I

wondered whether the congregation had much awareness of

the times of which he spoke. The county is 98.2 percent

"white," with a smattering of 1.8 percent "others" which

include Asians and Native Americans. Nonetheless, he did

speak with a passion and enthusiasm nurtured by a captive

audience.

Father Mike's concerns for the community are wide-

reaching. For one, there seems to be no way to gather the

ministers together. For another, there is a large number

of fundamentalist persuasions, and yet another, the

ministers from more standard denominations stay only a

short time. When speaking of the fundamentalist groups he

must admit, "Of course, they know the bible and we

don't.""

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I learned, from other sources, that many of these

ministers are loggers or have knowledge of the woods. In

this way, they are equipped to help woodsworkers cope with

the daily problems of unemployment and alcoholism." They

have also introduced youth programs that focus on music

and give the young people in the community a positive,

active outlet for their energies. To counteract the trend

of young people going to other religions. Father Mike is

hoping to build a new Catholic Center, a gathering place

for education but also social occasions. And since he

gains three or four converts each year without

proselytizing. Father Mike feels he has a pretty good

record.

The church was ensconced in a new building five

years ago. Because of the help of a prominent

parishioner, a mill owner, it has a fresh touch of

modernity and beautiful woodwork about it. But underneath

its design the execution has the Spegele mark all over it.

When Father Mike came to Orofino, the church was nearly

inert, so he fired the Church Board, disbanded the

Building Committee, and placed all power in a newly

constituted, vital, and active Parish Council that he

picked personally. Most of the administrative work done

for the church is done through voluntary committees. And

the good Father has a "loaves and fishes" ability with

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finances. Economie setbacks don't seem to affect the

church and, in fact, the debt on the new building is

almost paid.

Currently, approximately twenty logging families

belong to the parish. Father Mike feels that they work

hard, have good, strong families, and are extremely

generous to the church. All in all, they are "outspoken

with a rough exterior but [they are] good-hearted."

For his next challenge, and there must always be a

challenge for Father Mike, he wants to create an awareness

of internationalism and combat conservatism. To do this,

the church has begun Oktoberfest celebrations reminiscent

of festivals of Father Mike's birthplace. But during the

Fair, he has also tried to introduce the community, that

has little sense of ethnic affiliation, to ethnic foods.

With a booth that offers unlikely cuisine to a typically

Idaho palate, the Church tries to spread the word that

there are other places and other nations outside of

Clearwater County. This is not easy in an area where the

John Birch Society has been strong and Paul Harvey's radio

commentaries are daily fare.

Father Mike shows no timidity in his opinions. He

sees an issue and speaks up. As a "man of God," he

demonstrates his beliefs graphically. For example, during

this session of the Idaho legislature there was debate

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over abortion rights. Father Mike entreated his

parishioners to work toward passage of a flawless pro-life

bill. To bring home the severity of the issue, he asked

every Catholic to abstain from one meal every Wednesday

and to spend ten minutes each day in concentrated prayer.

For a man who must have his contract renewed every

year in order to stay in this diocesan role. Father Mike

is surprisingly nonchalant. He would never change his

opinions even if they would put his position in jeopardy.

And retirement, that's a thing of tomorrow. Today, Father

Mike has his heart set on a retreat, on a stirring

Catholic preacher coming from afar to "charge up" his

parishioners. The question is who could top Father Mike's

ability at oration? His is a God-given talent for

exhortation. None of the simple, homey virtues in his

sermons, his heart is completely in his ministry and every

sermon is a spontaneous, creative outpouring.

And so my view of religious practices in Orofino

is limited to Father Mike's role as a religious leader and

Catholicism's spiritual, practical, and social nature in

the community. Loggers, a realistic group of people,

don't seem to hold to a strong tie with religion or the

ways it seems to lessen the hardships of daily travails.

I saw no evidence of superstitious beliefs or practices to

alleviate crises. Loggers do everything in their power to

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control their own fate (see The Canvas and LIFE IN

LOGGING). They are self-reliant. And Father Mike,

another strong, rugged individualist eunong many, is

perfectly suited for work in St. Theresa's Roman Catholic

Church.

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WOMEN'S TALES

Why did I begin my inquiry into the gender roles

of a logging community in the most unlikely of places? Of

all the people in Orofino that I might have chosen to

consult on gender. Bob Spencer, former Forest Service

supervisor, current director of the Clearwater County

Historical Society and Warren Caldwell, retired

archeologist who had migrated from Nebraska were a most

unlikely place to start. Cohorts and friends, every

Monday when the museum is closed, they find an interesting

outing, a field trip of sorts. But today, they had

abandoned their plans to share their ideas with me. And

judging from our animated discussion, they found that it

hadn't been a bad idea. This "work and aesthetics idea,

there's a certain Zen about it," said Warren. "It's

action, action, action, in one of the most dangerous of

all occupations. Yes, logging is masculine," they agreed.

"Yes, men are Cedar Beasts."

I had to see if this impression could be confirmed

or whether there might not be a totally different way of

looking at gender roles in this logging community.

129

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Obviously, this diffuse discussion wouldn't do, we three

had taken up the issue in the most fanciful way. I knew

that more interviews were in order, with women. And so

with conversations with them I'll try to tell the "Women's

Tales."

But before I began to interview women, I asked

another man about the relationship between males and

females in this town. He too, had an opinion that

eventually I found ran contrary to the beliefs of women in

this community.

On what path would a quote like, "The men here are

happy with their work, with what they do. The women here

all want to be in Hollywood," take me? It was incendiary

to my way of thinking, so the source is anonymous.

Was it said by a man who had been victimized by a

woman, or one who saw them primping and unattainable? Was

he proud of the level of satisfaction that men had

attained here in Orofino, or was he just sulking at the

amount of money he believed women spent on unnecessary

accoutrements? Was he speaking for all men in Orofino or

was he merely an anomalous misogamist? Did the truth rest

somewhere in-between? Whatever it was, this is where I

began. But instead of trying to prove him right or wrong,

I will simply describe a sample of women and my

relationships with them.

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From what I have experienced, my gender is not an

issue in this community. I am neither male or female. I

could have dinner with the sorority and yet travel to a

logging job. Neither men or women question the

appropriateness of my actions. My clothing is masculine

by city standards, jeans, a shirt and sweater, but by

Orofino standards it is not uncommon to see a woman

dressed in this fashion. I wear jewelry and a wedding

ring. I carry a photo of my husband, thus marking me as a

mature woman, and yet I can cross sex and age boundaries,

speak to anyone in these categories at appropriate times,

and expect straightforward answers. If anything, at times

I am treated like a mascot, a non-sexual, non-person,

whose presence doesn't matter, whose actions will not

influence the lives or futures of others.

Throughout my years of contact with Orofino, I

have been extremely sensitive about my inadequacies in

Western terms and the image of my profession as an

anthropologist and museum educator. I refer to my

Wisconsin childhood and my husband's Wyoming, ranching

upbringing often. But as much as a technique this may

seem to be to gain entry into the society and gather

information, I never felt that it was in any way untrue or

contrived. Regardless of the years that I have spent in

Washington, D.C., I still harken my roots to a small

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neighborhood and family feelings in Milwaukee. These

emotions seem close to those of my coauthors, and I hold

to them not because of professional expediency but because

of the sentimentality I attach to my own early life.

But in my work with the women of this community, I

was at a disadvantage. As a woman, you might think that

my relationship with women would be easy. We'd have so

much in common, so many life experiences to share. That

was not the case. The women I will describe come from

several different orientations, none of which I share.

Some were pioneers but with no ethnic memory, whereas I am

the product of a long Polish tradition. Others were

wives, mothers and homemakers, a role in which I've never

experienced fully. Others belonged to women's

organizations, which has been impossible for me with an

erratic work and travel schedule. Others were co-owners

with their husbands, in logging operations, and I've never

owned a business. My life has been spent in the rarified

environment of work and study. Still others were teenage

girls vying for a place on the Fair and Lumberjack Days

royalty. And as I had no experience with childrearing, or

rural life, I also had no experience at being a teenage

queen.

Because of these incongruities, these vignettes

may suffer from my lack of understanding of the actual

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performance and the everyday details of the role of wife

and mother in a rural setting. So instead of depending on

a natural affinity with these women based on similar life

experiences, I have tried to be sensitive to the degree of

commitment, the problems of isolationism, and their view

of the roles that they are expected to occupy. I

appreciate the self-reliance they convey, their concerns

for the pressures of their husbands' jobs, and the need to

be central to the family unit while being individualists.

I have seen these women, as I have the men in

this community, in the context of the natural environment

and its effect on their lives. But for the sake of

clarity let me categorize the possible roles of women in

different segments of Orofino society. They include:

wives of loggers who are part of that corporate unit,

wives who are not involved in their husband's logging

business, professional wives of professional men,

homemakers who are the wives of professional men, and

professional women without spouses.

All of these women have a sense of the artistic in

their lives. Often, especially women in logging,

emphasize work and its rewards. Those who are oriented to

the town, instead of the woods, spend a great deal of

energy in creating a "cultured" way of life for their

community.

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Orofino has a community theater, chorus, and

cultural organizations that promote both social awareness

and cultural activities. Like most of the social action

in town, these are voluntary, non-profit, non-paid groups

that use local talent and resources. No one social group

dominates these activities; instead individuals

participate as the occasion arise. Often it is women that

spearhead these endeavors.

Breakfast with the Ladies

After getting their husbands ready for work, their

children for school, and their own lives in order, a group

of women who work in town businesses head for Jean's

Bakery. There, over coffee they chat and prepare for the

day. It's their time.

Even though they don't talk about the same work,

for they will each be off to a different type of

employment, they do share information. But contrary to

what some might think, it's not gossip. I never heard

them impugn the character of others or talk behind their

palms about what they've heard through the grapevine.

Normally, they share being with one another more than they

share any formal topics of conversation.

Often they describe changes that are going on in

their personal lives; a daughter is who is getting

married, a son who will be graduated, or a parent coming

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to visit for the holidays. It's satisfying, it meets

their needs before they go off to work. They wouldn't

miss a morning at Jean's and, if someone does, her

companions are immediately concerned about her.

The group is informal. It has no dues, no

officers, no regulations. Its membership evolves as some

women leave town for other jobs and others arrive.

Everyone is welcome; that is, if you are a woman and show

up at Jean's between 7:30 A.M. and 8:15 A.M. The group

has no agenda, nor does it seek recognition. It has no

political aspiration, nor does it look for status in the

community. These women are first and foremost a part of

their own familial group. Second, they are working women.

They work of necessity, perhaps some choice, but rarely is

their job considered a career. This becomes obvious in

their conversation; it is hearth and home and not the

machinations of Orofino's business world that permeates

their conversation.

Support group? This term would be foreign to

them, for they derive support and satisfaction in their

lives from their families. If this group never got

together again, their primary existence in their families

would not change; but since they do get together, why not

make the most of it. Though not tied by kinship, they

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will extend invitations to one another for family

celebrations, showers, birthday parties, and weddings.

There is sharing of social time and sharing of

occasion, but also the sharing of material objects.

Dresses, jewelry, and books change hands as if they were

going into a sibling's room and borrowing something for

the day. Though theirs is not as visible a reciprocity or

on as grand a scale as their husbands, in many ways it is

similar. There is rarely a time, or an object that is too

precious to reserve for yourself alone. There is no

immediacy about its return. They are part of a large,

extended group, perhaps not as close as your family, but

definitely dear to them in its own way.

When someone leaves the group there is a

wholehearted farewell, with a cake and gifts to send that

person on her way. But there is always the understanding

that someday she will be back and take up membership as if

she hadn't left. The group extends this feeling to women

who come for only a short time like myself. Each time I

re-entered the community I made breakfast at Jean's a

first on my schedule, and it is for this reason that I

write about these women.

Without knowing exactly why, when I go to Orofino,

I am automatically a part of a women's group. I need not

pay any more dues than the bill for coffee when the spirit

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moves me. Jane, Janet, Mary, and the other women who

gather and I, with nothing particular on our minds, always

have something to share.

Ingrid's Death

She was a proud woman, and beautiful. Always

dressed with a classic sense, even when the duties of

Lumberjack Days expected her to conform to the O.C.I.

color code in clothing of red and white. And loved, how

well loved.

Ingrid Ponozzo was near death one of the last

times I saw her. Frail like a tiny bird and yet so

beautiful, still smoking even though she was dying of

cancer. Slow about mouthing her answers but still with a

quick wit. Still able to use aphorisms to get her point

across during our first visit.

But one week later, her body was barely able to

move. The sense of small sorrow did not allow me to ask

relevant questions. Instead, I decided to tell her a

story about logging.

We pretended to ride on a logging truck. She went

into the woods with me gladly as she might have with her

husband so many years ago. We have to find a crew and for

it, she remembers names. She winces at some of my

suggestions, perhaps remembering long-held rivalries.

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"No, no," she says, "not on my job." To others she'd say,

"Sure, he's okay, I remember him."

This woman that I've admired for so long is at a

critical point in her existence and here I've invented a

deathbed survey of reputation and work habits. Though not

intended, it had happened. I had wanted only to bring her

some joy, some remembrance. By the time we got to the job

site with our trucks and our crew, our sawyers, and our

buckers, she was delighting in the thought of people who

had been a part of her world.

Ingrid demonstrated a quality many women in this

community possess. Even when it was difficult for her to

move or breathe, she lay there beautifully manicured,

concerned about her appearance while uttering

incongruously, "I'm tough." Women have this blend, this

important face to show to the world, but underneath, they

could work with the best of the men. They could take the

hardships and were proud of it.

She could not remember what the liquid was that I

gave her to drink, but she could remember the visit of her

old friend the governor who had come to see her last week.

She remembered the names of the young loggers we were

putting on the imaginary crew, often young men who had

helped her when she was the manager of the Lumberjack

Days. She remembered the people.

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Those days were filled with work, filled with

excitement. She took care of all of the organization for

the annual festival for over twenty years; diplomatic when

the occasion called for it, and tyrannical when there was

no other way. She was the foundation for the performance

of the logging lifestyle and the glue that kept O.C.I.

together for all those years.

In the final moments we shared, I tried to bring

her joy. She, in turn gave me information, but much more

a sense of the totality of her own life in Orofino, her

life with its people. Sorrow. The sense of loss felt

only with death. It was how Don Ponozzo felt at Ingrid's

passing. Until her death in June, 1990, they had been

inseparable. For their entire life together before her

illness, her feet had hit the floor before his every

morning. At 4:00 A.M., she was dressed, coiffed, and had

breakfast ready for him. She was a good cook, making all

those Swedish dishes she had learned back in Michigan.

Her obituary recited particulars but told little

of the story of the woman. Family survivors, civic

positions, Swedish heritage. All these may be facts about

a life, but they were not this woman. Ingrid had a sense

of elegance needed for so harsh a life and so fledgling an

organization as O.C.I. She focused her attention on

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presenting a predominantly male activity in an acceptable

performative way. She was the center, keeping hold on the

logging show. She set a standard for herself and perhaps

for women in the logging community; one that continues

today as a style of femininity appropriate to this world.

Ingrid died the day I left Orofino, and I learned

about it while writing page four of the draft of this

dissertation. First I wanted to cry. But I couldn't,

because people there don't cry. They told me that and

they told me why.

When it's done, it's over. That's the end. You

may have personal convictions about an afterlife but in

the here and now, you must get on with it. You must

return to life, sometimes to its barrenness, but always

remembering that it regenerates. Reality is a cycle of

continuous replenishment caused by some unknown power.

There is no reason to ponder the reasons why; humans do

their best to deal with it. It is like the forests, they

grow, show the beauty of their maturity, and then they are

gone. It's the way Ingrid left this world. And what I

have left is the memory, the fineness of that particular

existence, and the knowledge that if I'm patient that

beauty will come back again.

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The Aura of Femininity

It was a different world; sophisticated, genteel,

filled with flowers, gifts, and polite conversation. It

was the monthly dinner of Beta Sigma Phi, and I had been

invited to join in the festivities. Tonight was special,

for the "secret sister" who had been surprising you with a

bibelot each dinner throughout the year, would reveal

herself. Of course, you suspected who she was from her

taste in gifts, but there was always the excitement of

knowing whether you had been correct all along.

Beta Sigma Phi is a national sorority that has

chapters in Orofino. There are subchapters of chapters

based on the length of involvement a woman has had with

the sorority. The individual groups perform social

services throughout the year, sponsor young women for

scholarships and community recognition, and raise money

for worthwhile causes. But in addition to the

contributions they make to the community, they value the

friendships that are developed.

These are professional women, dressing and acting

the part. Theirs is a world of offices, schools,

libraries, and flowershops. They are known for their

skills in cartography, ability to teach homemaking, and

talent in raising princesses for the annual celebration.

Singing, dancing, and acting are the talents they have.

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They want a concert series and a city beautification

project. In a sense, they are continuing the role that

other women who lived in the early logging ceunps played

(see HeadquartersV.

Doreen and Peggy had already befriended me and

were willing to share their feelings about town and life

here. They understood the needs of the community that

surpass those that were at the bare subsistence level.

They read national magazines, and vacationed out of the

area. Several had had foreign exchange students, and in a

sense, they may think of themselves as unofficial

ambassadors of the region to the outside world.

Their world is one of brokerage. They know of the

stereotype of a man's world that had been associated with

the area but are trying to preserve, in their own fashion,

the sense of femininity and the trappings that it has in

the outside world. This means being socially proper. If

there were a wedding, all the members of the sorority

would be invited. They were friends and would share the

joy of the occasion, but they also knew how to follow

Emily Postian rules.

Their husbands loved them for it— for being women,

feminine, dressed, and bejewelled, raising their children

to fit into a wider society, especially if the children

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were daughters. The men could handle sons, but daughters,

they must be cultivated.

Often gift-giving is labeled as conspicuous, as

part of a consumptive society. But in this context,

giving gifts transcended mere display. They were truly

concerned about reflecting their own personalities as well

as the personality of the recipient. Gifts were often

hand-made, showing the skills of the giver, and always

well-tuned to the temperament of the recipient.

But this cultivation, this overall sense of the

finer things in life, was also pervading Orofino's

economy. These women and others like them in other

sororities spent much of their time making sure that the

cultured life of Orofino is in evidence. I observed and

was struck by the fact that there were several shops in

Orofino oriented toward gift giving and being fashionable.

Since my earlier visits, several florists had opened,

three gift shops, and a shop for handicraft supplies. It

had changed from when most of the merchandizing was

related to necessities. The few craft objects available

had been sold in the variety store and only when a local

woman had had time to produce a few cloth dolls.

Now, the influence of women who looked outside of

the community for style has begun to spread.

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Diversification of the economy occurred in part because

they had entered into their own version of cottage

industries and were beginning to fill the town with

objects that were less utilitarian and more decorative.

It was an interesting change in the economy. This town

that had catered to logging and its needed goods and

services might be changing because of the ability of women

to encourage a cultured way of life that necessitated

gifts and handicrafts.

There was no question that these women were having

an influence in fashion and home decor. They were setting

the standards with newly created objects of art that had

little relationship with the logging world. Flowers

instead of pines, porcelain figurines instead of carved

animals, were in order.

Their husband's professions were supporting a

secondary industry, that of gifts and crafts, and their

economic influence was growing. These women of Beta Sigma

Phi see themselves as women doing their daily tasks and

seeking the company of other women for occasions of

celebration. Perhaps in the years to come they and their

desire for culture in Orofino will be a part of its

diversification of industry.

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Elbow. Elbow. Wrist. Wrist

Three young women off on their first adventure.

They had shown their talent, charm, and commitment, and

were now royalty.* Off to Kendrick, a town of four

hundred and eighty people, forty miles from home, to ride

in a parade, a celebration of the Locust Blossom that had

graced Main Street, but lately had been lost to blight.

What was paramount in their minds on this first

outing? Little more than how to learn to wave. The

formula was elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, with just the

proper figure-eight flow. Add to that "smile all the

time," "stomach in and chest out," "don't be stuck up,"

and "be on time," and the girls had all the rules of the

royalty game. The crowd would be responsive, and other

girls, especially the younger ones, would idolize them.

Perhaps they'd even attract the attention of a few teenage

males in the process.

It was too early in the season for Orofino to have

its royalty float, so they would be riding atop the same

white Chevy truck that had brought them here. In red

shirts and white cotton slacks, matching tie shoes with

nautical emblems, there was little to tell queen from

princesses except for a tiny telltale heart in her crown

and the fact that unconsciously the two lesser royalty

always flanked the queen.

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Later in the season they would all wear the same

style formal dresses from the J.C. Penney's overstock

outlet in Lewiston. For today and for the remainder of

the summer festivals they would wear sports attire donated

by Orofino merchants. Their time would not be their own

until their reign ended the following spring at the

Spokane Lilac Festival.

The chaperon, the young president of O.C.I. and

daughter of a logging truck driver, knew the ropes; the

obligations and the intricacies of royalty. She didn't

hesitate to remind this set that last year's girls had

been exemplary. Nor did she hesitate to give examples of

less than regal trios and her frustration over difficult

past royalty. She was a veteran of O.C.I., having joined

her first committee eight years ago. She had gone through

the ranks, now to be its president.

She had invented a tradition of stopping at the

Kendrick Cafe for donuts on the way to the first parade.

She would keep them well-fed throughout the day. It was

here that the girls, one by one, went into the restroom to

put on their crowns and come back out to the indifference

of the customers. No one made much of it, three girls

dressed exactly alike, wearing crowns, but the President

watched for their ability to carry it off.

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A second tradition of more recent vintage had been

created two years before by the former president Mick

McLaughlin when he began calling the royalty "My Girls."

As a remembrance they had given him a framed picture.

Last year's royalty gave then-president Fenton Freeman a

video tape of "His Girls." Tammi Baugh, current president

and chaperon, wanted it known from this first outing that

it had become an accepted practice, something to begin

thinking about and a tradition that should not be broken.

Tammi, the daughter of a family active in logging,

the Baughs, also wanted her dream of another tradition to

become a reality. In five years the Orofino celebration

would celebrate its 50th year, and she hoped to draw

together the royalty alumnae for a gala presentation.

Over coffee, I tried to learn what distinguished

these girls and their predecessors from other young women

in Orofino. Though from the community, they were not from

logging families, nor had their families ever been

involved in logging. Unlike the royalty from Lewiston who

had to demonstrate their horsewomanship to reign at the

Roundup, these three, aside from living in a logging

community need not be a part of the industry. They were

expected to demonstrate talent, charm, and talk their way

through a question on current events. They were chosen by

judges from outside of Clearwater County.

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I asked the 1990 court questions concerning royal

qualities, the traits that set these girls apart from

others seemed to be unanswerable. Perhaps they are normal

teenagers, perhaps a bit prettier, a trifle smarter, and a

smidgen more socially connected than other teenagers, but

my information is inconclusive. I can say very little

about the criteria for queenship. Instead I can comment

on the feelings of the past royalty and the actions that I

have observed and recorded of the new role of the 1990

court.

In 1989 Traci Johnson, Amy Reed, and Mary Jo Hall,

the exemplary court of which Tammi Baugh spoke, were

always together. They had been friends and intensified

their friendship throughout the year. For Traci it was a

dream come true. Since she was six years old she thought

about being royalty for Lumberjack Days. She loved the

chance but also learned very early that it entailed a

great deal of work.

Mary Jo admitted that if she were giving advice to

a new member of royalty it would be not to get "uppity,"

even though often when you are representing the town you

have to be someone else, maybe someone a little bit more

than just yourself, "You are Clearwater County." Amy

enjoyed meeting new people and knew from the start it

would be a lot of work.

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They all agreed that, "to be queen it is not

necessary to be beautiful but to be inherently nice, to be

pretty, but not haughty." Yet, once you are royalty you

are expected to be perfect; it's embarrassing because

people are always watching you, especially the younger

children. The twirlers and the little girls in the parade

want to be just like you. You are something special; your

gown shows it, your manners show it. You've gone through

the trauma of drinking tea properly and dancing with your

dad and grandpa at the ball. You've lived up to the

standards that Marguerite McLaughlin, the organizer of the

royalty, has set for you, and you won. You have a sense

of accomplishment because you won, because you are

royalty.

But all the while you are someone special, someone

designated, painted with the romance of a by-gone time and

imaginary place; you know that you have responsibilities.

You must work. Without making the posters and selling the

tickets, without helping with registration and record

keeping, you are not really royalty, you haven't

understood that it may be a privilege, but it is also a

job. It takes time and effort, and it doesn't absolve you

from being either a good daughter or good student. It is

a temporary state of being more than you were, but not

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better, not above the rest. That's what Orofino expects

of its royalty.

And just to be sure that you understand the

temporary nature of your role, as fully as O.C.I. and the

rest of the community understands, you undergo a

transformation back to your status in an egalitarian

society. As part of the royalty you can expect to be

thrown into the birling pond, the place used for log

rolling contests, at the end of the logging show. You can

struggle and feign not wanting the dunk but it will happen

because it is a practice that occurs every year. After

the logging show you are transformed.

Riding to Kendrick as the new royalty you have

your donuts, you go into the restroom and emerge as

royalty. After the logging show and your cleansing in the

birling pond, you emerge as Mary Jo, Traci, Amy, Lydgia,

Audra or Barbi, merely the young women of the community.

You will keep your crowns and your gowns, but you are back

to reality, back to living among the other young people of

Orofino.

The Power of Volunteers

"Bureaucracy be damned." I work in a major

government institution where moving a project through can

take years. And when it's finished you're still not quite

sure how it all happened. I was accustomed to putting

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everything down on paper, writing "to do lists," and "to

do lists" of "to do lists," generally losing them in the

process. But, whenever I would call Orofino or try to

work out the details of my fieldwork, my requests would

be met with a silence, as if I had asked the unforgivable.

When I finally arrived in Orofino to take up

fieldwork residence, I learned that the reaction to my

questions were the result of a very different mode of

operation. No one here needed to be reminded of their

job; no one kept elaborate schedules of what had to be

done. Work proceeded smoothly because everyone knew their

role, spoke little about it, and merely performed. It was

the keystone for all jobs and especially volunteer

activities. It allowed these organizations to operate

smoothly and without controversy.

Without the bureaucratic veneer, the job gets

done. Discussions are kept to a minimum. There is an

ever-present, underlying trust that one's compatriots had

the natural capabilities to do the job and would keep

their word by doing it. Teamwork was the key to

incorporating the inexperienced members into the group.

With more encouragement than direction, these young people

learned by experience and quickly took over control of the

major functions of voluntary groups.

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Perhaps the underlying practices of bureaucracy:

the chain of command, the reporting procedures,

accountability through memo, and power structuring were

hampering my own work as well as my understanding of how

Orofino worked. As I participated in O.C.I. activities, I

began to learn the ease with which an organization works.

The individual tasks may be difficult, arduous, and taxing

but the organization never feels this stress. It can have

total confidence that the members will perform.

There are many voluntary organizations, but the

one I will highlight here is O.C.I., Orofino Celebrations

Incorporated. It was originally my reason for choosing

this community. O.C.I. has successfully sponsored the

community logging show for nearly fifty years. Many of

its members appear in other sections of this publication

as central figures in the world of logging. But others

are part of the business community: insurance agents,

bankers, and real estate agents. All have a common desire

to maintain the logging component of the festival and the

lifestyle of Orofino. I attended several of their

meetings, all of which seemed to follow the same pattern.

A Piece of Cake^

Less than two weeks ago, the members of O.C.I. had

handled the difficult and unprofitable TIMBER Centennial

Show in Lewiston. It was difficult because others, who

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didn't know logging, had taken control of the interface

with the outside world. Although they were paid

personnel, they had not done a job comparable to that

normally done for the Orofino Lumberjack Days. The event

was unprofitable, not in the sense that O.C.I. lost money,

but because it was unacceptable, bankrupt in emotional

satisfaction for the members.

Yet, the members were here in the White Pine

Building, headquarters for O.C.I., planning the September

program. The proceedings were interspersed with innuendos

about the Lewiston show. These were reinforced by a tee

shirt presented to Sharon Barnett who had carried the

brunt of the work. It read, "I'm Sharon Barnett, Don't

Mess with Me." It both identified her and let all comers

know that she was in charge and would have it no other

way.

Throughout the evening, loggers, in from the

woods, still in work clothes, would arrive. They were

greeted by the group, as they went to the refrigerator for

a can of beer and settle down and then settled down to

business.

The committee reports began. The treasurer said

they were solvent and that there was enough money to carry

out the September show. The royalty was introduced.

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Each committee chairperson responded and was

subjected to good-natured kidding. But there was an

obvious sameness in their responses. Even though the show

was approaching rapidly, the comments were all the same.

"No Problem." "We're Ready." "A Piece of Cake." Without

detailed discussion, the members assumed automatically

that the tasks associated with the committees were going

smoothly. No one brought up problems, even though in the

background they might exist. No chairperson admitted that

he or she was having difficulties getting materials or

organizing their part of the operation.

Equipment was ready, personnel was sure to show

up, and the president and show manager should not concern

themselves. In turn, neither of these two women asked for

more information from the committee heads. They may have

doubts as to whether the work was really getting done, but

they never questioned the fact that the show would go on,

as scheduled, without incident. Somehow, in some way, the

volunteers would commandeer the necessary resources,

either their own, that from their businesses, or those of

major corporations in the area. O.C.I. and the Lumberjack

Days were never refused, regardless of the magnitude of

the request.

Why? For two reasons. Volunteerism is prevalent

throughout the community, and volunteers are powerful.

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Volunteerism in Orofino means giving what you have in

materiel or services regardless of who you are, or what is

requested. If a community function needs a cherry-picker

to do its work, Washington Water Power will have it there,

free of charge, on schedule. Or, if the logs for the show

have to be peeled, the Potlatch mill at Jaype will take

care of it.

The requests are made person-to-person.

Generally, paperwork is associated with a waste of time

and a source of aggravation. Everyone in the community

can see where the equipment is. It won't be stolen, and

everyone knows that the men in charge know exactly what to

do. There is little likelihood of damage or accident.

Volunteers are powerful, and because they are,

newcomers want to be a part of the system. You don't

attain power through wealth or birth, but through being a

committed, efficient, and untiring volunteer. Whether it

is picking up highway litter on "Cleanup Day," or helping

the local church with a bake sale, it's all a part of

community action. This is how you become empowered,

empowered to be a part of the community. In your own mind

and in the eyes of the community, you conform to its

standards.3

Newcomers are not forced into community

activities. There may be articles in the Clearwater

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Tribune mentioning that volunteer opportunities are

available but no one receives a phone call or a visit

soliciting their help. Those who are new in town see that

Orofinoans are always busy; they have little time for

themselves. Either singing in the Centennial chorus,

acting in the civic theater play, working for the church

or civic organizations, Orofinoans are rarely at home.

They are out, in service to the community.

But this enhanced degree of community spirit has

its drawbacks as well. There is never a moment's rest.

You might think that living in Orofino is peaceful,

uneventful, and perhaps by urban standards, boring. You

might think that there is little to do other than "watch

paint dry." Not the case; organizations are forever

finding new reasons to use volunteer help. Everyone, or

at least the core of the community, from all occupational

groups takes a turn in political, social, and cultural

works that are of benefit to the town.

Associated with the plethora of volunteer

opportunities is the "burn out" syndrome. I heard this

comment from several people, that they were burned out and

had to take a break from volunteer activities. These

people had gone full tilt for several years in a variety

of non-paid positions and finally found it necessary to

stop, to drop out. This group of people from all segments

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of the community: logging, ranching, farming, and

merchandizing seem to be the core of the organizational

activity in Orofino. They are also the people who

volunteered to provide information for this dissertation.

They were never too busy to share their information with

me.

Yet, sometimes, they, and the community know that

a temporary rest was needed But after a respite of

several years, they would be right back in the thick of it

again. For Orofino is built on volunteerism, and

volunteers are powerful.

The Enablers

The Governor may be "Cece" to all the people of

Orofino, but to me he was "the Governor" and former

Secretary of the Interior. And so I had the

understandable trepidation over interviewing a celebrity.

Don Ponozzo, the governor's long-time friend, assured me

that he would be happy to fill me in on his experiences as

a logger. There was no question that as he entered the

city council chambers he was a man that could combine the

right proportion of gubernatorial savoir faire and down-

home warmth. It was natural, the way he shook hands and

greeted his constituents joking about, "we, old-timers."

He was given a welcome home for someone whose heart had

never left.

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Our agendas were quite different. He had come to

speak about the future. I had come to talk about the

past.

Cecil Andrus had lived in Orofino about twenty-

five years ago when it was known as an important logging

town with independent contract outfits and privately owned

sawmills in full operation. He could speak fondly of his

years here, but today the future was on his mind.

This was a ceremony to designate Orofino a "Gem

Community," to give it seed money and then potentially

$300,000 in commercial grants. It was an opportunity for

Orofino to work with the state on economic development,

and the Governor was quite sure he could count on his

friends, people he know for their overwhelming sense of

volunteerism, to lead the way.

He used many phrases of political rhetoric, but

knowing the town, he could personalize their use. "Can Do

Attitude," "sell quality of the community," "taking the

dips out of the economy," "put your money where your mouth

is," and "the economy is the best ever," could all be

assigned to specific referents. As the Governor, he would

give his support to local investments and wanted the

community to know he recognized the progress it was

making.

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This optimism was due, of course, to financial

infusion by leading citizens and the forward-looking

attitude of the mayor, Paul Desault. But my opinion is

that the underpinnings of Orofino's tomorrows rest in the

hands, better to say the hearts, of two women; one is

senior in her knowledge of the town and its need, and one

who is young, effervescent, and exuberant about Orofino's

future.

Harriet Reece is grey-haired now, bespeckled,

competent, and office-bound, but once she was a young girl

who was royalty for one of the early Clearwater County

Fairs and Lumberjack Days. She is no longer the editor of

the Clearwater Tribune but has every intention of staying

right in the center of community affairs. She has the

data— the statistics— from which the future will be

planned. She is on the development committee of the

community as well as on the Board of Directors of the

planning committee for the new retirement home. At every

turn, Harriet could pull out the materials I needed to

make sense of population trends that had affected Orofino.

Harriet knows the history of the changes that have

occurred. With the newspaper as her livelihood for many

years, she is a living scrapbook of community events and

personalities. She understands the segments of the

community that have demonstrated political activism, those

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that have influenced state politics, and those that have

put forth effort to help the town compete and win many

state facilities. In some cases these groups overlap, and

many of them have been quoted in this dissertation.

Harriet is right there, heading the Futuring

Committee. She is a community "encourager"; she is going

to do her best to assist in any way possible to make a

near-perfect place, just a little bit better.

Her counterpart, Janet Kayler is pert, energetic,

and ready to put Orofino on the map. She is ready to "Big

Mac" it; that is, find a fast food franchise to set up

here. This might bring tourists and settlers to Orofino.

Janet will try anything. It's part of her job with the

Chamber of Commerce and "Orofino Unlimited," but also part

of her commitment to the community.

Her involvement with timber is much more manicured

than most. She and her husband, Jeff, operate a tree

farm, a place of hand-raised Christmas trees. Seemingly

an anachronism in this land of naturally growing pines.

Fantasy Farm sits on Highway 12. She, and it, seem midway

in the transition between logging and a new diversified

economy, on the road between the small town of Orofino and

the urban lifestyle of Lewiston. Still tied to the land

and the best resources that the area has to offer, her

enterprise both in the office and at the farm demonstrates

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What Orofino is doing. It is transposing itself from

being a place exclusively of the rough and tough, hard-

driving, mechanically oriented sites of massive growths,

to operations of a more delicate, "cultured" occupation.

She is in-between.

Janet believes in negotiating lifestyles. It will

be the only way to ameliorate the tensions that might

occur when economic change takes place. The undercurrents

of diversification may be difficult and shocking to some,

especially to those who see this area relying exclusively

on timber. She, and many feel that it will be necessary

for the town to turn to other means of survival. The

ideas are far-ranging: tourism, government facilities,

retirement services, and anything other than "dirty"

industries are options. But beneath all the choices are

the decisions that must be made concerning the use of the

land; the use of the natural environment.

Timber concerns change the landscape that the

tourist industry wants to keep pristine. Government

agencies bring a bureaucratic mentality that may not be

compatible with this region of practical people who learn

by doing. Retirees may help stabilize the economy, but

what will their ultimate support for education and youth

services be?

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Each year, the Chamber of Commerce brings

potential investors from around the state to northern

Idaho in hopes that they will settle here. So far, the

area has attracted individuals, many professionals from

the West Coast, especially Californians escaping that way

of life. But they rarely become involved and often when

the they do, their suggestions are contradictory to an

understanding of the environment, existing production, and

commonly held, local values.

Nevertheless, Janet sees signs that there may be

positive growth. Each day a few more people call for

visitor information. And the proliferation of festivals

and celebrations have been amazingly successful even

though they concentrate on more generic themes; those

related to consumption instead of production as was the

case with the fair and lumberjack events. "Mid-Summer

Cruz" capitalizes on the passion of local car collectors

for 1950s-vintage automobiles. "Old Fashioned Sunday"

depends on artisans making cottage industry crafts and

bringing them to the park.*

I began to realize a change in Orofino when I saw

a videotape entitled Celebrate Orofino. It was not the

same Orofino that I had known for these many years. It

emphasized tourism with a vengeance: the golf course.

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steel head fishing, hunting, and a series of festivals I

had never seen.

Of course, the visitors interviewed on the

videotape stated the feelings that I have about Orofino,

"that it was one of the friendliest places they had ever

visited," "that it was beautiful," and "that it had a lot

of advantages." But the people on the tape and the

emphasis was totally different from the interests of the

logging community that had attracted me to Orofino

initially. Where was it coming from? Why were there two

images of Orofino? Or was this new image a creation that

had evolved in the years that I had been concentrating

primarily on loggers?

The dilemma of identity is ever-present in Orofino

today. In reality, there has always been only a portion

of the community working in logging, but the community

hung its communal persona on logging. Logging had

provided the imagery. It had excellent logos, heros, and

contests that no other community in the area could claim.

But with the videotape, the dilemma was made concrete.

Should Orofino relinquish this image in favor of

diversity? Would diversity provide an image over time, or

would Orofino become another small town in the West?

Janet can't spend all her time pondering questions

that will only have answers in the next century, but she

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is concerned. She is looking for answers that will make

the community thrive. She sees the values of the old

image and knows that no one discounts it. But as a part

of the commercial establishment, she continues to seek

ways to make the community grow quickly.*

Open the doors to migration? She, the city

council, and the merchants understand the problems of

unrestricted welcomes. The newcomers, other than original

Orofinoans who return here, are an unknown. Thus far,

there has been accommodation. The new professional class

has been accepted into the community and into its

organizations. But it is impossible to say whether

tensions could arise in the future.

Orofino may no longer be one town, but several; no

longer be a place holding onto one set of occupational

values, but several; and no longer be a place to find a

consensus as to where to go next. Enablers are necessary;

individuals who see the total picture, negotiate the

interests of all groups, and use their talents to mold the

community. Throughout history, all too often. Western

communities the size of Orofino have become ghost towns

when their industrial base experienced hard times. Janet,

Harriet, and many other boosters won't let this happen to

Orofino.

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The Canvas

In CHAPTER ONE, I set forth the allusion that I

was a limner, in two senses, the artistic and the

anthropological. I would enter Orofino as a person on the

fringes of this world and try to paint a portrait of what

I saw. I used myself as the tool through which to see the

community. My marginal position has been restated

throughout, and there should be no question about the

influences that come into play in my interpretations. As

I painted Orofino I also learned about myself, the limnar,

and the way in which my own life was constructed. It

helped when I began to analyze the experiences I had. In

this co-authorship I set the tone, and theme, and this is

where I believe that the artistic limner's product has

emerged, but Orofinoans provided the facts on their way of

life.

In this chapter, you see outlines on the canvas

and a suggestion of some of the colors and styles for the

total image. Some of these figures will reappear in

greater detail because they are central to A Life in

Logging. But others play a part in the middle ground of

the painting in the town of Orofino and they will remain

there. As you view the town in these descriptions,

certain characteristics appear. These constitute the

analysis of the anthropological limnar.

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First, logging has been both an economic and

symbolic base for the community. Almost everyone has some

ties to logging, either benefitting from the industry or

providing goods and services to it. Everyone

acknowledges the symbolic importance of logging to the

town. Associated with the logging is the ability of

people to operate a multifunctional web in which the

network of relationships operate for many reasons and on

many levels. On a personal level this results in

marriages that reinforce the industry. These are also the

intermingling of interests in logging, farming, ranching,

and merchandising by the crossing over of people in

several different jobs at the same time.

There is also an economy and efficiency in the way

in which tasks are performed in Orofino. Planning may be

an inherent part of any job, but it is done quietly,

almost subliminally, and it does not deter the performance

of actual tasks. Instead of complicated plans to

accomplish a job, the task takes precedence and planning

is not documented.

But since the economic situation is changing and

diversification in industry is occurring, this network may

change. A community with a large population of government

employees and retirees may change both in the network and

in the mode of accomplishing a task. In addition to the

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possibility of industry coming from outside the community,

women may be the next era of entrepreneurs. Their

attempts to bring sophistication into an isolated area may

be the source of new enterprises.

In logging, technological changes will occur, but

the educational system and the independent logging

contractors will help keep the industry alive. Through

courses and the constant introduction of the young to the

industry, they may maintain a viable niche for the

independent logger, regardless of the fate of the large

corporations.

Social history is short, in decades, not in

centuries, but it is an important feature of life in

Orofino. Many of the early elders are still alive, and

often a sense of history as being time past is difficult

to perceive. These men are still living in the community,

talking about logging standards, and giving the impression

that time stood still. Technology may have changed, but

these personalities are still around. It is as if all of

time is collapsed into the present. Often, I wasn't sure

if we were talking about someone who was living down the

road or had been long-dead. Older people are revered;

they are welcomed to the community and often personify an

important feature of community life, as will be apparent

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in the chapters that show the influence of old-time

loggers.

Second, Orofino is action-oriented. Work and

spending one's time in worthwhile pursuits is a principal

value in the community. It is not associated with a

career or the status of a position description and title.

It is based upon the ability and reputation of an

individual to perform, to the best of their ability, the

job set before them.

How is work defined? I observed that it is not

tied to a desk or a clock. Nor are signs of physical

exertion looked upon as the measure of work. Work is an

activity that accomplishes a task. People interact,

arrive at a decision, and put it into action immediately.

The time between recognizing a job must be done and its

completion is short, always accomplished in the expected

time frame. Physical labor is a part of the action of

work and not seen as a hardship.

Third, Orofino is a homogenous community. It has

not been confronted with the issues of civil or human

rights that have prompted new hiring practices and

residency patterns in other parts of the country. The

Native American population, though living in this area,

does not participate in the life of Orofino that is

described here. Orofino prides itself on being an

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egalitarian community. As an example of this principle I

was told that "even George the bag man isn't discriminated

against." Several people told me that no one is ranked,

either by heredity or economics, even though political

clout may be exercised by some. People with real money

and power are unnoticed or try to go unnoticed.

The "sense of place" is the fourth feature of life

in Orofino. People of this region feel that they are

privileged to live here. Any out-of-doors person would

enjoy it. Because they sit in a superb natural

environment, having the benefits of many of these

resources, there is little reason to leave the region

when activities most appealing to them are in their own

backyards. Often the consequence of this involvement with

place is that Orofinoans have little interest in the

outside world. Tied to this feature of "a sense of place"

is the fact that life is lived both physically and

socially on an incline. It is a difficult environment in

which to navigate and to work, especially for someone who

doesn't understand the effects of topography and climate

on the region. CHAPTER TWO has discussed the problems of

this existence.

The fifth feature oif the community is that the

passage of time, both cyclical and daily, operates in a

highly patterned fashion. The community has a precise

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understanding of what time means. They adapt to the

conditions of weather as it subverts time, but since

measured time is a socially developed dimension, they

conform to the demands of time on the clock explicitly.

Social activity starts, "on time"; appointments occur "on

time"; lunch is "on time," between 12:00 noon and 1:00

P.M.

Commitment to volunteer activity and boosterism,

developed to a heightened degree, are the sixth

outstanding feature of the social landscape of Orofino.

Power becomes a result of community involvement.

Newcomers are socialized into its empowering capability

immediately and help the community meet many service

requirements for community life without municipal expense

while it gives individuals a social arena in which to gain

recognition.

The stereotype of the logging world as a male

domain is less true than has been documented previously.

This, the seventh characteristic, has been shown in the

organization of town life and will be reinforced when we

look at LIFE IN LOGGING. The West as a celebration of

masculinity may be a myth, if we look more closely at the

way in which society actually operates. There are few

distinctions made between males and females. The bases

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for categorizing individuals is on their commitment and

ability to get a job done, not on their gender.

Eighth, success is not being better than others,

it is being accepted. In Orofino, it is unwise to

internalize power, for you have it for only a short while,

you use it wisely, and then let it circulate to another.

Controlling others, if and when it is done, brings you a

reputation for being a tyrant regardless of your motives.

The best of intentions such as advancement for the town, a

new industry, or maintenance of a safe, clean environment

can be misconstrued as an attempt at personal

aggrandizement. This is true because the most important

projects are accomplished by volunteer groups not people

with job descriptions as developers. One way to show that

you don't internalize power is by taking a back seat at

social gatherings. You don't boast— it is in bad taste;

and you don't talk about money. People have power because

they have skills or talents that are indispensable. But

part of their power is in working with others to help them

accomplish the task. I never heard the phrase, "I've done

this or that."

The ninth prevailing characteristic of life in

Orofino is that communications and interaction is face-to-

face. In many ways the community is on stage, not only

during the annual festivals, but on a daily basis. No one

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can let up; they are always a part of a cast that must

perform like a good community. This does not mean that

there is always harmony. It does, however, mean that

there must always be a resolution.

The last characteristic that I observed is an

attitude of self-determination in the face of the

inevitable. It pervades life in Orofino. It may be a

sense of the preordained that correlates with a surrender

to the spirit of this place, of being subjected to the

vagaries of the terrain and climate. At first, I thought

that a proper term was "fatalism." In rethinking I saw it

was necessary to redefine the prevailing attitude in this

region and especially among the loggers. This becomes

more important in life in logging but also important to

state here.

We begin with the word, "reality." There are no

false hopes or cloudy visions of what is real. It is

cold, hard, and factual. The logger, his family, and the

community realize this; they see it clearly and without

the embellishments of fantasy or allusions to a power that

might exist but cannot be perceived. They use this

realization as the core of all their daily activity and

work habits. Rarely are suppositions or hypothetical

situations discussed. Decisions are made, and life is

lived based on perceivable conditions.

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When it rains, the ground is wet. When the

temperature drops below zero, it is cold. When you drive

over a nail you get a flat tire. When your rig hits an

deer it will be killed. You realize reality and don't

gloss over it. The facts are the facts. Every question

has a "yes" or a "no" answer; "maybe" doesn't work here.

When you recognize reality you can build your own

survival skills with the tactics that you, and you alone,

have developed to keep going. You can weigh the facts,

and there is an excellent chance that you can control your

own destiny. However, sometimes your reading of reality

is not as accurate as necessary. You may skid into a

barrow pit, you may spend too much money on a piece of

equipment, you may fail to cut a snag, it will be blown

over by the wind, and you may die. You recognize these

facts and reconcile yourself to them. The entire

community is reconciled to reality, and there is no

fantasy or excuse for what happens. You don't take

chances, you do everything in a meticulous and studied

way. But there is a chance that something will go wrong

and if it does, you accept the fact, the reality of it.

The people of Orofino are survivors, they don't

sit still and let chance take over, they control their own

destiny to the degree possible. Because they put out

every possible effort, when that effort is exhausted and

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reality still does not go their way, they realize reality,

not necessarily fate but the reality of what happens to

them. Realization and reconciliation of reality in

communities and occupations dealing with danger emerges as

an interesting possibility for future study.

The above ten characteristics are by way of

setting the stage. Before analyzing the role of the

logger and his understanding of work and art it is

necessary to see him in the context of the county and the

town.. Even though townspeople may not share in the

precise sense of the appropriate, of the aesthetics of the

logger, the people of Orofino have supported the industry

and are a part of the web of land, people, and spirit.

They trust in the integrity of the logger, as a major

player in altering what they see in their environment.

The logger's role is also prominent in writing the script

that is the standard for the community. For it was the

loggers of the past who fostered the development of the

town and logging values have transferred to town living.

The town and the logging way of life are orchestrated to

play in proper harmony.

In concluding this chapter I would like to quote

Lydia Dennis, a newcomer to Orofino. She is a retiree,

from Maine, a woman active in community development

throughout her life. She said:

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I love it here in Orofino. It's like living in the 1950s and thank God, it's off the beaten path. Regardless of where you try to retire in the East, you're trapped in a town that is a bedroom community for some large metropolis. And it's safe. People drop in; kids on their way home from school bring their daily projects to show to you. There are groups to join and groups to start.

Lydia is like so many newcomers. She can see

problems in Orofino and has commented on them. But all in

all, her quote may be a more apt analysis then these ten

characteristics. Orofino may, in fact, be a town captured

by time and captured by place.

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LIFE IN LOGGING: THE ELDERS

In Chapter III and IV, I described Orofino, a

community that is home to many loggers, supports their

work, and provides services to them. This chapter will

look at the way the life of the logger has changed through

history and the way in which it is practiced today in

Clearwater County. The chronology (Appendix B) shows that

the development the independent logging operations that I

will describe date to approximately the 1930s.*

Again, I will use vignettes that have been

coauthored by sharing experiences with many of the loggers

that I met. Some are oldtimers and prone to recollect in

great detail about what went on in the woods. All these

men exemplify the talents and traits that were necessary

in the profession, and they are proud to relive them to an

outsider.2

The conclusion of this chapter reviews the salient

features of each vignette in order to present a summary.

This will also be the frame in which to see CHAPTER VII,

WORK AS ART, but there is an overlapping of themes in

176

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these two chapters, for it is from many of these elders

that contemporary loggers have learned their craft and

their feelings about logging. They have been the sages

for the aesthetics of the industry.

The elders are the sources of experience and

knowledge of the developments that were successful

technologically. They pass on a tradition, not only of

stories, but of standards that they expect from all

woodsworkers. Speaking with them is much less going back

in time than living fully in the actions that make a

logger successful in the woods, regardless of time period.

I had no experience in logging and little in the

out-of-doors, other than occasional camping trips. I

could take nothing for granted. In some cases the

questions that I asked seemed obvious to the loggers, and

at others they seemed to cause a flood of new thoughts for

them. Whichever the case, they were patient with my

inquiries.

As a flatlander,* I was ridiculed gently at times,

and this becomes obvious in some of the vignettes. But I

can say, without reservation, that the information for the

following two chapters was a delight to collect and a joy

to write.*

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Remembering Headquarters

Today, Headquarters, the Potlatch Forest

Industries base camp for logging operations, is all but

abandoned. A small administrative office takes care of

tourists. The parking lot is used to rendezvous tour

groups. But not more than thirty years ago. Headquarters

was a thriving community, a company town with homes for

over eighty-five families and nearly four hundred single

loggers. In its heyday, it had a variety store, school,

shops, restaurant, grocery, church, and community hall.

Joy Boles, now over seventy years old, remembers

those buildings, but her eyes really light up when she

remembers "the way of life at the end of the road." Joy's

husband, Wallace, was the logging superintendent charged

with getting the logs out. But he was also the ex officio

mayor, making sure that the community ran smoothly and

that the loggers' home life, as well as work environment,

added to their productivity.*

Potlatch had maintained company towns in other

regions, but these were generally attached to the

sawmills.* Headquarters was a logging town without a

mill. It provided the necessities for community life that

were prompted by the changes in logging during the decades

from 1940 to 1960. The horse loggers had disappeared.

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And so did the "river pigs," loggers skilled at handling

log drives.

Many of the loggers after World War II were family

men; some were educated in engineering or forestry. Even

though they wanted to be loggers they didn't want to take

up the ways attributed to the old stereotype, the snoose-

chewing immigrant who had nowhere to call home and no one

to call family. By the 1950s life for the logger had

changed and a new breed of family-oriented woodsworker

came into the industry.

Joy's memories of Headquarters were of a near

perfect existence. The ladies played bridge. And she

read her New Yorker every week for the twenty years that

they lived there. Fresh milk from their own dairy and a

school for their children rounded out their family's

existence.

Judy Kilmer, Joy's daughter and executive

secretary for Potlatch, remembers her childhood at

Headquarters fondly.

All the kids loved Headquarters; we had everything we needed and friends that couldn't be beat. It was a sad day if your friend's dad left Potlatch employment and they had to move away. It was the ideal childhood.? We didn't even want to go away on vacation.

The life of the superintendent and his wife held

responsibilities. While Wallace had to make decisions on

community allocations, Joy, the school teacher, went

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about creating a social atmosphere in the camp. She and

the other women created an atmosphere that was civilized

even in this rugged environment.

Joy remembers the single men that lived among the

families in the camp.

They were so respectful, those unattached lumberjacks. Often, they were European-born, generally known only as "The Finns." They may have had harsh nicknames like "Broom Face," but they always lowered their eyes when a woman walked past. Granted, after a Saturday night in town they might spend a day in the "snake house" drying out, but they were gentlemen to the end.

Christmas programs, community dances, card

parties, and hospitality calls on new families were all a

part of life, due in great part to the efforts of the

women. "Everybody was your friend, if you liked them or

not." Friendship in this isolated and often dangerous

environment was as necessary as the teamwork practiced in

logging. And even though the work was hard and danger was

always present, there was time for civility. Men might

have a sixth sense when it came to logging, but it was the

women who upheld the standards for family and camp life.

The cook might dominate the camp, and the bull

cook might be in charge of handling the everyday

necessities, but it was the women who set the style.

These women, just as the wives of woodsworkers today, are

proud of the way they managed to uphold civilization in

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the wild. But they are equally as proud of the logging

standards that their husbands maintained.

Loggers took their occupational tradition

seriously. Becoming skilled was a personal commitment,

and men who were good at their jobs were revered. The

women had their job to do as well. Not only were they

expected to meet the minimum requirements of spousehood,

they were also expected, or perhaps expected of

themselves, to be the instruments of social life,

civilizing the camps.

If you compare the photographs of the early

bachelor camps in other regions of the Northwest to the

camps in which women had an influence, you can see the

difference. Earlier camps were sturdy and liveable, but

obviously for temporary habitation. In family camps where

women's hands were at work, the difference is obvious.

Flowers abounded in gardens when women set up

housekeeping. Kitchens were utilitarian but delightfully

chintz. Sofas and chairs were covered with doilies. It

was not unusual for some of the domestic settings to make

their way onto colored Christmas cards. It was the female

touch, altering the camp, so that a work place became a

home.

But the distinction between work and living, or

between the beauties of a planned society and natural

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wonders were hazy. There was no line between them. If

necessary, a loaded logging truck would be parked next to

a patch of pansies. Or a man might collect firewood for

his hearth during lunchtime on a logging job. He might

kill an elk to bring back for the family table.

As there was little distinction between work and

living, there was no separation between living and

logging. A man could watch a sawyer and know his level of

skill but so could his wife. From long years of exposure,

she could see how he determined the balance points, and

how straight and true his cut might be. Generally trained

by osmosis, she could judge logging skills as ably as her

husband.

Joy Boles was one of the first people to tell me

about the logger's art. She told me that winter was the

real test of skill and artistry. Conditions required the

very best sawyer, with excellent coordination, and a

kinesthetic sense, described locally as "knowing where to

be when." She'd learned her husband's criterion for being

good at logging— "You only get a rating of good, if you

grow old doing it."

To this day, Joy Boles maintains her sense of

style. Dressed like a Manhattan matron, probably because

of the influence of her favorite magazine, she delights in

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talking about "the town at the end of the road." Logging

was Headquarters and Headquarters was home.

The Wednesday Luncheon Group

Every Wednesday at noon or thereabouts, in the

back room of the Konkolville Restaurant, an amazing

exchange takes place.* Sometimes several hundred years of

logging history are represented when the oldtimers get

together to talk and "tell lies." To be a mouse in the

corner, able to hear their musings would be any

anthropologist's dream. That not being possible, I barged

in to visit with several of the old loggers I had

befriended. I'm sure my presence affected their noon

reminiscences, but at the very least I am able to report

what happens when these men have an audience.

On this particular day, November 20, 1990, Mel

Snook, logging contractor, Mel McCarthy, scaler, and Joe

Richardson, former mill owner, were examining a piece of

Brazil wood, with serpentine edges. They are all in their

eighties and had seen a lot of timber species. This one

was different.

The sliver of wood had been a joke, Joe's bit of

humor, but in a sense, a serious one. It was intended to

see if Mel had any idea of how you would scale a piece

that did not have a regular, circular perimeter. It

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opened a conversation on the roles of these three men and

their colleagues in early logging.

The timber industry in many respects is one of

estimates and one in which you cannot follow a specific

piece of your production through the entire process. It

would be time-consuming and overly picayune to mark each

log from its time in the woods until it was turned into

lumber and was sent to the market. Yet, there must be

some way to account for payment at the various stages of

work that was done in the process. Scaling is predicated

on the need for someone to verify the "piece work"

quantities that are a part of the nature of this industry.

Scaling is a mathematical and technical skill in an

industry of indefinite measures. The scaler converts

irregular cylinders, that is logs, into the number of

board feet that can be produced from them. But as Mel

said.

These skills are not enough, you have to grow up knowing how to do it. You can be a school drop-out but gain a reputation as an educated guesser, because it's experience that educates.

As Joe said, "It's a business that is chuck full of

educated guessers."

Scalers work in several locations; in the woods,

sometimes to verify the output of sawyers, at the

landings, and then again in the mills to determine the

potential of each tree for lumber. It's not an easy task,

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because the sawyer and the contractor want the highest

possible figure estimated by the scaler. The mill owner

wants the lowest possible number, because this will mean a

lower payment to the contractor, and the possibility of

greater profit for him if the lumber produces more than

the minimum that has been scaled. All in all, however,

each party wants fairness in the scaling process.

Reality is not someplace in-between the desires of

the men at the beginning and those at the end of the

process. Instead, it depends largely on getting the best

scaler who has the finest reputation for fairness as well

as knowledge of the potential of each piece of timber.

This may seem easy. Measure the circumference and the

length, apply a formula that tells you how many board feet

of what lengths are possible and you have the correct

answer. Not so. For just as Joe's piece of Brazil wood

demonstrated an unusual case of extreme outer

irregularities, every tree that is cut must be examined

for its particular features, those characteristics that

would make it difficult to mill into lumber. For example,

is there any disease that must be cut out? Are there any

outer flaws that will be removed in the sawmill? Are the

dimensions compatible with current marketable goods? Is

the scaler scaling up or scaling down, that is to a

fraction of an inch potential in each log?

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The scaler had been, and still is, the man in the

middle. And during this Wednesday luncheon, Mel, even

though he was retired, was still taking the ribbing so

often given to those in his profession. The men with the

"long thumbs" as they were often called, could make

mistakes. These errors could be as high as $30,000 for a

job. This would be an impossible margin for a mill owner

to absorb.

But more often than not, scalers, the decision

makers on quantity, were fair. They learned early in

their careers to be impartial, even though they are in the

employ of one side or the other of the scaling process. It

is on the basis of being fair that they gain their

reputation. But even so, everyone knows that the scaler

will have certain tendencies in the way he does his job.

If you are contracting for a scaler you know that you can

get someone who scales in a certain way that might support

your side of the deal. There is a limited range of

arbitrariness in his decisions, but you can still find a

slight margin if you find the right scaler.

As these three men discuss the intricacies of

scaling, I realized, as I had so often in the past, that

logging, because of its built-in inaccuracies was an

occupation that prized and rewarded men with good

reputations. These three men go back a long time.

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probably over fifty years, and without a doubt they have

had their differences of opinion. Yet, to this day, they

joke and jab at one another. They, and the other men who

join them from time to time, are always supportive of each

other and don't hesitate to praise one another's

reputations. Says Mel Snook of Joe, "He had the best

reputation for treating people right." Says Joe

Richardson of Mel, "Oh well, he was always a politician,"

and say both of them of Mel McCarthy, "For a scaler, he's

a pretty straight guy."

Sometimes they just mention names and remember the

colorful characters of the past. They laugh about Tom

King, who rarely wore shoes in town. When a movie crew

came into the region, Tom promised to ride a tree down for

them. He was fearless, he would do anything for a thrill

but also for the sake of safety. He was willing to go

into an uncharted area and inspect the brush for danger

before a crew arrived to work.

They remember "Butterfly Pete" who was so good on

the log rolling in "Charlie the Friendly Cougar." Often

when they mention others like, "Cream Puff Dave," "Dirty

Shirt Smith," "Hambone Smith," and "Broomface," they know

the stories so well that I was sure just the name conjured

up a volume of memories. They didn't share them with me,

these stories of the past. And for my purposes these were

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all characters with colorful monikers, men of folkloric

interest, of whom I would learn more in the future. I

would find out how the two Mels and Joe script the unusual

personalities of the profession in the scheme of things in

the future. But at present, I was sitting with the

pillars of the industry, men who had in-depth knowledge of

the values that were at the heart of the logging industry,

and this was my major concern.

Loggers, in whatever category— sawyer, loader,

mill operator, or logging truck driver, must trust that

people will deal honestly with the imprecision of the

industry. They must have knowledge and experience to make

the proper judgements. The basis for a business

relationship must be such that good communication occurs.

If there is a dispute over the accuracy of the decisions,

the parties should be able to discuss it and make

alterations either on the present job or in the future

that would satisfy both the standards of fairness and good

working relationships. And so, not only do the

individuals have a certain reputation in the community,

but their relationships have a soundness about them that

is also longstanding. Logging is a profession of

continuous communication and interaction over decades, not

just years.

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To a logger, working with an outsider is

dangerous, first because without specific knowledge of the

region he may not be able to see the perils that a local

might. Second, he may not conform to the standards of

fair play and honest decision making that are expected of

someone who has permanence in the community. Ideally,

loggers work and settle in one geographical area. They

commit themselves to one group of fellow loggers, like

those in Clearwater County, and to one area of expertise

like sawing, loading, or driving a truck. Their

reputations are based on how well they do a specific job,

even though they may know how to do most of the jobs in

the woods at least at a minimal level. The performance of

one man affects every other logger he comes in contact

with, both on the job and in the larger sphere of logging.

Regardless of whether you are a cruiser, scaler, logging

truck driver, or mill owner, you are a part of a system

that is based on reputation and reciprocity. Reputation

is not something you build overnight. It is something

that grows and then becomes a constant state you are in,

an observable and repeatable aspect of your personality.

Reciprocity is not activated on a daily basis; instead it

may be years or even a lifetime before you repay someone

for a kindness. There is no pressure; instead there is a

timeless recognition that everyone repays a debt.

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These vignettes, and especially in the

conversations with oldtimers, show that the stereotype of

the "hard-working, hard-playing, and hard-drinking logger"

may have some validity, but is another side of logging.

When we look at the logging community of Clearwater

County, there is a thick and luxuriant veneer of

sophistication in the men of the logging industry.

Perhaps there is rich inlay inserted in this

surface. For it is an intricate patterning of

relationships, classic in nature. The complex

interweaving of these men and their values is in no way

the spontaneous product of a lone lumberjack cutting down

a tree. These men exemplify other traits that are more

prevalent to success in the logging industry. "Yes, we

worked all the time because we didn't know anything else,"

said Joe, and "We worked because we were doing it for

ourselves." But the lives of these early loggers in

Clearwater County point to relationships and not only to

individuals who work on a specific task.

These men show that the story of the Idaho logging

industry is inaccurate if it is looked upon as a story of

romanticized characters. These men may have worked hard

in the woods, but they were actually good businessmen.

They may have been less-colorful than those of the

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Bunyanesgue myth, but far more critical to the logging

industry.

To see the loggers as only immigrant lumberjacks

is an inaccurate picture of the past. It makes loggers

the hostages in the mythology of the bachelor logging

camps. In fact, this type of arrangement was not used

extensively in this region, nor was it prevalent for more

than a few decades. Both the Potlatch Corporation and

independent logging contractors set up small enclaves for

families to live together near a logging operation. As

with the American cowboy, because the myth is easier to

visualize, we hold to it instead of the reality of a

rancher who was both skilled in animal and business

management.* For in the logging community we have a

similar situation. Lumberjacks have an image that can be

captured for those outside the region and outside the

profession. Mel, Mel, and Joe don't look like

lumberjacks. There is no reason that they should. They

are outdoorsmen, wearing clothing necessary for that type

of climate. And, they have skill with the equipment of

logging. As men at the foundation of the industry, their

contribution to the field is not in colorful imagery but

as the men who set the philosophy for, and the value

system of the logging industry.

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During the first weeks of my time in Orofino, word

spread about my project. My first encounter with Mel

Snook began with a phone call from his son saying that

"Dad is an oldtimer and he should be in your book." I had

every intention of interviewing Melvin "Mel", "Boss,"

Snook but still had the feelings of timidity in field

work. I was thinking about how to find out whether there

was a real sense of art or aesthetics in the work of

logging. But prompted by Bill, the son, I decided to call

Mel.

Mel is past eighty, but when I called he had just

returned from two hours on his Caterpillar. He had been

working on his ranch that morning and was now settling in

to work on his memoirs. This is a practice not uncommon

among the oldtimers. His invitation to me was guarded

because of an experience which he had with a young woman

interviewer who tried to turn him into a hero and he

wanted none of it. He didn't want anyone to think he was

better than anyone else, because everyone does the best he

can. Putting his concerns aside, he invited me over for a

cup of afternoon coffee.

Mel's home, filled with family portraits, plants,

and piles of logging photos, held many memories of the

past. His wife of over sixty years was recently deceased.

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but she had built a lifestyle for him, as had so many

other women in the spouse-owned and operated logging Ccunps

of the 1940s and 1950s. She was present not only in

pictures but in the elements of taste and style that

offered a sense of order to this life of a logger.

1 had seen O.C.I. lumberjack show programs with

photos of Mel acting as the judge for the contests. He

had been at the first meeting in 1947, and he and Agnes

had been honored as the parade marshals in 1977. He is

remembered in newspaper articles as the man who

singlehandedly kept the show going after the flood of

1948. He proposed the auction and was a major donor.

Diamond Match gave a load of logs, and so did Joe

Richardson of Riverside Lumber. "It was a show for us, not

for the tourists and we had to make a go of it," said Mel.

Mel hadn't changed much in size or weight from

those early photographs. He was still straight and in

control, even more so than many of the oldtimers who are

now bent, with limbs twisted from overuse. Tomorrow was

his birthday, eighty-eight years old.

Mel, as most men in his age group, had started in

the woods with his father. He was actually cutting cord

wood in his early teens. By the time he had finished the

eighth grade he was working a ten-hour day at fourteen

cents an hour for the Pan Am Lumber Company.

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Although his great grandfather must have come from

Germany, that is really all he could say about his

European heritage. He has little family history, because

from what he says,

. . . when you're young you don't get that information, you really don't think about those things, and when you're old enough to appreciate it, they [the sources] are all dead. It's sad, but that's the way we are.

When Mel turned eighteen, his dad and a friend

bought a truck and a team of horses, and began gyppoing,

working on contract and by the piece, cutting lumber. His

brother came into the business with them. By 1922, it was

stable and began to employ more men. Because there was a

need for a business manager, Mel started Northwestern

Business College during the times they weren't working in

the woods. The company prospered, and Mel eventually took

over as one of the major logging contractors in the area.

Eventually in the 1940s, he had about forty men working

for him and from time to time, Mel probably employed

everyone in the Orofino area who was a logger.

Mel was successful, but as was true throughout the

lives of many loggers, there were economic ups and downs.

Mel remembers a time when his dad lost the logging sleigh

and horses. They were so poor that they went to a family

that had cows and asked for a pail of milk for the

children. That was the only charity they would accept.

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Even though the church had offered money, the Snook family

was going to make it on its own, without help. Generosity

was acknowledged and appreciative, but it was something of

a disgrace to ask for help. "Doing for yourself," and

"preparedness" seem to be the themes running throughout

Mel's conversation. "If you can handle yourself, you

don't have trouble. You want to learn everything you can

and do all you can."

Mel spoke briefly about union organizers who

showed up in this region. He remembers them and their

organizational scheme for labor.

Do what your job describes. Do it for a designated time. And do it on a standard set by the outside organization that has the interests of all workers at heart.

In this industry, a logger can do everything, he

can cross over to just about any job, but that wasn't what

the union thought was proper practice for labor in

business. In a sense, the union suggested that there was

a division between the employer and the employee, one that

loggers who worked side by side with their bosses did not

see. "When the union guy came around and said, hell what

are you doing, slow up, you began to question their

motives," said Mel."

Mel remembers the technological changes in the

industry. In about 1944, manual saws were replaced by

power saws. It was quite a revolution. The old sawyers

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didn't want to change and claimed that they could outsaw

the new equipment. In fact, even though they could not

physically saw faster, the amount of maintenance required

by power often set its production time back and meant that

manual sawyers were, in fact, more efficient (see The

Porters).

It was Albert Altmiller, a woodsworker and sawyer,

who became the mechanical genius. He was inventive with

the early McCullough chain saws that were big and

cumbersome and often needed two men to operate. They had

handles on both sides. In front of a salesman, Albert

said "I know a way to fix it". He did. He cut the end

off of one side of the saw so that the handle could be

eliminated.

Mel felt from the very beginning that the power

saw wouldn't be successful until the man who operated it,

owned it. It was that man who would do the thinking, and

changing, and making it better. He would make it his own

both by possessing it and understanding it. Eventually

that happened, and it changed the course of the history of

the power saw. Power saws, and especially the chains used

in sawing, are today the most important independently

owned and maintained element in the loggers' tool kit (see

Jake and Barbara Altmiller).

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Not only do I credit Mel with having one of the

very best memories for the technological changes, but he

was also the first person who used the word "artist" to

describe the woodsworkers. He began by telling me of the

categories of jobs in the woods. When he came to talking

about the early top loaders he said, "Now that Canada Joe,

he was a real artist." Mel couldn't find the words to be

eloquent enough about this man and loading crews in

general. It called for skill and balance, to keep those

unmanageable logs moving onto the top of a hauler. It was

hard enough to begin with, but logging in the winter, that

was the real test of a man. Mel said:

And the blacksmiths, they were real artists in days before acetylene welding. The work was very heavy, but they could get it perfect. Well, talk about artistry, most of the people in the early days of logging could do everything and they could do it right.

To be an artist was a physical feat, but it was also a

mental skill. The actions you were performing took

strength, but in order to get the operation done you had

to have a logic and understanding of physics. "Being

strong doesn't help if you can't figure out where and how

to get a load balanced."

The whole operation in the old days and today is a

"team thing," said Mel. Every man knew his job. They

looked out for each other. A very special kind of

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friendship developed on those crews, one based on the

balance of life and death.

Mel should be credited also with important

etiological information as well. He introduced me to the

idea, "that operations in the woods were the best research

lab, and gyppo loggers were the best research department

that any merchandiser could have." He remembers the hard

tires on trucks in the 1920s and the way in which loggers

kept adapting their trucks. "They'd use junk and

sometimes invent parts to replace those that broke."

Finally, manufacturers took their ideas and produced

trucks designed specifically for logging. The first ones

had no cabs or lights; they were used only on short hauls,

but they were bona fide logging trucks. Contrasting this

to logging truck capabilities today, eight miles was

considered a long haul. The progress that has taken place

is phenomenal. Loggers kept on learning about machinery,

and by the 1930s they were not only woodsworkers but many

would qualify as good mechanics.

Mel also gets credit for teaching me the origin,

or at least the logger's rendition, of the word,

"haywire." In the early days machinery would break down

and so some loggers would fix it up by themselves with

baling wire. It was practical for short-term use but

eventually it should be fixed properly. If it wasn't, the

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loggers who did it were not considered very good and

called a "haywire outfit."

When he looks back on the early days of logging,

it is Mel's opinion that people were different.

They were taught to work and they worked. Men and women weren't looking for easy things. Adversity makes you strong, and everyone can remember the tough days.

Mel is a philosopher; he sees himself as a moral

person. He keeps his word and feels that the old values

are the best values. There are things in modern society

that he can't condone and will be outspoken about them.

Today people want the easy way out and aren't willing to

take the consequences of their actions. He feels this

must change and people must return to valuing life,

family, and other human beings.

Mel still owns over five hundred acres of land and

logs it as he has for forty-five years. He does it

selectively so that the secondary growth looks like a real

forest. He's proud of the care, the artistry, with which

he has harvested his land. "If you're careful about the

diameter of tree that you cut, you can have a nice little

forest in forty or fifty years."

One wonders if Mel "Boss" Snook will be there, at

one hundred and thirty eight years of age, falling his

trees and skidding them down for loading. If so it will

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be à joy to him; if not, it will bring pleasure to

whomever is able to see the art in his work.

Joe Richardson

Joe Richardson thinks I am a truly stupid woman,

or at least that's the opinion he registers to me. How

can anyone from Wisconsin not know why an eagle is the

symbol of the J. I. Case steam engine company? How could

that be? Of course my stupidity about the iconography of

machinery is not my only shortcoming. I don't know the

heiress of the Case corporation, and she lives in

Washington, D.C. And I can't even get the logging

terminology correct, nor can I date certain logging

practices accurately.

Yet, Joe takes time with this technological

illiterate, and tries again and again to explain what is

really important in logging. For Joe, there is little

reason to talk about vague feelings, attitudes, or

outlandish hyperbole when you can be talking about real

machines and productive activities. His knowledge spans

sixty years and touches the full range of occupational and

community activities. He was there and knows why certain

events happened. He was there and doesn't hesitate to

refute the "histories" of other writers. He was there and

doesn't need to pretend nor does he let others get away

with it.

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Often, Jim Cochrane would accompany me on my visit

to Joe; I always hoped that somehow he could be my go-

between. The two, though years apart in age, are very

much the same in outlook. They are able to talk the same

language, one which is real, based on facts, and one that

depends on the concrete elements of the workings of the

world around them. My approach is totally different, I

try to look underneath comments and facts for a different

level of reality than the one that occurs in the sensate

world. My viewpoint probably exasperates them. But they

tolerate it nonetheless.

One morning Joe was sitting in the Ponderosa,

carrying on a conversation with an elderly man, wearing a

Western straw hat and looking every inch a cowboy. Joe

didn't mince words in introducing his friend, "Doc, the

drugstore cowboy, the man who doesn't know the front end

from the hind end of a horse. He's no cowboy." That's

all Joe had to say. Without malice but with a surety of

tone, Joe situates all those around him in reality.

Joe's background is one in logging but also one of

technological curiosity. His dad had logged with steam,

and he could remember the 1876 Corliss. According to Joe

this was a technological breakthrough. Its valve system

was shown at the World's Fair, the same year that Edison

had invented the light bulb, and the same year in which

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stream of information that comes from Joe, in a soft voice

and with little emphasis on any one topic. But when he

speaks of J. I. Case steam engines, there is something

else in his tone. Why has he been collecting them for so

long? The answer is simple, of course. "Because they are

the best-looking."

I say to Joe, "The governor is in town." He

replies.

So. He used to work for me before this political thing. He ran the green chain at Riverside Lumber, carrying green lumber up to be cut. He was a pretty good mechanic in those days.

Joe measures a man for what he can do, not for what

position he has attained. This is true of all of Joe's

dealings with others.

And now. I'll end the suspense and the mystery of

the J. I. Case eagle. J. I. Case was an Wisconsin-based

company. During the Civil War the regiment from Wisconsin

used an eagle on their regimental flag. It was drawn from

an actual eagle that had been given to the regiment by a

Native American. The eagle survived the war and was

brought back to Madison to live in the State House.

During a fire there, it was asphyxiated, but its remains

were taken to a taxidermist. It was stuffed and kept in

memory of the Wisconsin regiment. Perhaps to you this

story has little point, but to Joe it is important, for

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squawking chicken.

As is true of many of the people in this part of

the world, Joe sees history not as a book-bound

perspective on life. Instead, it provides rational

answers to real life questions, or real life occurrences.

Some scholars might want to analyze the symbolism of the

eagle. They might decide to deal with it as an

iconography that demonstrated the J. I. Case Company's

desire to be the center of patriotism. Joe would

probably see this cerebral interpretation as ridiculous.

He trusts realistic answers, and I was fortunate that he

gave me a realistic answer, a dismissal of myth for

reality.

In logging too, Joe is a man who dispels the myth

of the lumberjack. Joe is a fine businessman; that is the

reason for his success. He ran his mill with honesty,

integrity, and good business acumen. He may have worked

in the woods, but his reputation is in management, not the

type that is taught in a graduate department of business,

but in knowing how to handle his men and the resources at

his disposal.

Joe also has an unquenchable thirst for

information about technology and the machine age. During

one visit I gave him a copy of Engines of Change which is

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an historical interpretation of the coming of

industrialization to the United States. On my next visit

he quizzed me on the book, for he had consumed every fact

and was able to spout back the dates, places, and people

who had been responsible for technological invention.

Joe was a mill owner, and so in the second phase

of his professional life somewhat more removed from work

in the woods than others of his peers. Yet he remembers

with great relish the early years he spent in the forest

protection service. During those days he was responsible

for building the lookout towers. This was not an easy

task in an era without roads to get to the sites. Often

snowshoeing was the only way.

Joe's life has gone through many phases. Now he

looks back on his life in logging mostly from the vantage

point of technology and the development in machinery that

has occurred. He is a connoisseur of beauty in machinery

and has an unparalleled collection of Case steam

machinery. He takes these treasures to exhibitions of

steam engines throughout the country and is known for the

care with which his restorations are done. This too, is

not a task that can be accomplished overnight. These are

projects that are decades in the doing.

Joe also has a real love for wood. In his home

each room is paneled with exceptional examples of native

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timber that was produced in his mill. It is his way of

living with the fruits of his profession.

Joe exemplifies a life in logging that understands

all the mechanical technicalities of the industry. It is

a life based on good order and precision, one that has an

appreciation for the finer things of life and the finest

products of the logging industry. This is a man with a

full and rich life. He is a perfectionist in everything

he does and yet claims that his life has been based on

"doing what we had to do."

He finds an incomparable degree of satisfaction in

the possibility that you can harvest the trees you have

planted yourself and then take that wood and turn it into

a beautiful object. Perhaps it will be a spinning wheel

for a niece or a picture frame for a photo of his Case

steam engine. His woodworking is ingenious. His shop is

filled with unique tools and devices for doing impossible

tasks work in wood,and regardless of the product, his

creations are as perfect as Joe can make.

Franklin Randol

Everyone said I should meet Franklin Randol, the

best cruiser operating in the woods. And yet when I did,

he began by telling me I should have met George Harlan,

the best cruiser operating in the woods. After evidencing

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the appropriate degree of humility, he laid out his claim

to a reputation as an excellent cruiser.

"Twenty-one years of tramping for Potlatch. I've

seen everything from white pine logging with horses to

helicopter operations. What a contrast!" He continued.

And you'd think that I could retire; no I'm still doing two hundred and fifty sections a year for these real estate people. Whenever someone wants to sell land they call me to estimate the timber on that lot. I cruise it first for the timber sale. A lot people think its a cinch, but finding the corners, that isn't always easy.

In this brief conversation I realized that I

needed help understanding the process of cruising and why

these men are so valuable to corporations, independent

loggers, and land owners alike. And once the term

"estimator" was mentioned, I had a better grasp of the

cruiser's role in the woods. The cruiser estimates the

number of board feet that could be logged in a given stand

of timber.

Cruisers like Franklin Randol, who at seventy-five

looks fifty, are always out in the woods. He never gets

sick because according to him he "wears wool clothes and

eats onions." He likes the out-of-doors and finds it a

healthy place to be; "in this country it's too cold for

germs anyway." But he believes that going from the

"physical" age to the machine age has affected people's

health. They have become sedentary and sickly.

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Frank has looked at billions of feet of timber in

his time. Cruisers "look at everything" in the woods; it

is their determination as to the yield of an area by

species and quantity that will set the price, settle an

estate, or fix the bid for the timber.

Much of the territory in this region of the

country is surveyed by mapping techniques that have varied

from time to time. The maps of yesteryear were not nearly

as accurate as they are today. This means that land

disputes over the actual boundaries are common. Often

Frank cannot depend on records, even official ones to be

accurate. He has to go out on the land and find the

original markers at the perimeters of a tract of land.

But regardless of the technical advances, the equipment,

and the maps, the job is only as good as the cruiser, as

the person who does it.

As a cruiser, you must train your eye. You are

looking at many factors all at the same time: species,

width, height, and condition of the potential lumber.

While cruising, you also get a sense of the difficulties

that the logging crew will encounter in harvesting a

certain tract. Ask Frank and he will tell you that a good

cruiser has the "right perspective" on the stand and that

he "sizes up the timber even before he gets to it."

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There are certain technical procedures that you

follow in this job. When you cruise you go in a straight

line, looking on either side of that line for the

marketable species. You can cruise and estimate between

100% and 20% of the stand. Normally you cover forty acres

as the best estimable percentage of a six hundred and

forty acre section. From your observation you draw a map

and then put together a chart that shows what's on the

land. The chart is like a grid that itemizes the number

of species and specific trees in each square. The

percentage of territory covered and the amount of

marketable timber the cruiser says is on that portion is

used to estimate the yield of the entire area.

The cruiser has an eye, a truly discriminating

eye. He knows dimension and species at a glance.

Everyone works at the talent, but according to Frank, you

also have to have a natural inclination toward it.

Cruisers are a proud lot. They enjoy the

challenge of seeing how accurate their estimates are.

They want to perfect themselves and will check to see how

close their estimate comes to the actual production of the

stand. The accuracy of the cruiser can be measured in

the mill, when the lumber is actually scaled and the two

quantities come out the same. Frank can say that he is

right on target often.

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Today, it is possible to do aerial cruising

enhanced by computers. It is a technique suggested by

government agencies. But for Frank the only way to really

get an accurate estimate is to be there and see the

condition of the stand. Anyone can identify the species

and the quantities from above, but no one can tell

conditions unless you are close to the tree. Being there

let's you look at the terrain and know the amount of time

necessary to harvest it.

Today there are only three cruisers left in the

area. It is becoming a lost art, and other than cruising

with an old timer, there is no way to learn the craft. It

may be that the new technology wins by attrition, but if

so, a great skill, an outstanding practice of

woodsmanship, will be gone.

How did Frank Randol become a good cruiser? Why

did Potlatch keep him on the job for twenty-one years?

Throughout our conversation several elements of his job

struck me as most important. First, he knew the

importance of concentration and observation. He could

see. This was more than a matter of good eyesight, it was

a matter of insight, and anticipating what comes into view

next. His perception of space, distance, and density are

excellent.

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Second, Frank's talent and the talent of many

woodsworkers depends on the fact of "being there." They

have been on site for long periods of time. The forest is

familiar to them.

Third, Frank keeps moving. Cruising is done at a

swift pace. It is not a matter of a leisurely saunter

through the timbers. To go with Frank is to expend a lot

of energy at nearly a jogger's pace. "What good is a

cruiser if you're paying him by the hour and it takes him

longer to estimate than it would to have someone come out

and just saw," says Frank.

From this conversation I realized that the work of

the cruiser is typical of other roles in a life in

logging. It is a life that is constantly trying to make

sure that approximations are as accurate as possible. It

is the measure of exactness, not the margin of error, that

everyone in the woods works on. The cruiser is an

estimator, the scaler is an estimator, the independent

logging contractor must have a good sense of estimating,

for it is on this basis that he will place a bid for a

job. Any errors along the line, anyone who is not well-

trained in his craft, can set the entire process off

kilter. The estimates begin to bear no resemblance to

reality, and at each stage of the game the magnitude of

the error grows.

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On the other hand, when all of the estimators are

on target there is both financial certitude and also a

pride that lets each man know he is right. Being correct,

being accurate is an important measure of a man in the

logging industry.

Frank also opened an unusual area of thought for

me when he spoke of his feelings and his sense of

direction in unknown territory. Frank said, "If you have

never been in a place, how would you know if you were

lost?." Now that made me stop and pause. It made me

wonder about the cognitive map of a man like Frank. To me

the knowledge of streets, intersections, and landmarks is

essential to feeling comfortable in any environment. If I

know these I am never off the track. Probably, I could

operate if these points were clearly defined in the

natural environment. But to trust in the unknown, with no

points of reference would be disconcerting.

For Frank, who often has cruised in unknown

territory, being situated means something very different.

It doesn't allow for the concept of being lost. Not

knowing your exact location does not mean you are lost.

It means that you are at a place that may be

unrecognizable but no different from any other place. You

have the confidence that here or anywhere, you can manage,

you can cope with existence. You are in a place and if

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you don't have to be somewhere else by a certain time

you'll be there, in that place, until you get to somewhere

else. This ideas seems to bring together the sense of

place and time that had been so difficult for me to

understand in this occupation and region. You can take

all the time you want in a place, you are in command of

it, you are not lost, you are just taking longer to get

back to where you came from. If people from the past are

still alive or in your thoughts, they are not history,

they are a part of the present.

I'm tossed upside down, I am truly a limnar. The

world that I have chosen to explore a life in logging

doesn't allow for one of the major concerns of modern

society— being lost and all the connotations that it

commands.

The Man with a Shed Full of Stuff

Bill Cummings has done it all; on the job, his

construction company would tackle any project. He's built

roads, put in septic tanks, and moved houses. He's done

more hauling than he wants to remember. That was the

basis of his business; his low-boys could be seen

throughout the region. These nine-axle trailers were

"running all over the place."

Though he was raised in Orofino, on Canada Hill to

be exact, he has been as much a man of the world as you

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will find in this community. He was in the service during

World War II and has a wealth of experience from his time

away. But today at seventy. Bill is content to relax on

his property, to survey the land, and make sure that it is

manicured in the way a natural environment must be. Along

with his home and equipment buildings. Bill has a shed

that contains bits and pieces of the lives of six

different families. His is an informal repository for

things that are too precious to throw away and yet too

distant from necessity to keep up close. His own

treasures include a 1930 caterpillar, a 1923 Mack truck,

and an antique automobile.

Bill's philosophy is based on the life he has led.

Anyone can learn anything. You have to have some ability, but what you really need is determination and desire. When I was growing up, everybody was poor so we had to start working and trying to outdo everyone else. Here stands ten men, nine fall down and one walks on.

Bill has run a lot of crews, and those men who

were good began that way but they also showed

determination. They wanted to be better, to understand

construction jobs. Another of Bill's work-related axioms

is "even though you want to get a job done, never get in

too big a hurry; if you do, you'll never get there." Bill

believes that a good man has to have the right attitude.

Discipline is paramount; you have to be clean, and have a

haircut.

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Some things about modern life don't thrill Bill.

For example, once on a job, his Caterpillar was wrecked.

It had fallen into the waterway. Bill knew it would take

one hour to get the wrecked machine out, but a week to get

the permission to do it.

In a sense Bill Cummings has spent a life

alongside of logging. He has been of the region and

supporting it, sometimes working in it but always knowing

that the services of someone good in construction and

engineering were invaluable to the logger. Loggers didn't

want to handle these jobs, but Bill could, and he was

always there when he was needed.

According to Bill, a good boss is always a good

listener and teacher. And one of the best had been Frank

Fromelt. His name came up so often in conversation with

loggers as a truly noble person. According to Bill,

Frank, who befriended him in 1929, was memorable. He was

honest and hardworking. He went out of his way to give

jobs to people who needed them and would have gone to the

brink of bankruptcy before letting any of his employees

down.

Stories of Frank Fromelt are circulated widely.

One, for example tells both of Frank and of the attitude

of many people in this part of the country. Frank liked

driving new cars and would buy a Cadillac on a regular

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basis. On one occasion he went to Lewiston, Idaho for a

new car wearing logging clothes. Going to Lewiston was no

reason to change his clothes. When he arrived at the

dealership, the salesmen ignored him. One after another

just walked past as if he didn't exist. Finally, a

receptionist came from the office and asked if she could

be of help. Frank asked for the owner. When the owner

came out, he recognized Frank immediately as a good

customer. Frank took cash from his pocket and said, "I

want a new Cadillac and I want this young woman to have

credit for the sale." The owner was gracious but told

Frank it was impossible, she couldn't get commissions as a

receptionist. Frank said, "no commission for her, no car

for me." Of course the owner changed his mind, the young

woman received a bonus, and Frank bought his car.

There are several variations of this story or

perhaps several stories like this. I'm not quite sure

which. But I do know that it is told to pay tribute to

Frank as well as give a pointed example of an important

attitude held by these people. It's not what you look

like that counts, it's what you've done. And you always

reward those who do the job regardless of what their

positions are said to be officially.

Again, as so often during this field experience,

what the people of Orofino look upon as everyday fare

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struck terror in my heart. Bill decided to take me up the

incline to show me Orofino from the top of the ridge.

There were several ways to go, the safest of which would

be to walk. Even though the terrain was steep and the

altitude relatively high, a slow walk up the hill would

have been enjoyable.

Instead, he put me on the back of a four-wheeler,

a recreational, off-road vehicle with large wheels. With

every foot I felt as if it would tip and we would go

tumbling down the hill with the vehicle plummeting after

us. I held on. He drove. We got to the top. I took

three photos and we began to descend. Finally, we were

down and it was time to ride through town in his restored

Model A Ford. Almost as if I was being rewarded, we got

in and putted through Orofino, waving to every passerby.

The Porters

Louie Porter needed boots and asked his employer

for part of his wages. The employer told Louie he could

have half of everything that he owned. The sum total was

pocket change and one half of his business. From that

inauspicious beginning, Louie built a business and

eventually processed some of the very best white pine in

the region. Louie's life story is similar to those I'd

heard throughout the logging community. He wasn't afraid

of hard work.

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Louie met Faye one day when she was walking down

the road to visit her grandmother. Theirs was an instant

attraction. They wanted to get married but had to wait

three years until 1932 when they had enough money to get a

license. They've been together ever since.

"It was tough going in those days. You made one

dollar for cutting and splitting a cord of wood," said

Louie. But throughout our three-way conversation I had a

feeling that they wouldn't have traded this life for any

other. This was especially true when they spoke of the

time during which they ran the logging operation.

The outfit at "O" Mill was a operation with

bunkhouses and a cookhouse. Old photographs show a

utilitarian kitchen ready for the action of feeding large

groups of lumberjacks. Yet, other photos capture Faye's

perpetual preoccupation with flowers and her unquenchable

need to have a garden.

Their camp was modern by 1951. They used gravity

flow to provide water and indoor bathrooms. The standard

day began at 4:00 A.M. Louie would get up and look over

the job. By 6:00 A.M. he would have a plan for the day.

Then it was time to go to the cookhouse for breakfast. By

7:00 A.M. Louie and his crew were hard at work. Faye did

the washing, shopped for groceries and parts in Orofino,

tended her garden, and took lunch out to him on the job.

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At 4:00 the work day ended. In the evenings they sat

around, "told lies, played poker, and smoked."

In business, the Porters were prosperous. They

had seven camps and were for some years the largest

independent operation in the area. His most challenging

job was at Poor Man Creek. He had four townships under

contract at the same time. He had to build all the roads,

survey the entire area, and line up special people who

were well-trained to do the job of cutting the timber. He

has one of the finest reputation in the region as a

logger, as an employer, and as an individual.

Louie feels he was born to be in logging. When he

was sixteen he said "this is what I'm going to do," and he

never changed his mind. "You get tired but not of

logging; it gets into your blood and you don't want to do

anything else." He treated his men fairly but everyone on

the crew had to produce. To be good you had to be

ambitious, have know-how, and have a clean cut appearance.

You didn't need much muscle but needed a lot of brains.

Faye was the flunky, a term used for the person

who does everything, and she did. Without her the

creature comforts would have gone unattended. She was the

mainstay of the entire operation. She ran it with the

gentle hand of a mother and the determination of a

general. Their operation was often pointed out as the

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finest of its kind and era. As was true then, and is so

often true today, it took a man and woman working together

to make a logging business succeed.

Louie and Faye enjoy talking about the past and

the exploits of their youth. Once, Louie challenged a

power saw. He had confidence in himself but also in the

widely known fact that the early saws were an imperfect

invention. The time for the contest came and the power

saw wouldn't run. Louie's opponent had to wait for parts.

By the time they came, Louie and his old, manual cross-cut

saw had processed 18,000 feet of timber. The power saw,

nothing.

Louie has a wealth of information and opinions

about the old days. For one, he feels that in his day the

sons of logging families were always better workers

because the craft was passed down and the sons watched

their dads at work. When asked about the one overriding

feature of success in logging operations Louie doesn't

hesitate. "It's the roads." The most important

consideration in any job is the road. "You must keep them

well-tended. At night you water them to keep the dust

down. Any job is only as good as your road." For Louie,

There is no way to learn logging out of a book; you must grow up in the brush and learn it by experience. Education is good for business but it doesn't make a logger out of you. If you want to be a logger, having a degree is as good as having rocks in the head.

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Logging takes experience and hard work. The best school is doing it.

And who were some of the finest loggers he's

known? "Well, there was Abner Kelder; he was strong, he

had know-how and wasn't afraid of any work. He handled

big timbers as if they were toothpicks." And another?

Tim Barnett's mother. She was one of the best loggers that there was. Women can be, you know; they may not be quite strong enough to do sustained work like a logger can, but some are really good with machinery and in the woods. They even make pretty good truck drivers.

The Porters succeeded in daily logging operations

and also with their show loads for the Fair. They won

first prize with a load of Ponderosa pine. Louie thinks

it is by far the prettiest timber. And his criteria for

beauty? "Its bark is smooth; it's a yellow-gold color,

and in the forest it stands out and glistens." Louie and

his crew worked for a month to pick out the finest trees.

They found seven or eight with no defects. He wanted his

load to be number one. They were big, round, and straight

with no limbs till the top. In preparing the load, they

felled the trees one at a time and positioned them so that

they were as close as possible to the truck. In that way

they didn't have to skid them and destroy the bark. It

was a real honor to be on the showload crew. It called

for special, caring men (see The Show Load).

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Louie has his own definitions for the industry. A

lumberjack is a man who works in the woods. A logger is a

contractor. Gyppo is a word that was used for a

contractor but has all but faded out. According to Louie,

he remembers Joe Parker of Potlatch using it and saying,

"They do the work, we gyp them."

I was surprised when I asked Louie and other

loggers what they thought was their most memorable

experience in the woods. Often they did not recall a

triumph or the best job they had ever done; instead they

would relate the time that someone was killed. For Louie

it was the death of Lesco Reece. He had been killed when

a dead tree fell over and onto him. For Louie this was an

exceptional tragedy, for he liked all his men and did

everything he could for them. This was not only a loss of

an employee. It was a loss that struck close to home.

The men in his camp were like family and always had been

to Louie and Faye.

Today the Porters live a comfortable existence in

the valley. Their home is near the creek and the natural

elements so much a part of the region. But in their

backyard, Faye has turned a plot of Idaho into a little

part of England. Her garden sings with flowers and herbs

in placements and design that recall a British country

garden. The Porters have lived under untamed conditions.

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but they have always had that sense of flair, that sense

of good taste in their life that is so often ignored in

describing a life in logging.

Just as Faye tended their garden religiously,

Louie had equally precise standards for work in the woods.

You don't want to cut it all down and don't let the big corporations brainwash younger people to think that there's a reason to clearcut. When you do a job you leave the small trees and you clean up the remains. A good job should look like a park when you're done; looking like a park, that's the answer.

The Logging Museum

For many years Bert Curtis' cabin stood at

Headquarters abandoned, used principally for storage of

old records. It was the catchall for logging

paraphernalia. No one thought of a museum of logging as a

priority. No one that is except Bob Allen, a retired

Potlatch woodsworker.

When I first met Bob, the cabin was still at

Headquarters and we had our conversation in an empty lot

on Main Street in Pierce, Idaho. He had no script, he had

no money, but he had the conviction that the area needed a

logging museum. Somehow he'd get it moved and get his

version of the logging story installed.

Six months later in November, it had been done.

A foundation had been laid. The cabin was moved. A

storage building was in place, and as an added attraction

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a sharpener's shed had been dismantled and reassembled on

the site. If ever the logging, "can-do" mentality was in

evidence, Bob's six month odyssey from Headquarters to

Pierce, from shambles to order and from logger to museum

director, was it.

He received the services and a financial donation

from Potlatch. His friends, mostly logging contractors in

Pierce who had equipment, sent it and their men to help

move the building. Volunteers often appear out of the

blue. On a Sunday afternoon ten or twelve loggers will

show up just to help out. Never with a schedule and never

with sign-in sheets, they all just dig in. Now, Pierce

has a logging museum.

In many ways the story of logging will be easy to

tell, because the tellers, the volunteers who will come to

greet the public, after the official opening in 1991, will

be Bob and the oldtimers. They used the equipment that is

on display, and Bob is sure that they will be inventive

enough to keep the public interested. Bob isn't concerned

about staff, because as is true of so many other projects

in Clearwater County, there will be plenty of volunteers

to come in to help. "It's something they like to do when

they feel a part of the operation."

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How did Bob get involved in this massive

undertaking? Bob says he always liked history, but his

wife says it was inevitable.

He was forever coming home with junk, with stuff. I'd walk into my living room and find an old switchboard sitting there. Every day it was something else. Now, luckily, I have my house back and all those things are down at the museum. But I'm sure, sooner or later, he'll run out of space and they'll be cropping up again.

But artifacts are only one part of the museum.*

With his background and that of the loggers who drop in, a

visit to the museum will be like stepping into living

history. There are facts and stories swirling around the

room. Information that rarely appears in publications

because it is so common, so matter-a-fact, so seemingly

inconsequential, will be shared. For example, "If you're

big enough, you're old enough." That was the criterion

for working in the woods. Bob started at Potlatch's

Camp 58 working in yellow pine in 1946. He was there and

experienced the 1948 flood of the Camas Prairie railroad.

"Being there adds so much to history. It means being able

to tell a story and have others believe it," says Bob.

Bob has already identified some of the sacred

icons of the logging life. For one, the flumes, long man-

made wooden channels built on stilts, that were the

pathways for logs from uphill to the waterways. Because

of their efficiency and place in traditional logging.

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talking about them is almost like telling a scriptural

story. Finding the remains of one over a stream as you

drive down the highway is reason to pause, look at it, and

marvel at an entire era that is gone. Bob has the early

notes from the Beaver Creek flume and as a self-educated

engineer, he intends to build it.

Bob will bring a portion of the flume into the

museum and tell the its story and the excitement of the

log drives. They too are sacred, remembered and watched,

over and over again, in old movies and videos. There was

a splendor about the log drives. You waited all year for

it to happen. You had only one chance to do the job

right. You had your best men there because of the

complexity of the operation and its associated dangers.

When it happened it was high drama. As if the premiere of

a live Broadway show, it was a performance of the art of

logging in its highest form.

Bob will also uphold the memories of fine Potlatch

supervisors. The museum is named for the first, J. Howard

Bradbury, a man who "always appreciated the worker," and

he will have information about Wallace Boles when he was

at Headquarters. Bob says, "He was one of the finest men

around. He paid you for every hour you worked during a

time when workers often felt cheated by their employers."

Bob was untrained in the workings of museums, but

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since he has often learned by doing, he feels becoming a

museum director will be an automatic process. And most

importantly, the desire is there. He's always be able to

put his wishes into reality.

When you want to do it so badly, it's play and not work. As you're doing it you have in your imagination the finished product and what it will be like. You may operate by the seat of your pants, but the vision is always there and it happens.

According to Bob, you have to have that "second

sense" and understand that spit and polish takes time but

is well worth it. "That's the artistry in it; two men can

do the same thing but one looks nice, the other just

doesn't have it."

Most of Bob's comments were about road building,

but they apply to other logging operations.

The best guys around will know how to build a road, not from a blueprint, but because they've been there. It has to be long enough and wide enough to get into a bank so you don't have to fill it in across as some engineers suggest today.

Bob, like so many others in this area, mentioned

the Hutchins brothers and their mill at Weippe.

They made it work because it's all theirs; their money and their computer. The programming was done by a high school dropout and it works; it works better than the one in the corporate mill.

According to Bob, "A degree doesn't say you can do

something, it only says you can go to school."

Looking back over his past. Bob loved every minute

in woods. But it wasn't the cutting down of trees that

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of nature. He would put a kink in a road just to save a

special stand of quaking aspens. He'd construct ditches

to insure water quality and seed skidding roads to finish

off a job even if it wasn't required. He wanted the

environment to be attractive, and it was part of his job

not only to use its resources but to keep it beautiful.

Bob and his wife were another couple that claimed

that they never argued. His work was important to him and

she believed in him, so she believed in it as well. He

was a good provider, and judging from the appearance of

their spread, he handled his personal life in the same

manner he did his work in the woods. Every feature of his

homestead was done to perfection. The garden and the

grass were country-club clipped. The house and

outbuildings were freshly painted, and the vehicles were

parked in even rows. Bob's life was one of concern for

visual appearances. He would obviously apply this same

discriminating eye to the development of the museum.

Bob started me thinking about several important

issues that will be developed in the final section of this

volume, WORK AS ART. First, what if environmentalists

left the logging industry alone, removed themselves from

the issues? Would loggers come in and cut down all the

trees? Would they take shortcuts to boost their

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individual earnings, or would that be against the

philosophy and the aesthetics of those who take pride in

logging? And exactly how does Potlatch, the major logging

corporation in this region, fit into the picture given to

me by the independent logging contractors?

Second, why was I surprised when Bob spoke of

imagination and intuition? Weren't all loggers like the

lumberjacks of the past; hard-drinking and insensitive?

How could this be? Bob was a man in the logging industry

talking to me as would one in the arts— about creativity.

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LOGGERS TODAY

The Bauahs

Both Norman and Sharon Baugh appear Individually

in this dissertation, but it is inevitable that they

should appear together, for they are inseparable. She was

another wife whose feet hit the floor first in the

morning. At dinner in the Garden Room of the Ponderosa

the Baughs, my husband, and I sampled the cuisine. I was

using the room as I have described it, as a place for

sociability but also intense discussion. It worked.

The Baughs appeared looking less like loggers than

Sun Valley skiers going out for a night on the town,

casual chic with not a crease, not a wrinkle. They cut a

fine figure and they knew it. I think they were ready for

this interview. They wanted to be heard because they knew

themselves to be one of the prominent families, supportive

of the logging tradition. Though this was the case, they

would never have boasted of it to me or anyone in the

community.

"Everybody works." That seemed to be the theme in

their household. Everyone is continually moving, not

229

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putting in hours, but accomplishing tasks. Thinking in

terms of working from 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. doesn't make

any sense to them; work must be done when the conditions

call for it. You clean when something is dirty, and you

drive a truck when the conditions are right. You know

instinctively when these times are. Something of a

schedule occurs because dirt accumulates at a certain rate

and rain-soaked roads dry out at a certain rate. But to

think of spending your life in an office, shuffling paper

is just not work. There are too many stages in-between

that are really work, and are tied to an end product.

Words on paper bear little relationship to reality. And

what does this paperwork produce, a report, or a memo, or

a book? Good for one thing, to be read, but rarely acted

upon. Or if acted upon, modified drastically because

reality and paperwork are miles apart.

In their family, there is a division of labor.

Norman runs the truck. Sharon controls the finances. It

is up to her to make sure that they have allocated monies

in the proper way. Norman tells a delightful story about

going out with his grandsons. It was a moderately muddy

day when one of his grandsons wanted to see how the chains

were put on. The conditions didn't warrant it, and so

Norm told him, "No." The grandson thought a moment and

said, "You're right papa-grams, we don't want to wear them

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out, they cost a lot of money and grandma doesn't want us

to wear them out." Norman told this story, and Sharon

responded, "sure everyone knows that Grandma is tight."

In practice, this doesn't seem to be the case,

because everyone tells her what they want. She has the

final say, but always finds a way to meet all of their

needs while making ends meet as well. As Norman says,

"It's my job to make the money and hers to see if it is

enough."

Sharon feels that many women, the wives of men in

logging are in her position. I had seen this in several

other cases, in both the old-timers' operations and in

contemporary logging families, the husband and wife were a

team, there was a camaraderie that didn't come out of

books on good marriages. They were always together, and

if they couldn't be, they knew exactly where to find the

another, just in case an emergency arose. They don't

complain, and they don't argue.

How do they handle situations in which there are

several possible answers, for example the choice of a new

logging truck? Both Sharon and Norman go shopping.

Norman has his favorite brand but could be convinced to

try another. Sharon feels that if he is happy with one

brand he should stick with it. Norman is undecided.

Sharon states her opinion again and with it adds, "If you

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get a different brand and you're not happy, don't

complain. I won't say I told you so and you won't

complain." That's the end of it; Sharon stated her

position, Norman made the decision, and from that point on

it was his to live with. There was no argument over the

decision-making process, nor would there be any argument

in the future because they would both live up to their

word. It's a simple process, says Sharon, "If you agree

beforehand not to argue about it, you won't argue."

I had been advised to ask the women I spoke with

about shopping for parts. This was a critical job in the

role they played as wives in logging. It could be an area

of real contention if women are considered unmechanical.

When a part is needed, the husband will tell his wife. He

will be as specific as possible with both the part name

and the technicalities associated with the problem. She

will go off during the day to get the part. Normally, the

parts shops know the drivers, their rigs, and the way in

which they operate. They can give her the part she needs.

But sometimes this process is not as easy as going

to the store for a windshield wiper blade or a spark plug.

These rigs are very complex machines and have very

specific parts requirements. At one time there were many

more stores and it was easier to find what was needed. As

their numbers dwindle, the wife find it necessary to take

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longer and longer drives to try to get the correct part.

Sometimes she must go as far as Spokane, a four hour

drive. But, it is a part of her job on this team.

The Baughs believe in work. Norman doesn't see

retirement as an option; he can't imagine what it would be

like. "Many drivers are still good, not past their prime,

even though they are in their seventies. So why should he

even think of quitting?" There are so many things about

it that Norman likes about driving a truck; looking at the

sun rise and the beaver dam being built, growing slowly

every time his rig passes the same bend in the stream.

Work is his livelihood, but it is also central to

his total existence. He does it right, he does it to

perfection, he feels good about it, and about himself.

It's not only a job— anyone can do that, but it is doing a

little bit extra. It's picking up the residue on a log

landing so that when you leave, it looks well-maintained.

"It's not only the work you do, but it's the world you

live in. You do things as best as you can and then one

day, you die," says Norman.

Of all the projects Norman has done in his career,

the one that makes him most proud is moving the Peck

Bridge. When he mentioned it, I tried to imagine what he

was talking about. There are several bridges spanning the

Clearwater River. The one that had been at Myrtle was now

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driving.

These bridges are large, able to accommodate

logging trucks and seemingly unmovable, at least to my

eye. How could one logging truck drag it down the roadway

to another site at Peck and reposition it in place? I

couldn't doubt that it was true, because Norman had

photographs of the process. But I still couldn't image

how they had done it.

How did it all happen? Norman was told about the

project by his boss. Bud felt it wasn't too big or too

heavy and said they would move it. Bud and Norman talked

about it. They welded one end onto the truck bunk, the

other end set on the tilt deck trailer and they carried

all one hundred and ten feet of it down the highway to its

new location. Sharon rode in the rig with signs that they

were carrying a wide load. In fact, Norman felt that in

some ways it was easier than hauling logs because often

they are top heavy; the bridge was relatively well-

balanced. There was nothing monumental about it. It was

a job that had to be done and they did it.

He felt proud about moving the bridge for two

reasons: first, they wanted it moved. But second, so many

people said that it couldn't be done. One company said it

might be done but it would cost $20,000. Instead a bunch

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of dumb gyppos moved it. And to add to the

accomplishment, Norman said with pride, "And we only had

to back the truck up once to position it."

Someday I'm going to ask for those pictures and

examine them with my husband, an engineer, from an

engineering perspective. The fact that it was done tells

me it is possible, but I have a hunch that if you study

the project there would be serious questions about how and

if it could be done.

As I think about this, I can understand the

reluctance that many of the people in the logging

community, men like Norman, have in trusting

theoreticians. Norman has a brilliance in execution that

doesn't come from formulae or from mechanical sketches.

He doesn't trust people who spend most of their time with

abstract information on paper or computers, data that they

cannot see and feel.

There is a significant difference between being

there, being on site, being able to experience every

sensation of the job, and being in an office. At a desk

you assume that conditions are as they are documented on

paper and that a particular technique will work.

This applies very often to road building. It's

one thing to plan a road because you see what the contours

are and what must be done. Its quite another to see it

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only in a written description. So often road planners

don't fully know the conditions, or if they do, they don't

get out everyday to see how the road is holding up. The

logging truck drivers do. They don't need a report on

road conditions. They feel them. They experience the

wear that the roads are subjected to every time they take

another load from the job to the mill. Drivers can give a

full report on the conditions and status of all the roads

in the county.

Norman prizes his independence. Owning his own

truck is being his own boss. He can work at his own

speed. Sure he is responsible to the contractor and the

mill owner for whom he is logging, but they know his

talents. He's appreciated.

Norm and other drivers, those who have gained

notice in the area, like men of the Greene family and

Dwayne Opdahl to name only a few, don't want to "get out

of the saddle." These men don't want to retire. They see

no need for it. Their skills may lessen a bit with age.

Their eyesight may be less acute and their reflexes a bit

slower. But for driving logging trucks, the skills they

really need, perception of weight and knowledge of truck

performance on different terrain, will be with them to

their graves.*

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But over and over again Norman told me of so many

men who had the mistaken idea that if you were a long-haul

driver you can naturally drive a logging truck. Its

untrue and dangerous to believe this. The principles are

totally different, and often it is one of these drivers

that will come down a grade too fast and flip a load of

logs. When that happens the truck is wrecked by the

weight of the logs and the roadway may be a mess.

Family life for a driver is not easy. Although

Norman and Sharon have arranged their life as best as they

can, when their daughters were growing up many times he

couldn't attend school programs or other family events.

But the Baughs nor their daughters feel that they had been

cheated of their family life. In fact, they are still

very close to Tammi, who resides with them while she

finishes college, and Brenda who lives down the road in

Julietta.

One of the joys of Norm's life is to take the

boys, his grandsons, on the logging truck. Though they

are still very young, both under ten years of age, they

get up early and head out with papa-grams. These are long

days and yet they don't tire of the experience. They

can't, there is no way out. You are in it for the day

because each day's pay is a significant portion of the

family's livelihood. I wonder what Norman tells them as

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they ride the highways, picking up logs from the job, and

deposit them at the mill? At their ages I doubted that

much technical information was conveyed, but I imagine

that the sensations and the feelings are already becoming

a part of their understanding. Then grandma, on the other

hand knows that they can walk by a loaded truck on the way

to pre-school and say whether there should be three

wrappers or two.

The Baughs enjoy their life together. Norman and

Sharon are friends. They can talk to one another about

anything, from the technicalities of a job and the repairs

necessary, to the wonders of an antique toy truck they

might have seen. When they were married, they were both

young, and they intend to grow old together.

As we left the restaurant, my husband and I were

heading across the street and Sharon and Norman were off

to their truck, Sharon called out. "Oh, Charlene, if we

ever have a fight. I'll call you and tell you what it was

about." That was months ago. I think I should give up

the wait, for judging from the overall pattern of life

that I've seen in these logging families, arguments are

few and far between. As in town life, so in life on an

incline. It is not in anyone's best interest to argue.

Negotiation, as easily and quickly as possible, is

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imperative, for it is only in that way that life and work

can go on.

Don't Mess with Me

For over a year, Sharon Barnett and I have

intended to sit down and talk about serious matters. She

is central to many of the ideas that I have in trying to

explain the life of loggers. She has been married to Tim

Barnett for over thirty years and was a co-owner in their

logging business. She has lived in an isolated logging

region. And for over ten years she has been the manager

of O.C.l. Yet, we never seemed to get to the crux of the

matter. We were always taking care of logistics or

catching up on friends and family. We could never get to

a straightforward conversation about logging.

I have seen her in many of her moods; frivolous,

grouchy, efficient, and light-hearted. I have seen her

strike a pose when confronted with a question that she

didn't want to answer. And I have seen her effectively

turn away from matters she didn't intend to handle. She

is a proud woman and has "no nonsense" about her. Her tee

shirt that states, "I'm Sharon Barnett, Don't Mess With

Me," is right on the mark.

All in all, Sharon is no mystery to me. She is a

friend, someone to confide in and joke with, someone who

would tolerate me for my stupidity about her way of life.

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Sharon can talk about logging and the tribulations of

running the office of the logging company. But she can

also bubble with excitement when talking about her role as

a woman, supporting the logging industry.

On this last day of my final visit to Orofino, we

had the opportunity to sit and talk about her life. It

wasn't easy to begin because it was as if everything had

been said before in snippets. When it came to full-blown

ideas and a path for our conversation, neither one of us

knew where we were going. I began with the most obvious

question, "What is it like to be the wife of a logger?"

At first she picked up a very graphic example of her early

years at Big Island. "It means washing diapers on a

washboard in the creek and shooting bears when you have

to," she said with a deep-throated laugh. But then with

more distance and resolve, she said, "you just live with

him."

She remembered the specifics of flagging

machinery, driving ahead with signs for an oversized

vehicle, with two children in diapers in 104 degree heat.

She remembers running two emergency radios for twenty-four

hours a day. She did what had to be done, and since she

was cheap to hire— she worked for nothing— she was always

the designated flunky, the all-around provider of

services. Who else would chance going for truck parts.

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Sometimes she'd drive as far as Spokane and then deliver

parts to the woods. And what if it was the wrong part?

"Well, it wasn't my fault," she said with a sassy grin.

Yet, the part wasn't right, so it was Sharon who had to go

back to the dealer who had been mistaken for the exchange.

"Everything was good at North Fork." She and Tim

lived across Elk Creek from the Altmillers. She didn't

want to move to town even though she had no telephone,

washing machine, or grocery store. They lived in a

trailer house and that was just fine with her. Sharon

loved it, especially the freedom of an environment in

which a herd of deer that played in her yard. But,

because Sharon is as determined as she is, there were

times she had to take matters into her own hands. And the

dust generated by passing logging trucks was something

that prompted one of those episodes. The road passing her

door was the only way in and out of the job. The trucks

sped through and caused her newly-cleaned house to be

covered with dust. Sharon would take a broom and hit

trucks, many of which were proudly owned, if they came by

too fast. It wasn't long and they realized that slowing

down as they passed was in their best interest.

Early in their marriage, Sharon, the city girl,

went with Tim to the woods. He didn't let her sit on the

sidelines; instead he expected her to skid logs, drag them

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along the ground to where they would be loaded at least

once. There she was, on a caterpillar, on a steep grade,

screaming at the top of her lungs but skidding those logs

none the less. Lucky for her there were other more

important functions for her to perform at homebase, and so

her career as a skidder operator was short-lived.

She never knew where she was in the woods. Tim's

directions were typical of those from someone totally at

home in the pines. "Turn right at the stump, then turn at

the tree wfth the red mark." This was the extent of Tim's

instructions. He never told her precisely where she was

or where she was going. She recalls one memorable time of

wandering aimlessly. She was taking a picnic lunch to Tim

and the crew in a meadow. Driving a white Chevy pickup

truck she would stop, look around, and then circle the

meadow again and again. After the third rotation, one of

the crew came out of a stand of trees. He had seen her go

by three times before, but she hadn't been able to spy

him. For that particular crew, she was a city girl

evermore.

Most pronounced in this interview was the reaction

to my question about "things feminine." Her eyebrows

wrinkled and she registered a look of total disbelief as

if masculinity and femininity were not an issue. She

responded that she loved fashion and clothes and didn't I

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remember that she was a fine seamstress. But even with

this answer I knew hers was a token response to a question

that had no place in her life.

Co-ownership of the business means exactly that.

When Sharon and Tim married they began to operate the

logging company together. He handled the work in the

woods, while Sharon was in the middle of everything else.

She kept the books and did all the accounting. She was

the nerve center, always near the radio in case supplies

were needed or a disaster occurred.

Women take care of the logging operation radios at

the home base. They are in charge of crisis management.

A report of a lost hunter, child or horse, the need for

the volunteer fire department or emergency medical unit,

come through them. When a crisis occurs, the feature of

reciprocity that has been mentioned before goes into full

operation. Nothing is too valuable for people to share if

you are in need. In a disaster, even your worst enemy

will help you with equipment or services.

Everyone helps out. For example, Potlatch, a

major corporation, will send out a helicopter, free of

charge to help an independent logger in a disaster. Why?

Because for people who always live with danger there is

little time to ask questions or count chits. "You don't

stop to think if you should or you shouldn't," says

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Sharon. For loggers any problem is a life or death

situation or it wouldn't have arisen. For example, there

are no manuals or instructional guidelines for saving a

man with a broken back who is pinned under a piece of

heavy equipment. "You just do everything you can, be as

creative as you need to be to save a life."

Once a disaster is declared the radio goes quiet.

It is off-limits for anyone other than those involved in

solving the problem. It stays that way until the disaster

is over. No one wants to carry the guilt of a loss of

life for the sake of a frivolous conversation.

As we spoke, I remembered back to a letter I had

received from Sharon in the 1980s when she told me about

their decision to auction their company. It was

dispassionate, a statement of fact, that was just the way

it was. The Barnett's company was still operating as a

viable business. Their decision to sell was personal and

not motivated by the problems of the industry. The letter

was so much like the way Sharon portrays herself, a woman

in charge of herself, her destiny, and her world. She had

no need to be liberated, for she has never been dependent.

She had no need to pursue a career, for she has always had

one. She had no need to prove herself, for she was who

she was and would never change.

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Women have been in the forefront of supporting

their husbands and their industry. Years before, Sharon

had introduced me to Federated Women in Timber and their

work.* The organization is a social, political, and

educational force throughout the Northwest. They lobby

for the greater use of paper products and boycott plastic

grocery bags. They create teaching kits for forest

management and work with their husbands in logging or in

businesses that serve the timber industry.

Many women feel that they transcend their domestic

roles through this organization. It is these women and

not their husbands that meet with congressional leaders to

try to foster support for the timber industry. They mount

letter writing campaigns, analyze legislation, participate

in forest planning meetings, stage local protests, and

offer scholarships for forestry students. In general,

they try to teach the positive benefits of logging and

combat the attitude that loggers are detrimental to the

environment.

The state organizations in Alaska, California,

Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Washington, and most recently,

Wyoming, believe in the power of the grassroots approach.

Congressional figures are eager to discuss issues with

these women and have said that the Federated Women In

Timber may be one of the most effective home-grown

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organizations in the country. They weave together their

strong commitment to their families, communities, and to

the logging industry.

For a woman it seems to matter little whether she

was from a logging background or married into a logging

family, she was taken in and made a part of the family and

corporate unit. At marriage she was granted its

privileges and given its obligations.

Tim and Sharon are a corporate unit. They each

have their job to do, but their goal is the same, to work,

to have a comfortable existence, and to promote the

logging industry.

Sharon is proud of Tim, everything about him, "but

don't tell him I said so," as if the admission might put

her at a disadvantage.

He's very intelligent and can do anything. He concentrates on it, that makes it possible. He's always sacrificing for someone else, and in the woods you can't beat him. He understands the woods.

But when I asked her about herself, pride in herself, she

replied "Do you have to be proud? I never asked myself."

Both Tim and Sharon act as spokespeople for the

profession both informally and in local and national

organizations. In their life some of the characteristics

of a logging existence show up clearly. But perhaps it is

Sharon's own feelings encapsulated in one quote that is

the most telling. I asked, "What's it like, Sharon,

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what's it really like?" She replied, "Life is good with a

logger. Every day is different."

Raised in Logging

Before nightfall, the town would know, or at least

think, that I was afraid of the terrain. Word spread

quickly that Mick McLaughlin had taken me down to the Poe

Ranch in Peck on the way back to Orofino. I grew pale at

the steepness of the incline. I held on tight but not

because it was a matter of heights because I was afraid of

falling out of the truck.

I was in good company with my fear, for Mary Ann,

Mick's wife had refused to drive down that road to bring

equipment. Nevertheless, it made a good story. That

woman who wanted to learn everything about logging was

scared of what loggers do everyday; navigate an incline.

My notes on that trip are sketchy, nearly

illegible. I tried to capture a word here and there as I

hung onto the door handle bumping down the road. A hard

hat, thermos, and flashlight rolled around in the cab

adding to the clatter while we continued to descend the

pitted road.

This is what my letter home said about the trip.

We rode down what to me was a treacherous incline over gravel through stream beds and into the actual area that they were logging. I'm sure that it is nothing like the more dangerous areas, but for me it was steep and very bumpy; for him, nothing at all. Going down

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he got a call on his CB and I was amazed that he and the caller could understand one another back and forth through the static. This prompted me to ask how difficult it is to give directions to your crew about cutting. He told me about the crew and the ages of the men who worked for him in the woods. It astonished me; several were in their sixties and no one under thirty-five was on the crew. The criterion for choosing a good worker is, "If he's middle-aged and not banged up he must be a good worker."

Once there, at the logging job, I knew that there

was no other way to learn about the life in the woods than

to brave journeys like this. It was necessary to see

logging jobs operated by as many loggers as possible.

Each job has a signature. It is stamped by the

expertise of its workers. It can be read; it tells a

story. Loggers know this story and tell it in terms of

good work habits and the resulting visual and

environmental effects. The job site makes a statement

about the understanding that the independent logging

contractor had about the land and the quality of work he

expected from his crew.

For example, on this site, Mick would leave a

certain percentage of good trees on the land. He would

thin out the bad ones and take them to the mill. But the

net result was that the hillside was not denuded.

Instead, in thirty years the growth would be healthier

than it is now.

As we rode through I saw initials painted on the

ends of the logs. Mick said that these were the initials

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O f the last names of the crew members; the sawyer,

skidder, and bucker in that order. They would be paid by

the amount of timber they had cut and these marks would

verify their output. Like so many other procedures in

logging, everything is worked out in a very simple system.

People don't walk around with pencils or paper, yet they

seem to have accurate records of business dealings.

He also mentioned that as part of his contract

with Poe, the land owner, Mick's company would sell the

timber to a mill, and this is where experience and a long

history of living in the community comes in handy. He

knows how to deal with the mill operators. He knows what

kind of job each mill does and its requirements for

cutting as well as its ability to get the most lumber out

of the timber. He knows whether a bit more money will

compensate for a milling situation that is not ideal. In

a word, he knows the web and how to work within the

network.

Mick could also tell exactly what his crew had

done throughout the day with one fast pass through the

job. He could tell that at the end of the day they had

been playing around. The equipment was parked so close

together that it looked as if a tracked cat and a skidder

were copulating.

The cardinal rule that Mick follows is:

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Never lose touch with your loggers. Never let them think or feel that you don't care or that you are in a different world while they are on the job. Never remove yourself from the guts of your profession, working in the woods.

This trip was merely the beginning of my search

for finding the criteria for logging aesthetics. At this

point in the story I was most concerned with finding out

what it was like to be raised in a logging family. My

questions revolved around his family and less about the

logging job. Mick's parents, Bruce and Marguerite, had

come to Orofino from Michigan in the 1950s where Bruce

senior's father had been in logging. Even as a very young

child, Mick would get up before sunrise to go with his dad

to the woods. To this day he says jokingly that he

believes it might have been to keep him out of his

mother's hair. Regardless of the reason, it formed a

close bond between father and son.

Mick grew up in Orofino but went to Boise State

University. He was a football star in college and

intended to become a teacher. He would leave the area and

forget logging. Instead, family ties brought him back

home. He missed his dad and wanted to resurrect the old

life and close contact that he had been able to have in

his younger years. He had enjoyed working in the woods,

but most of all he missed being near his dad.

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Bruce senior had let Mick tag along with him from

the time he was seven years old. His first real job was

to help his dad hook a load of logs for the O.C.l. logging

show parade in 1961. It might have been then and there

that he made the unconscious decision to go into logging.

Mick and Mary Ann are central to running McLauglin

Logging as well as being at the heart of O.C.l., the

organization that promotes the art of logging with its

annual festival. Mick often acts as a spokesperson and

has been quoted on his view of proper logging:

[Loggers have changed] from the old ways of thinking there was no end of forests and lands to the modern realization that, [we must] protect our way of life. We'd better plan for productive forests tomorrow. Working and living in the woods makes all of us loggers aware of the need for some pristine areas and we realize there are some areas where logging and habitat cannot coexist and all machines should stay out. Our knowledge comes from experience and should be part of the deliberation processes when the forest environment is considered. We loggers, who have a real stake in the future of the industry, also appreciate outdoor recreation, wildlife, and the beauties of nature. We want it to be there for our kids, too.

There is a sense of light-hearted ebullience about

Mick, a looseness. Everyone enjoys his company. But

there is also a seriousness underlying this demeanor. He

and his wife Mary Ann are a part of the current concern

for building support for the logging industry. They

demonstrate an integrity of spirit in both their

professional and family life. They continue to try to do

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the right thing for the profession, for their community,

and for their family.

They introduce innovations into the company

whenever possible but carry on the practices of the

independent logging contractor. They watch the quality of

their jobs, they care for their crews, and they try to

guarantee a good life in a well-maintained natural

setting.

I visited with Bruce McLaughlin, Mick's dad, one

morning at the Ponderosa. He admitted that when he came

here from Michigan in the 1950s, he was afraid to fall his

first tree. It seemed so big compared to the ones in the

Midwest. He remembers taking Mick to the woods, not to

get him out of his mother's hair, but to show him what

work and a life in logging were all about. Having seen

Mick with his son, the third in the line of Bruces, a red

headed, Norman Rockwellian lad, there seemed to be an echo

of the relationship he must have had with his own dad.

Bruce senior has been pretty lucky in the woods.

Until he was sixty years old he never had a mishap, but

then he fell off a skidder and hurt his back. Today he

also limps slightly from a car accident, but Bruce

continues to work. In a matter-of-fact way, he says he

wants to die in the woods; he doesn't want to die of

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cancer or something else. In the woods is the best way to

go, and he'll be out there for the rest of his life.

Mick wants the business to grow, and at great

cost, bought a delimbering machine to keep up with the

changes in industry. He knows that logging today takes

not only the skills of the woodsworker but also the

knowledge of a businessman. Mick continues to give it his

best shot. The family tradition continues, Mick working

in the woods and Mary Ann running the office.

The fourth generation of McLauglins in logging,

Bruce III, is still too young to make a decision on his

future. But even today, at nine years of age he wants to

be out in the woods instead of in school. Judging from

his tie to his dad and his passion for the woods, Bruce

III has already caught the fever of a life in logging.

Not all Roses

I had many conversations with Tim Barnett; he

never failed to amaze me. Whenever I thought he had run

out of dimensions, there was another, just under the

surface. Writers talk about texture often; well Tim could

add it to so much of what he said about the logging

industry. For so young a man he had been in the middle of

the logging eras that had occurred in Idaho.

Tim began logging under the tutelage of his father

but also his mother. As Louie Porter said, "she was one

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of the best loggers around." She would drive the skidder

and Tin would be there helping. He gained an

understanding of this place from early on. And now he

says, "you have to live here to understand it.”

Unfortunately many of the people who are migrating to the

area do not understand. Those who come in government

service, even though they have experience in natural

surroundings, don't seem to understand that much of what

happens today in Clearwater County occurs because of its

adherence to history through ties with its oldtimers.

Contemporary loggers, like Tim, have a strong desire to

maintain the standards of the past.

Tim reconfirmed for me that there was a free

exchange of goods and information. Trucks, trailers, and

even one's prize bull would be lent in this web of

reciprocity. But there was one thing that was sacred, one

area in which the free exchange of information does not

occur. "The only thing they won't tell you about is their

fishing holes." This seemed to be a rather meager

exception to the rule which I believe still stands.

Tim is a woodsboss, and as such he has daily

contact with the men who are employed by Kenny Weller. He

sees their performance and progress in the woods but also

knows when their personal lives are in difficulty. Many

of the people that I have written about seem to lead

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trouble-free existences. They are well-established

loggers or the masters of past companies. But there is

another segment, a large majority of loggers that are the

woodsworkers. Instead of the stability of many of the

loggers who have been profiled, they do have problems.

Often financial, because the working season is restricted

to nine months of the year. If a woodsworker has not

prepared for the three month layoff, he and his family

could be troubled economically. Tim feels that it is

during these times that family conflicts occur. Though I

have not substantiated this with local police records, Tim

feels that this period of unemployment leads to alcohol

abuse and family disputes.

Tim seems to recall that when Potlatch shut down

for six months, there was a rash of domestic violence with

child and spouse abuse. In contrast to the ideal

marriages that have been reported in this volume, few

people are married only once. But according to Tim the

ones who stick to their spouses are much better off. Of

course, since Sharon was sitting across from him at the

dining room table, this gave Tim a chance to joke with her

about their marriage and whether it would last.

Tim has a straightforward answer to the social

problems inherent in the lives of many loggers. In

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addition to the threat of unemployment, it is also a

dangerous occupation.

Some women can't handle being married to a logger. For twelve, fourteen, eighteen, or twenty hours of the day they don't know where their husbands are. The radios help some, but there is a lot of anxiety for a woman. Those who don't understand logging or want no part of the out-of-doors, can't sustain this type of married life.

On the other hand, women like his mother and Sharon used

their own form of self-preservation. They didn't sit idly

by waiting, they worked in logging along side their

husbands.

Tim is honest about a life in logging, and its

tribulations, but he also knows and has seen the sensitive

side of loggers.

Some of them might be rough and rowdy, fight like the devil on Saturday night, and still move a bird's nest or take a squirrel off a job so it won't be harmed. They may go out to shoot game and yet pick up a baby elk and keep it safe. They fight and yet take their boys out and teach them how to fish. They're rough in nature, but they've got gentle in them.

Tim was there when Johnny Altmiller died. He had

married Tim's sister who was about to have a baby in a day

or two. Johnny and a friend had been fishing on the North

Fork and were missing. The search began; it was intense,

done at a fever's pitch, and a concentration that was

charged with emotional energy. Tim remembers it, the

feeling of it, the desperation of these men trying to find

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their friends. There was no stopping the men who were

looking for the two fisherman.

Perhaps the fishermen who know the terrain from

logging it for many years had found their way to safety.

The searchers spared no effort, they went out in boats and

strung nets across the mouth of the river.

Finally, the bodies were found. Both men had

drowned. They were laid on the ground while the coroner

was called. The search party stood around waiting. And

during the interim Tim couldn't believe what he saw and

heard. The searchers casually talking about hunting and

fishing, swapping information about the woods. They were

acting as if nothing had happened, as if no tragedy had

occurred. Tim was young. He had never experienced a

death in the woods before, and thought that this entire

situation was an insult to his brother-in-law.

One of the older men took Tim aside and shared

with him the reality of the situation. "But it's over,

he's dead." That was the finality. That was the fact.

The search had been frantic because that is what loggers

do, they hope against hope that they can allay disaster,

but when it's over, when death comes, you accept it and go

on with life. You go back into the woods and back to your

job, there is nothing you can do about death except leave

it rest.

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Tim's picture of logging represents more than the

view of the pillars of the community that I have been

reporting. His is an honest view of the men he has known

and the problems they have had. He sees no reason why

they should be different from who they are. But he also

realizes full well, "that they live here because they

don't fit the pattern, they'd die in the city."

Learning to Cut; Clearwater Sawmills

Transforming a cylindrical, natural object that

has no reason to be uniform in dimension, into a piece of

lumber takes technological know-how and skill. It is the

backend process, the final change between nature and

culture. From a natural object, a tree, in its natural

setting, the sawmills turn it into a product that can be

used in building for human habitation. Homes, bookcases,

and furniture are only a few of the ways in which wood

makes its way from the forests into our lives. The saw

mill is the ultimate agent of this transmutation.

And how was I going to learn what it was like to

work in a sawmill without becoming employed at Potlatch,

Hutchins, or Konkolville? By finding an opportunity to

cut wood. This was less difficult than I had imagined,

since my husband and I were we were saddled with

approximately three hundred, rough, turn-of-the-century

2x4s. We had to put them to use or dispose of them. We

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decided to do both, cut them for firewood and select the

best wood for picture frames.

In the process, I learned the components of the

task of sawing lumber. First, wood has certain

characteristics and each piece is of a different quality

by weight, length, and imperfection. Second, to do the

job right you must have proper tools, a saw, gloves, a

slat surface, and adequate light. Third, the principle is

to take an object from raw to smooth, from unmanageable to

manageable. Fourth, in order to accomplish this job,

motion and the efficient movement of materials was

necessary. Finally, the one factor, most important above

all others, was to incorporate safety measures.

The Triplett Mill

If I were to believe in time travel, the short

visit we paid to Triplett's sawmill would affirm that

belief. Down a lane, past a house painted the yellowest

yellow in its domesticity, you'd find the mill surrounded

by the logging trucks that carry logs here. Triplett's

Mill occupies a specialized niche in the region. As the

large corporate mills became more concerned with output,

their equipment became less able to take the variation in

log size. Instead of accepting the dimensional variety,

the major producers contracted smaller, older mills to cut

this timber.

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Triplett specializes in large-size cedar and uses

equipment and techniques that are closer to old-fashioned,

manual operations than automated techniques. The carriage

for the saw blade runs automatically, but the mill sawyer

must eyeball the proper positioning for the cut. Two men

at the end of the line lift the boards off of the track

and place them on a pile. The operation is simple without

the computers, lasers, and chain conveyers so typical in

more modern mills.

In physical appearance, the mill is little more

than a shed with a few exterior walls and a light level

that is intense in critical areas where cutting takes

place, but non-existent in other parts of the operation.

Speed, safety, and efficiency are necessities in the

operation but because of the varied dimensions of the logs

and the specialized attention necessary in cutting, any

sense of conformity in the production line is missing.

In this step-back-in-time it is possible to see

the conditions under which early sawmill employees worked.

The day of my visit was cold and rainy. The millworkers

were dressed in warm jackets, wearing gloves and hats.

There was no pretense about appearance, they were dressed

to meet the elements, because even though undercover, the

mill offered little shelter.

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The noise level was intense. Every time the saw

took a swath through the log it made that familiar ripping

sound. Even with ear plugs the sound heard all day long

must have affected the hearing of the mill workers. But

this is all a part of the job, and the conditions were a

reflection of times past.

On this day, in this atmosphere, seeing the work

at the Triplett Mill, I could imagine the small, temporary

mills constructed in wooded areas in the early days of

logging. Manual labor was the only way to get the job

done, and lifting, carrying, bending, and hauling were the

only way to do it. Other than the saw carriage and the

conveyor chains, there were no other mechanical devices in

the mill to get the job done.

Seeing this operation for a short periods of time

could not give me the experience of the constant, day-in

day-out working conditions of the men in the early mills.

But with some reflection it was possible to think back to

what those conditions might have been. There was a

sameness about the operation, and although a log might be

different in one way or another, the sameness continued.

There is a pattern and consistency of sound and motion.

If this changed, it would have triggered the fact that

something was wrong. The trucks keep bringing in the

logs, the loader continues to feed the intake chain, the

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sawyer moves the saw in constant successions, the men

remove the boards at a regular pace. Others stack the

lumber so that it doesn't back up at the saw, and another

convoy of trucks takes it away from the mill.

The day has a pattern to it that cannot and does

not vary. It, and the conditions, become a part of the

life of the mill workers. Physical exertion, climatic

condition, and consistency in the process all become a

part of the conditions that surrounded them in the past

and still do at Triplett Mill.

The Konkolville Lumber Comoanv

The Konkols own not only a mill but the entire

town of Konkolville. The mill, restaurant, cocktail

lounge, motel, and family homestead are not in Orofino

township but occupy a unique place in the geography and

politics of Orofino. The family has been active

politically in the Republican party. They are strong

supporters of the Catholic Church. Andrew Konkol, the

patriarch of the family, arrived from Wisconsin in 1946.

He began a small sawmill at Cow Creek, then he moved to

Orofino Creek. The town was a result of their prosperity.

Early in its operation Andy Konkol built housing for his

employees, and even though today there is less of an

atmosphere of a company community, many of the employees

have been employed with Konkol for many years.

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After his death his family continued the business,

and now Don Konkol is the president and the manager of the

Corporation. It is the only local mill that takes the

timber through the entire process. The operation has the

capability to kiln dry the lumber as well as plane it.

Not only do the Konkols operate the mill, they

also own timber lands in the region and harvest them

selectively. Their goal has been to put their acreage

into an intensive forest management scheme that is both

practical and profitable.

In the 1950s there were twenty-three mills in the

county, but now, Konkolville is one of a handful of

independent operations remaining in the region. It is

managed by Dale Richardson, son of Joe Richardson, the

former owner of Riverside Logging.

Konkol's Mill is typical, using techniques in

operation since the 1950s, but with an infusion of new

technology incorporated after World War II. Of course it

is run by electric motors, but prior to the 1950s most of

the mills operated on steam. It is not the most

specialized nor the most automated mill in the region. It

retains both manual and automated operations, counting on

the more physical talents and skills of its work force.

It has not really entered the computer age.

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Both men and women are employed here, most young

are unskilled. So Dale Richardson, who runs the operation

lends both his expertise and good-natured advice. He

learned his trade in milling and the management of people

through long years of experience. In fact, many say that

when Dale was taken off running a lifter to running the

plant, he single-handedly turned the mill's production

around. He increased production by 35 percent without new

equipment or without firing anyone.

He worked on morale. He eliminated all the

deskbound jobs and made management get out there, making

everyone do physical work. Dale says, "as we see it,

pushing paper around and consulting isn't a job; here you

don't tell someone how to do something unless you can

actually do it yourself." Dale understands the business

practices as well as the physical production of lumber.

He knew what should be done with the capital at hand. He

changed the operation so that, even without the

sophisticated computerization of the Potlatch Mill in

Lewiston, Konkol's remains a viable business enterprise.

"Every sawmill is different, it depends on who

built it," says Dale/* I tried to put the pieces

together, tried to associate the operations of the band

saw, circular saw, and trim saw. I tried to sense the

interconnectedness of the filer and the man who operates

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the boiler. Was this a team, working in unison, or were

these individuals, in the same place, at the same time,

doing individualized jobs that so happened to produce a

product?

Later, when seeing the Hutchin's mill, the team

element of the mill became obvious, but this was my first

mill visit and I was asking questions instead of positing

answers. At Konkolville all I could see was the way in

which the isolated functions stood out. But even by this

time I realized that the production of lumber was more

than the ability to set up a pattern of cutting. Running

a saw mill may be a matter of dollars and cents, timber

coming in and lumber going out, but it was also a business

that was based on a complex web of social relationships

and values that influenced the operation. This was true

not only in sawmills but in all the operations that are a

part of the logging industry.

For example, as I had learned with Jake Altmiller

and Clarence Roby, it was the equipment, the actual saw

and its condition that were most critical to the job (see

Jake and Barbara Altmiller). The head sharpener in the

mill occupies a position of great importance. The blade

must be sharp, but it must also have the proper tension to

keep it on the wheel. Every three days the master

sharpener works on it for approximately four hours. This

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is a part of the job, of the life in logging but it is

also a part of the art form (see Work As Art^. If the

filer doesn't do the job right, it affects the work of the

sawyer and all the workers down the line.

Although there are filer's books, each filer does

his job differently. Many have learned from other

filers, some guy who found a better way to do it by using

some angle that works best. A filer's success never comes

overnight, instead, he may be on the job for years before

he is considered a real master. But when success comes it

is measured in whether his saws cut just a bit faster and

more accurately than another's saw. There is no question

about skill, it can be measured quantitatively.

Timber graders also occupy a specialized role in

the mill. According to Dale, "They learn by doing." They

learn with every piece of wood that they touch. In

grading as in everything else in logging, accuracy is the

key. There can be little tolerance for deviation.

The millwright is essentially a mechanic but he

takes care of everything. A good one needs a special kind

of knack. But Dale has seen, "good and bad mechanics

covering the entire spectrum of intelligence." Again and

again in my discussions with loggers I learned that it is

not how intelligent you are, it is how well you do your

job. The combination of a second sense and how you hone

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that skill at a particular endeavor, adds up to your

ability and becomes the basis for your reputation.

Dale is good at what he does. He, like others who

train and supervise other people, is good at it because he

himself can do everything. He can operate all the

equipment, fix it, and even perform the manual labor

needed to make the mill operate. He may not be as good at

a specific task as someone who specializes in it, but he

is a reasonably competent.

He knows how to do these operations, but he also

knows why they are done in a certain way. The combination

of these traits allows him to innovate in the operation

when the need arises. Dale knows and has seen the levels

of competence of those in the timber industry. He can

tell the caliber of a worker at first glance, a skill he

learned from the oldtimers when they were hiring on new

people.

Now you ask the "old man" [Joe Richardson]. He could tell you all about a man before he got out of his truck. He'd just get a feeling about someone when he looked at them. If they are watching everything he knew that they'd be good on the job."

And so, life in logging is based on an intense

observation, knowing exactly what is going on around you.

This is not an idle talent, for in an industry

with so many possible dangers, being observant is one way

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to stay alive. It is a critical criterion for success,

when success means staying alive. Says Dale,

This fact is better motivation than any OSHA standard. For example "guards" (railings that keep people out of the path of equipment) don't protect a man if he is careless. On the other hand, some people can work without guards and never be harmed. The men who are the best workers think a lot more and are just plain safer.

Dale manages fifty-eight people. He trains them.

And what is his technique? He "chews them out when they

do something wrong." He says it's the best way there is.

Dale's been "piling boards" for forty years but knows that

if he retired, sat home, and watched television he'd die

in six months. His passion for logging is more muted than

many who could not give up going into the woods. But he

does convey the feelings of the necessity of perpetual

motion and keeping busy that I discovered before in the

town and in the logging community.

Dale, like his father Joe, is very self-possessed.

He answered my questions directly and honestly. He didn't

pull any punches. This is how sawmills operated; there

was no need to be overly technical, overly cerebral, or

try to impress me with its productivity or his skills.

Every once in a while he gave me this funny grin and threw

in an off-hand comment that let me know he had a wry wit

about him. This too, is a part of life in logging.

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Toys of All Sizes

Eldon and Emerald Hutchins own a sawmill, two

actually. Each has its own claim to fame. One sits in

the shed of the other. Manned by a six-inch tall sawyer,

producing tongue depressor-sized timber, it carries on all

the operations of an old-time mill to the delight of the

brothers and their guests. For there are always guests.

The mill has an open door, and the brothers have a

friendly handshake for anyone passing through Weippe,

Idaho.

The brothers' second "home-built" as they call it,

is a full scale, totally automated mill equipped with

laser sawing guides, video screens, and computers. Being

built on site, in the mill's shop becomes obvious when you

walk the catwalks and look at the structure. There is no

waste, no sign of imperfect workmanship. The welding is

functional. The plywood is plumb. The utilitarian

sparseness does what it should do, cut logs efficiently

with a minimum of waste and a maximum of safety.

Just as the miniature mill delights with its

productivity, the Hutchins' human-sized operation also

delights. As you walk past the equipment and the

operators you get a sensation, and what you feel is a

sense of properness. Then, when you look more closely you

see workmen, dressed with a sense of style, with the

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properness of the logging trade. Shirts are pressed, even

when they have blue collars; not a button is missing or a

tail tagging. These men stand and walk differently from

men in other mills.

The crew at Hutchins knows that anytime a visitor

learns of the new techniques of milling, they will hear of

Timberline Lumber. As they do, they learn not of a

technology created by a large corporation and then

exported to a smaller mill. Instead, they learn of

machinery and procedures built by these same men.

Throughout the construction, the mill never

closed. With careful planning based on practical

knowledge, the brothers transferred parts of their crews

to the construction of the new mill while other members of

the crew manned the old equipment. To have many talents,

knowing about a lot of things; that has always been a part

of the loggers' tradition in the woods, and here you can

see it vividly in this particular mill. They built it.

They work it. They clean it. And all three operations

are done to perfection. To appreciate what this means,

you must see other mills, both manual and automated. The

value of this personal investment shows in comparison of

general appearance, as well as hard-core statistics.

At the end of each shift the ten crewmen gather

around a small personal computer terminal. They punch up

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their output without asking the aid of a computer

specialist or business manager. They gather before going

home for this one bit of quantitative information, as if

it were in the least bit important. They worked a good

day, they did the job right, and as if merely to verify on

a different measure, they check the screen. It reads

117,000 board feet for a ten men crew.

In comparison, the output of another major,

computerized mill with a far more extensive economic base

and elaborately outfitted operation is 267,000 board feet

produced by sixty-five men in a ten hour shift. Using

this as a typical day, it takes six times as many men to

produce twice as much lumber in the corporate mill. That

mill may look bigger, more efficient, and more

technological. Its computers are heavy-duty, and the

loaders are massive, but the Hutchins brothers prove that

it is the men and not the machines that count.

The Hutchins also know the value of the right tool

for the right job, and the axiom that "you can tell a good

craftsman by the way he cares for his tools" is one they

live by. At the end of the day, the filers, men who care

for the saws, take each blade out of the machinery with

care. They may have worked on the casing during

construction, and now it has become their charge.

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In the major mill, men, often in dirty undershirts

listening to taped music, push buttons that choose the

proper species of tree and roll a log. Almost as if their

job was a token move to keep the unions satisfied that

automation had not totally replaced the worker, these men

show very little interest in the timber or the job. They

are passing time; ten hours to be exact, until work is

done. When done, they stop the machine and go home. They

don't gather to see output, there is no need because a

board that flashes electronic messages keeps it updated

and instantaneously records every board as it is cut.

Throughout the day, if something isn't working they call

the computer specialist. They are not responsible for

that function, nor do they know what to do about it. They

push the button to turn the log, that's their job

description. Someone else is taking care of the machinery

on the floor. And at the end of the day a different crew

comes in to do cleanup. This mill is big and corporate; a

bureaucracy and on the cutting edge of technology.

In contrast, the Hutchins don't think about being

in the age of automation. They believe in doing a good

job with whatever tools and talents are at their disposal.

Who was the decision-maker? Who took the chance? Did

they discuss the landmark change with their employees?

How long have their employees been with them? You could

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ask all these questions to find out the process, but the

result is obvious. The Hutchins and their millworkers

have the pride of productivity both as individuals and as

a team. They simply surpass the production of the larger

mill by holding to this attitude. As their toy mill is a

treasure; it is a delight. So too, their full-sized

production mill fits the same mold.

What is a Life in Loaaina?

No one would deny that logging is a difficult and

dangerous occupation, but for our purposes we go past the

obvious. We look at the characteristics of the profession

to see how they can be used to analyze whether work is

actually an art form. Some information concerning the

life comes directly, though somewhat randomly, from the

loggers. They can see the differences that have occurred

in the profession and through these differences some of

its inherent features.

They are concerned that the depression of the

1980s took many good woodsworkers, young men who had

learned their craft from seasoned loggers, away from the

area. If a new crop of woodsworkers are to develop, it

will have to result from a combination of on-the-job

training and school courses developed by loggers.

Living with the history of the occupation is the

one most compelling feature of a life in logging; the

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respect that is paid to elders in the profession, its

technological innovativeness, its history and sense of

pride in this style of work, carries the loggers along.

Sometimes the tradition, though of a short duration, less

than a century, is embodied in the oldtimers, those who

were learning and inventing as they were doing.

Sometimes, it is a more elusive feature, an attitude that

makes these loggers in the Northwest swell with pride when

they say that they are woods workers.

The importance of this pride was reinforced when

we visited Tony and Marie Shank of Marion, South Carolina.

The Shanks are in timber brokerage with a firm called,

"Swampfox Logging." In the South, the system of

enterprise is different. In addition to the mill owners

and loggers, a middleman negotiates the work arrangements.

The discrepancies between these two sides are so great

that they could not form relationships without the broker.

Tony is that kind of man.

During our conversation, Tony registered concern

for the timber practices that occur in the South. OSHA

has not exerted authority to change the current logging

and environmental situation. As we talked about the

loggers of Clearwater County, there was an immediate

response from Tony about their nobility. Tony didn't know

their practices, but their mythic reputation impressed

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him. In order to find out why he thought that their

tradition was rich, I asked Tony if he had any heros. He

responded, "no." Then some time later, as if he had been

thinking hard about the question, he came back by saying,

"You asked me about heroes; yes, there was one, old Roy.

He taught me everything that I know." As we spoke, I

learned that this early logger had been a part of the

Southern industry before power. He had a respect for

timber as well as a respect for work. His jobs were done

right, and he was always on schedule, well-equipped, and

responsible in performing an operation.

The coming of power changed everything. Good

loggers didn't want to change to mechanization, and so

they moved out of the area. The industry was taken over

by people who were essentially mechanics; people who could

fix a truck were working with power saws. They did not

come from the line of loggers, nor did they care about the

complexity of forest management. They had no reputation

to uphold because they were either migrants into the area,

or from a class that had no status in the community. They

were outsiders, doing a job, not upholding a reputation.

The changeover has been complete and now it is the

broker's job to negotiate between two levels of society

that cannot communicate with one another. Logging is not

viewed as a skill in the community. Loggers merely cut

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down trees, if and when their equipment works, when they

are willing to go out into the elements, or when the need

money badly enough to do a job. They have little concern

for the way it is done or the way in which nature should

be treated.

When I mentioned this to the loggers of Clearwater

County, they couldn't comprehend that logging could be so

different in another part of the country. To them logging

was done in one way, with care for nature, reputation, and

open communication between all the parties involved. The

loggers of Clearwater County do not want to face a similar

dilemma, nor the loss of the integrity of their

profession.

For the logger, who learned from his father or

another professionals, the values of this work will be

gone, unless these important attitudes can be captured in

a formal way. The apprenticeship system is disappearing

rapidly, and loggers in their mid-years are not sure that

the tradition will survive without this personal

attention. They also observe what happens when

computerization comes into the industry. Much of the new

technology is a fascination for the logger. It brings

speed and efficiency, but alongside, it brings layoffs.

Fewer men are needed for the jobs, and there is the

possibility that men go "soft" when they sit in

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hermetically sealed chambers and push buttons. Their

skill is based on a small body of knowledge, and it may be

difficult to feel pride in this specialization. And yet,

along with this concern for technology is the fascination

with innovation that has become a major part of the

logging tradition.

One of the characteristics of the profession

mentioned often by loggers is that men who have been

active woodsworkers and have survived on the job are the

true experts. They are masters and recognized by others

for their ability. Often loggers speak of staying in the

woods until they die. Longevity is one way of showing

that you know your job. And longevity assumes that you

devote your life to one pursuit. And so the passage of

time, and the continuity of the industry, irrespective of

any one individual's lifetime, is one of the

characteristics of life in logging.

The incline concept developed in CHAPTER TWO is

another pervasive feature in life in logging. Associated

with it are the problems of safety, the need for teamwork,

and the concentration necessary to perform properly.

These are traits mentioned by loggers who are known to

have good reputations in the profession. Here, however,

is a case where I believe an outsider, like myself, may

have been more attuned to the condition than those who

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live as a part of it. They têüce the incline for granted

and cope with it. I was struck with the restrictions it

placed on my mobility and the alteration it made in my

perspective.

These above characteristics have been derived from

conversations with loggers. I would like to add other

dimensions that I have abstracted from the lives that I

have seen. Thus far we can see two overriding trends in

our view of logging. First, work is at the heart of

Orofino and the logging industry. It is not only a

characteristic of the loggers but of everyone in this

community. If they are not working at their paid job,

they are volunteering and expending energy to see another

project come to fruition.

We can see in the interdependence between the town

and the loggers a good fit, a balance in their commitment

to nature and to the town. They do not remove themselves

from responsibilities toward Orofino, nor does the town

isolate them as if they were still in the logging camps of

the 1920s. They are citizens of the community and provide

an important image to the town, but fulfill their role as

Orofinoans as well as loggers.

Next, there is no clear division between working

and not working. There is no 9:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M.

scheduled work time, that contrasts with other times.

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Work and life are part of the seune life space.

Information gathered in leisure times can add to their

corpus of oral history. But this information will also

help them to do a job better, more perfectly, more in line

with what good logging is all about. Open communication

and reciprocity are central to everything that occurs in

Orofino and in the forests of Clearwater County.

Work is not only sweat and physical exhaustion; in

fact, I rarely saw anyone, even in the woods, in a frenzy,

acting like perpetual-motion machines out of control.

Their physical labor was calculated, direct, and without

undue notice. Work is a frame of mind. It is more than

the movement of bone and muscle in a physical act.

Often, there are comments that "you are born with

it," "you are a good logger because it's in you." And

yet, there are so many instances in which good logging

occurs because of osmosis, of being with a father or

senior elder. It appears that a combination of skill and

desire add up to being a good logger. Whatever the case,

there is distinction given to those who excel in the

profession. Being "born with it" and "being there" are

central to knowing what to do in the woods, but the

proportion of each may be a question for analysts of the

future.

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early in life, so too, he hopes to end his life. With

little thought of retirement, the loggers I spoke to feel

that there is no reason to stop. If they did, they would

die, and why die anywhere except in the woods and in

nature.

The equation for a good logging job and a standard

for work is a combination of high productivity and safety.

It results in a good-looking job, one that is

aesthetically pleasing. There must be a balanced aspect

in the job with all parts in the proper place and all

extraneous elements eliminated. Each element must be true

to its nature. For example, a line is straight, a circle

is round, and irregular elements are uniformly irregular

based on the natural contours you must follow. These are

the conditions that are incorporated into a good logging

job.

Today, there is the danger that logging as it was

practiced by loggers who were sensitive to their natural

surroundings may become obsolete. Loggers must reevaluate

their occupation, that is, the physical elements of their

job. But this comprises only one part of their life in

logging. For in the vignettes are the critical social

characteristics of this life. They include a family-

orientation with a stable and settled life style in one

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area. They may be nuclear in residence but the

relationships extend to several generations when we look

at daily social interaction. Additionally, many families

have developed working relationships with one another, and

some of these are the result of or result in marriage.

There is a dependence on women in both the physical

setting and business enterprise. They have influence

because they manage communications, crisis control when

necessary, and general business practices.

Friendships based on necessity and shared

attitudes are strong and persist for long periods of time,

as evidenced by the gathering of elders and the strength

of the O.C.I. volunteer activity. There is an

appreciation for innovation, but social and political

conservatism.

Instead of categorizing their days or their years

in work time and leisure, many people in this community,

loggers and townspeople alike, combine these spheres and

experience pleasure in work, and use their volunteer work

as the basis for their leisure time activities. I believe

that this aspect of organizing life in certain occupations

should be examined more carefully.

Loggers in Clearwater County have questions about

the survival of their life style, but they have little

doubt about its tradition, its characteristics, and

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central role in America's economy and growth. It is an

industry that has gone through major changes; economic,

technological, and ideological. As in many industries

that extract resources from the natural environment, it

has been bombarded with invectives from environmental

groups. In response, logging has developed its own

lobbying groups and corporate public relations campaigns,

but these concentrate principally bn the problems of the

industry as a whole. Little has been said about the

logger and the way in which the logger lives his life.

The life of the lumberjack has been romanticized.

Perhaps the public still thinks of the logger as a

mythical personality, a Paul Bunyan. He was big, rugged,

independent, befriending no one except a blue ox that was

both a working partner and a tamed creature equal to him

in size, strength, and imagery. As you have seen and will

see, many loggers are slight, have physical problems, and

have no intention of befriending anything named "Babe."

The stereotypic view of logging may have precluded an

honest look at the realties of the logger's life; for one,

the fact that he is a family man, self-reflective and

sensitive to the environment with a settled existence. He

plays more than one role, that of worker. He and his

family are an integral part of the community and

participate in it not only economically but in the

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political sphere as officials and in the cultural sphere

as promoters of festival activities. When we look at the

actual lifeways of the loggers in Clearwater County, we

see that the stereotype of the lumberjack can be

dismissed. One of the most prevalent myths is that this

is exclusively a male domain. Women are excluded from

participation because of less strength and less knowledge

of the job at hand. The lives of Faye Porter, Sharon

Barnett, Sharon Baugh, and Ingrid Ponozzo are proof that

this is fiction. These women and their counterparts in

town not only share in the lifestyle, they are important

political players in this way of life. Both in their

ability to manage, encourage, and stabilize the industry

and the community, women are key players in logging.

The loggers profiled would not like to be analyzed

in either a personal or psychological sense. It runs

contrary to their way of looking at their own lives. They

work; they don't spend time in speculation. They are

preoccupied with techniques and mechanical development.

To them, process is the response when asked "what is

work."

Loggers are strong but rarely muscular men, who do

physically hard and demanding labor. They are men who

believe that in many ways the need to expend energy and

show strength "makes a man out of you." But many of the

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associated traits that are a part of the stereotype, such

as hard-drinking, social irresponsibility, and being

unmotivated, do not apply to the independent loggers or

the woodsworkers in this circumscribed geographical area.

There is a significant gap between the stereotype and the

reality of the logger, at least in Clearwater County. A

reputation for fine work and fairness will outweighs

muscles anytime.

The most compelling trait is that of the

reputation of the man. It is based in part on the gyppo

system, where the independent logger would receive the

necessary credit only when he and those he was associated

with were looked upon as credible people with good

reputations. Yet, that it is rare that loggers criticize

one another. The conversations may deal with the

realities of the situation, but the author would not blame

others or speak negatively about their ability. Comments

about a man, his character, personality, or reputation

were notoriously complimentary. People would remain

unnamed if there was any question of their ability or

their character. They will not impugn the reputation of

another when speaking to an outsider. Camaraderie is an

exceptional mark of the profession. Looking back on the

need for an exchange of facts and materials gives a clue

to this bonding and open communication system (see

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Reciprocity and Information). These vignettes demonstrate

an intertwining of lives: marriages between families;

logging jobs undertaken with friends; and borrowing and

lending among the independent loggers. This too is a

critical element of a life in logging.

Work is highly individualistic, and this aspect is

prized by the logger. There is a flexible pattern of life

that may be based on external conditions such as weather,

but it allows a man to work at his own pace. He is in

charge of his own destiny. His skills keep him safe and

out of harm's way. His strength and energy keep him able

to support his family financially. And his steadiness

coupled with ingenuity allow him to gain a good reputation

in his field.

Even though changing conditions necessitate a

modification of physical skills, I believe that the

attitudes of loggers concerning their work will persist.

These include: patience, teamwork, trust in one's own

ability to survive, acceptance of conditions that cannot

be changed such as weather and the incline, recognition of

the logging tradition as personified in the elders,

reputation of fellow workers in an industry of estimated

quantities, and an appreciation of experience over

academic training.

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Even with new technology— delimbers, lasers,

cutter-bunchers, few computer specialists will become

loggers. Instead, woodsworkers will learn the basics

necessary to operate the equipment. It will be the

underlying attitudes and skills of the active woodsworker

that translate into tomorrow's logger, one with work

habits enhanced with an appropriate level of computer

literacy. The number of men needed for the job will be

fewer, but they will come from the ranks of men skilled in

working in the woods who are then taught the skills of

advanced technology. A life in logging has received

criticism in recent years. Young loggers realize that the

concerns of organizations like the Wildlife Federation,

The Wilderness Society, and The Sierra Club have power to

determine the availability of natural resources. They

influence national decision-makers. Knowledge that there

may not be jobs because of prohibitions against harvesting

natural resources as well as the incursion of advanced

technology, may keep young men out of the profession.

Still, today, young men gravitate to logging because they

can be independent and yet work on a team. They have the

desire to be their own men, self-reliant, with no one

watching over their shoulder. From the tradition of the

gyppo, doing a job not by the hour but by the amount of

energy any one man has at his disposal, these young men

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stay away from organizations. They know of the

accomplishments of the oldtimers in the woods, even though

the specifics of the past may not be a part of their

everyday learning.

As outside agencies do not look kindly on what

they believe is the logger's mentality, loggers often

criticize those in the government-based jobs. They see a

discrepancy between work and having a job. It is the

difference between getting the job done and putting in

hours. The newsletters of the timber industry and the

Federated Women in Timber criticize these groups often.

Often loggers are accused of being anti

intellectual, uneducated, and unconcerned with academic

achievement. It's said that some loggers don't think that

education or book-learning are important, but if we look

at the degree and depth of experience that are necessary

to survive in the woods we can see that it gives them good

cause for their feelings. They believe formal education

is inadequate and should be substituted with experience,

"being there."

Contrary to some beliefs, loggers are smart. For

what they have to do they have an impeccable ability to

learn and to know. Without it they would be either

injured or killed. What greater proof of intelligence

than that of the knowledge to survive.

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To many boosters of this area, Clearwater County

is the best breeding ground for the best loggers in the

West. Jobs may be better in other areas, but training in

the woods is unsurpassed here. In addition to skills

taught in the woods, the components of a life in logging

are obvious in daily existence. Hard work is an important

measure of a man's character. Above all, he prizes his

reputation; it has been hard-won and is a dearly kept

treasure. It extends past his work in the woods and

enters into the social life in his community. He

perpetuates a sense of being a good worker and a good

citizen that was begun by the Porters, Richardsons,

Altmillers, and other early loggers.

From this discussion I feel that there is more to

work than physical labor. There is no way to distinguish

between life and work in logging. The next chapter looks

at the aesthetic moments in the physical act of logging.

Just as it is difficult to separate life from logging, so,

too, the distinction between work and art as practiced by

many independent loggers does not exist.

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WORK AS ART

The Aspects of Work and Art

In order to look at work as art, it is critical to

determine what loggers believe about work as well as art.

Thus far, I have shown some instances in which loggers

speak of work as more than physical labor. They believe

that work is a way in which the worker looks at himself or

herself. To summarize the information presented in

CHAPTER V and CHAPTER VI, work to the logger includes not

only the physical act of cutting down, hauling, and

processing a tree. It includes an entire pattern of life.

Work and living are not separate spheres for the logger.

They exist together as parallel operations in one reality.

As an extension of this attitude, work is so compelling in

their lives that there is little else; in fact little time

is devoted to other things. For those who take their work

and life seriously, much of what is done on the job is

art. Although they may not speak in terms of art or take

the time to categorize it, many of the operations have a

level of perfection that can be an art.

289

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In order to determine whether, for the independent

contract logger in Clearwater County, Idaho, work is art,

it is necessary for two threads to come together. First

we must use a definition of art that is legitimate to the

art world and second, the information gained from the

logger must fall somewhere within that definition.

Neither of these is an easy task, since the world

of art has many definitions, and many proponents who like

to speculate about what art is.* Picking up the second

thread is somewhat more satisfying. Without exception,

loggers discuss their physical activity, their "work" as

loggers in various categories— woods boss, sawyer, loader

operator, or truck driver, as a striving for perfection.

They switch from talking about it as labor to a higher

plane that is more than merely cutting down a tree or

hauling logs to a mill. Perhaps it is pride in the

industry or the recognition that every task in logging

takes experience. Regardless of the individual's

reasoning, the result is that the work is perceived as

existing on a plane that surpasses manual labor.

The examples in this chapter will be specific

about the use of the term 'art' and try to demonstrate the

way in which logging is an art in several areas. But, the

art objects in logging do not appear on a museum wall or

on the Broadway stage. Only people who understand and

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react emotionally to the visual significance of the images

in logging see them truly as works of art. They are

perceived in daily occurrences if you have the eye, but

they are not only end products but processes by which a

certain effect is created and achieved. Often they result

in the appearance of the natural landscape when good

logging practices have been applied to the environment.

Second, art can be defined not as an object but as an

experience. Dewey wrote

"The authentic artistic subject experiences itself, its own feelings, its way of thinking, sensibility, and the conception of form and understanding the world as the indispensable substratum of its experiences. The artist examines his inner workings, his inner experiences in order to produce a final product. The roots of art are found in an experience which has aesthetic characteristics even though it is not dominantly an aesthetic experience.

— like logging. Third, performance, both in daily life

and in celebration, constitutes an art form. Finally,

definitions of aesthetics can be applied to situations

that have not been considered a part of the artistic

sphere, because to the loggers, these are experiences that

strive for perfection while prompting emotional responses,

or, as stated by Robert Plant Armstrong, offer a sense of

the affecting presence/*

You might question my role in the dialogues with

loggers. Did I predispose them to believe that what they

were doing was more than manual labor? Or was it actually

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a belief that was a part of their thinking before my

questioning? I left much of the authorship of this work

up to the loggers. For exeunple, I did not use the term

"art” or "artist" in asking them about a job that was well

done. They volunteered the term when talking about a

particularly skilled logger or logging operation. In

cases where the logger was in performance, not necessarily

on stage but in the woods, I did not ask him to pose or

perform. He did his job as he normally would.

The vignettes that follow provide experiences that

I believe qualify as examples of the way in which logging

is perceived as an art to both oldtimers and contemporary

loggers in Clearwater County. They are exploratory

attempts to look beyond work as physical labor, see it as

the ground for aesthetic experiences and establish an

analytical framework for future work in other occupations.

Lessons on a Ridae

"A sudden manifestation or perception of the

essential nature or meaning of something, an intuitive

grasp of reality through something (as an event), usu.

simple and striking,is what happened to me on the May

day riding in a pickup truck with Ted Leach and Tim

Barnett. I wondered as I tried to capture the feelings

associated with walking out of the truck looking across

the canyon and realizing that these loggers were

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experiencing history as well as a sense of beauty. I had

never imagined that it would be this way, and at first I

was without a way, other than to ask standard questions

about tree species and sizes, to handle the experience.

Even now when trying to put it into words, I can

only say that I know so slight a part of what was written

and felt on that landscape. To know more you must know

the people, the dates, the techniques, and skills that

created what I was seeing that day.

I experienced this heightened sensitivity on the

last morning of my summer fieldwork in Orofino, Idaho.

Ted and Tim met me at 6:00 A.M. at the Ponderosa

Restaurant. They had been up for several hours and had

enough coffee to keep them going through the morning. We

climbed into Ted's pickup as he apologized for the grime.

With the rainy weather it had been impossible to keep the

mud down.

Ted and Tim were going to give me a lesson in

history and art. I imagined that it would harken back to

the pioneers and oldtimers who had settled here, on the

sites of abandoned communities and on significant

historical events. Perhaps we would trace some of Lewis

and Clark's exploits or even read their poetic passages.

But that's not quite what they had in mind.

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For the past month they had been observing me as I

had been observing them, their families, and logging

technology. They had watched me to see what comments I'd

record and which I'd ignore. These two men had already

entered into my theory-building or at least their

interpretation of what should be incorporated into the

framework for statements about work and art.

On the previous evening, Tim had given me

stories, typical of ones that could be collected to show

the simple delights of living in the West and in its

natural setting. Many were humorous tales about people

long gone. But today, there was something else in store.

They were going to instruct me in the right place— in the

woods, in the proper manner— with practical and specific

information on history and art.

History was place. History was logging and

regrowth. History was recognizing that what a person sees

today is temporary and only a small part of the cycle of

life. It was seeing the stages through which each

timbered area had gone. That was history.

To some flatlanders, this duo might have taken a

heavy-handed approach in their stress on reforestation and

their commitment to appropriate logging techniques. But

with me, these two men needed no preface or prologue.

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They didn't feel the need to comment on the loggers'

position on timber management.

Art to Tim and Ted was a stand of handsome tress

and their proper care. They made sure that I could

recognize the "thrifty" trees, ones that were both healthy

and using the resources. We stopped at stands to look at

species density, crown development, limb balance, and

general composition.

The relative age of the trees led Tim to think

about one of his logging heroes, Ray Saylor. Years ago,

these two men had been sitting in silence on a landing,

next to a road Ray had swamped forty years before. Ray

was silent, even more so than a man not taken to too many

words. Tim remembers the silence. Tim asked the older

logger why he didn't have anything to say. His reply was

thaat fifty years ago he had logged the area across the

canyon. Now it was ready to be re-cut. For him, it

signaled the passage of time, his aging. The next day

Saylor retired from logging. He had gone full circle. He

had measured his personal aging and phases of life through

the timber stands and not with birthday celebrations.

That day we were riding through time, a process

that not everyone in this region can understand, only

those that have worked it and have seen the regeneration.

Often, those in government service and working for the

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Forest Service don't stay in the region the thirty-five

years that are necessary to see the process happen, but

Tin and Ted had, they knew what time could do to the

region.

I was seeing two men, knowing that when they died

there would be no recognition for their work, no highway

signs, no parks or roads named after them.

Everything you've done in thirty-five years of work goes with you. But maybe other good loggers coming after you, will look at a stand of trees, remember that you had done the job, and see, in its regrowth, how well you had done it. You live only in their memories, at least that is your hope. History is mine now but when I go its theirs,

said Tim. It is as if they were both adding, "That's my

gift to history and art. I logged it and I'm proud. I

don't need a record of my jobs; I can take a pickup and

drive there, I can see my own history."

But loggers must also be concerned with the

practical elements to their job. The first step is to bid

on the sale. Each sale has specifications that the

contractor must meet, and he must decide at what price he

can meet the specifications. He must look over the stand,

"prospect" the sale. He cruises it by himself to make

sure that he has an accurate sense of what is there and

how difficult it will be to process. He has to estimate

and be good at it to make a living, and know which trees

to cut and which to leave standing. He must have the

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experience to know that if it is a tree that is growing

well, he leaves it for future harvest when it will become

a better, more valuable yield. He must know by looks,

know by the bark and the crown— its shape and its density.

Perhaps you already understand my dilemma as well

as the complexity and specificity of the aesthetics of the

logger's eye. Although we were looking at trees that were

harvestable, we were also seeing them as objects that had

a sense of beauty about them. In fact, Ted told me that

"thrifty" to him also meant "pretty" in essence. So, you

save a "pretty" tree.

Again, even as I write, I realize what a profound

morning this ordinary day was providing. We were not

looking at timber, we were looking at aesthetics in an

occupational framework. Not only would the woods bosses

know how to look at these trees, it must be in the

sawyer's perspective too, because the boss doesn't mark

the trees. He may give a general picture to the sawyer as

to the way in which the job should be done, but it is the

sawyer who will make the decision. These men and so many

other in the woods know every inch of it because they have

worked it.

Ted Leach's legacy to logging is his concern for

the young men coming into the profession. He has taught

classes to sawyers, whose profession is known to be the

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most dangerous in the woods. "It's an attitude," says

Ted.

For three days I didn't let them touch a saw. I taught them how to walk around and size up a tree, its lean and limb structure. I showed them how to analyze imperfections. I helped them see what effect it will have when it falls. I try to build confidence in them and a sense that work and living are one. Habits cross over, and if you are a good worker you have a good life.

He's seen talent, but what he teaches is that it should be

combined with the proper, the appropriate, the aesthetic

in a whole life. "If you have no pride in yourself, you

have no pride in your work. It all boils down to pride.

You don't tear up the woods; you play a part in preparing

it for its reproduction."

Ted says that "work and life values equate. I can

show you this. The way a logger works is the same way he

treats his wife and kids." When he tested these young

loggers in the class, he judged the look, the aesthetics

of their work, as well as their production.

Tim Barnett reaffirmed my belief that work, to the

loggers of Clearwater County, was an art form. In his

public presentations about the industry, he was firm,

dedicated, and generally took a political stance on the

environmental sensitivity of loggers. His feeling was

that, if left to do a job the way they believed was

proper, the logger would do it right for both the industry

as well as nature.

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In several presentations in front of outsiders he

was well-spoken and politically articulate concerning

timber interests. Seeing only this side of Tim, you might

think that his advocacy sprung primarily from economic

motivation. But that was not the case. Once I had the

opportunity to travel with him to logging jobs and into

the natural setting I realized that he was walking in the

footsteps of the elders. He was carrying out not only the

mission of economic viability for himself and those in his

profession, but he had also mastered an aesthetic that had

been transmitted to him throughout his youth. A sense of

the appropriate and artistic in both the work and the

result that was attained were his.

Driving through the logging areas, walking around

a job and remembering back to days in the 1970s, not so

long by standards of tradition, Tim was less of a

political animal than an artistic one. His words were

chosen with precision as in his other guise, but they had

a flow that came directly from what he saw. As he looked

across a canyon, it was as if a stand of trees echoed back

the story of the past and the experiences of their beauty

to him. In a natural surrounding as magnificent as Idaho,

this should not seem surprising, but with Tim, I began to

see a different interpretation of beauty. Natural beauty

with all its potential had been altered by the loggers.

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They had approached it with respect, reverence, and done

what was necessary for human survival. Yet it had been

left with the potential for a new beauty for the future.

Perhaps landscape painters give us the impression

that it is the untouched, virgin wilderness that resonates

with near-godly perfection. Tim taught me differently.

He showed me that the hand of man, when applied properly

to nature can create a setting with its own special kind

of beauty. If ill-applied it speaks of greed. But when

seen as an artistic creation by those who care about its

perpetuation, the natural surroundings fashioned by these

conscientious loggers had the luck of artistic human

intervention. Tim knew this, and felt it. He practices

it in his everyday artistry.

These lessons should have stayed with me, but

returning back to Washington D.C., I fell into an academic

trap. Instead of remembering the experience of the

artistic that Tim and Ted had opened up for me and the

voices of others as they spoke about the artists and

skills of logging, I reverted to the comfort of the

library. Instead of beginning where the aesthetic was, I

began to prove that there was an aesthetic. The

conventional way to approach this was to use all the

research tools at my disposal to understand the history of

the meaning of aesthetics. Then, to find a framework into

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which to push and shove the loggers' feelings that

resulted in a conclusion that proved there was a logging

aesthetic.

I don't discount this work. This path through the

written word is cited.'* But halfway through the maze of

ideas I asked Charles Millard, Director of the Ackland

Museum, for advice. He said, "don't give it labels; show

how these people look at their world." His advice was

simple and direct and put me back on track. With it I

returned to the field, using my head notes of the

experience of learning from Tim and Ted, on a ridge about

the history and artistry that rested there. I was able to

resurrect the feelings necessary to discuss logging as an

aesthetic moment both as it appears on the landscape, in

the skills of its artisans, and as an historical statement

about beauty in nature.

I will proceed, with vignettes derived from

experiences with loggers that I believe demonstrate their

sense of the appropriate which may not be labeled "art" or

"aesthetics" but do, in fact, suggest characteristics for

the aesthetics of work in this occupational group. It is

an analytical model indigenous to this group and this

group alone. It provides the underlying rules that guide

the worker in the performance of the task. For those who

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take their work and life seriously, much of what is done

on the job is actually art.

Sometimes loggers speak in terms of the art of

their occupation, but by using different terms or

categories. They focus on inventiveness and creativity

in the many operations necessary in performing a job. For

example you will notice the attention that is given to

sharpening a saw and working to produce a balanced load of

logs. The emphasis given to these two areas surpasses the

mere accomplishment of a task, and the best loggers

receive recognition akin to that of an artist.

The following dimensions should emerge in these

vignettes;*

1. Loggers have used a common experience to

develop a sense of a quality that is above and

beyond the mundane.

2. The source of this quality, whether it is in a

natural or technological object, or in an

experience derived from the setting or for the

performance of physical labor is the result of

striving for perfection.

3. The standards that have been applied to this

object or experience set it apart from other

objects or experiences.

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4. Emotions or emotional quality, the ability to

move the viewer is associated with this object

or experience.

5. There is a close adherence to the standards,

if not the technology, of the past.

6. Loggers identify masters (Jake Altmiller and

Kingsley Steinbruecker), the objects of art,

(the Showload), exemplary technique (Norman

Baugh and Mike Lee), and the application of

creativity and invention (Tim Barnett and Ted

Leach in preparing the show arena).

To hear a logger say, "It's my world; I built this

road, I cut that stand of trees, I can't leave it," sums

up the tie between man and his environment, his need to

tend it carefully and his sense of the artistry in doing

it.®

Jake and Barbara Altmiller

When I think about interviewing Jake Altmiller, I

automatically think about how many times Jake has been

asked about being a lumberjack. Hundreds, I would guess.

The questions have come from people ranging from school

children doing a Foxfire book to the public relations

director for the Idaho Centennial Logging Show.

And what has he created as his response? And why

should my questions have brought out something unique?

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Why should my description of Jake capture the essence of a

life of an art form and of a performance? I have

attempted to approach the problem in a different fashion

than those who have interviewed him in the past. I think,

in part, it was because I am seeing Jake not only as an

individual lumberjack but in the context of other lives,

those of past experts and those of contemporary artists.

I am also seeing him through the comments made by others

about him.

First of all, Jake will not tell his age. This

has become a part of the mystique which is really more

important to others than it is to him. Anyone with a bit

of sense could figure out that if he was drafted into the

army during World War II, he can't be younger than seventy

or older than ninety years of age. Chances are, he is

about eighty years old. But there is something about the

agelessness of Jake that makes his reluctance to tell his

years create a better image for publicists.

Jake Altmiller is slight, stooped, and looks

nothing like Mel Lentz, the current, national "Bull of the

Woods," even though they are both champions and

lumberjacks. They are separated by half a century in

their clothing, speech, and style. Yet, they have the

unparalleled talent to cut through logs with a speed that

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can't be beat. What do they both know that other sawyers

do not? They know the magic of sharpening a chain.

Jake, born a farmer, learned his skill in the

woods. First with a cross-cut saw and then a power saw as

a local, non-professional sawyer in logging contests, he

made his way into final after final of the logging shows

and often won first prize. After the performance was

over, he returned home, and then to the woods to cut day

after day on logging jobs.

Mel, son of a logging contractor, probably learned

while he was growing up. But that is where the similarity

ends. This young, virile sawyer travels the circuit,

performing throughout the Northwest at logging shows

instead of working steadily in the woods. As a

professional, he commands an annual purse of approximately

$50,000, a sum that Jake would never have considered

possible as an annual wage.

Mel and his kind cut their teeth on performing for

crowds. Jake was always nervous, not accustomed to it.

He grew up rarely going to town. Months would go by

without a trip there. Mel enters all the events. Jake,

on the other hand, has a simple repertoire of actions. He

cuts through a log with a chain saw. That's it. He

doesn't climb, chop, or throw an axe. He cuts the log.

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not blindfolded, backwards, or accompanied with music. He

cuts the log. And the crowd loves it.

Jake remembers back to the coming of power. He

was in the army in Algeria at the time, and couldn't

imagine what a power saw would be. Someone named Joe Cox

had observed a beetle girdling through a tree and had

developed a chain that worked on that principle. It was

called an Oregon chain, but at the time Jake couldn't

fathom it. Sure it had to have a motor, but how else was

it constructed? Did the blade travel back and forth? He

never thought that it would be a chain on a bar and that

its teeth were akin to those of a beetle chewing through

bark. But on returning from the service, Jake gravitated

right to this latest invention and in no time became

famous as a sawyer.

Jake takes his role seriously. He always appears

in the same green coat and hat, always in black logger

pants, red suspenders, and a plaid shirt. There is

nothing contrived about his outfit. It is not a costume

or a getup. It's just the practical way any good

lumberjack would dress. Yet, it has a certain air of

dignity about it, so like the attire of the cream of

today's crop of men of the woods. Their clothing may be

old, their collars frayed, but they are clean, practical,

and well-fitting.

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There'S nothing showy about these clothes; you can

buy them readily at Snyder's men's shop, still of good

quality, as good as fifty years ago. "The price is up,

but when you find something that works you don't change,"

says Jake. Mel, when he performs, never wears traditional

clothing. He sports tee shirts from other competitions,

the closest thing this sport has come to endorsements and

advertising. But then again, Jake advertises. He

advertises what is appropriate about a lumberjack in the

way he dresses.

At the national finals in Lewiston, Jake appeared

in exhibition, not competing for the record. He sawed

through one log with the skill and ease the audience has

grown accustomed to seeing in Jake's performance. But

that one cut constituted an exhibition. It was not a

series of tricks or gimmicks but a straight, clean, artful

cut. In contrast, some of the younger competitors are

beginning to dude up. One wore neon-chartreuse, skintight

running leotards for the choker setting contest. He

looked more like an Olympiad than a lumberjack hurdling a

log. From Jake, no comment, but obviously not the type of

clothing you would wear in the woods. This young man

would never make it on a logging job.

Was dress and appearance so important? For Jake

it had no consequence; his attire was always the same

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through time and with function. It was what a sensible

lumberjack had worn and still wore in the woods. And

green? It's a good color— for hunting. When I spoke to

other loggers about attire, they agreed that it was safety

and utility that were utmost. But neatness was also

important. Even though one's clothes had holes, they

would be pressed and signify the appropriate attire

conforming to utility. They could have the cast of being

well-worn but always worn with pride. Generally, for Jake

and the well-established loggers it was a job well done, a

best way to get through a log that was the criterion for a

good logger, not how he looked or what he wore.

Jake is the epitome of "lumberjack pride"— a

phrase used often by Hick McLaughlin. He and his wife

Barbara live in a modest home on one of the benches.

Their home is not stylish or urban chic, but everything is

in good order. Their garden is exceptional, and in fact

everything we ate for lunch had, as Barbara said, "come

from the land." Beets in vinegar, corn, potatoes, apple

tarts, and even the venison had not too long ago been a

part of the Idaho environment.

Barbara was proud, and rightly so of her garden.

She had photographs of the produce and the ribbons she had

won for them in a scrapbook. A pumpkin, 220 pounds in

weight, and apples from seeds of trees from the Wolf River

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in Wisconsin made her "prideful." In her quiet way, Mrs.

Altmiller had never quite become accustomed to being the

wife of a local legend. She was simple and subdued. When

I met her in the Post Office, days later, and mentioned

that I had heard she and Jake would be the Grand Marshals

of the 1990 Logging Show, she admitted not knowing quite

what to make of it.

But on this day, after the "natural" meal we sat

round and talked about Orofino, logging, and unexpectedly,

Jake's movie career. For a town as obscure as Orofino,

there had been some public notice of it, especially in the

movies. Although kept anonymous, a place without a name,

it had been featured in the filmed version of an Edna

Ferber novel, "Come and Get It," at least that was the

local belief. The opening scenes of a log drive were said

to have been filmed on the North Fork of the Clearwater.

True or not, many of the old loggers tell it while

watching pirated copies of the black and white video.

Jake was sure of the significance of his county

and his town in the logging world. He was positive that

Orofino had the finest and the best sawyers in the

country, and that they had not only excelled in

competition but had travelled throughout the timber

country gaining reputations as the best of their

profession. "We have good sawyers here; they sharpen

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asked what makes a good sawyer. It is the chain, always

the chain done to perfection.

Before retiring for the night, in the days of the

logging camp, Jake had taken care to hone his chain, and

often had several prepared for the day ahead. "It takes a

lot of time to put it into good condition, to take off a

lot of it so there is less resistance, so it can carry

more sawdust, so it can go faster." Sure, Jake was a

champion in the logging shows, but it was his proficiency

in the woods that made him most proud.

He could recall his first eighty-five pound power

saw. These early machines did not have a filter, and the

carburetor would plug up. So every night it would need a

cleaning; the dirt had to be blown out. It would have

spark plug trouble; it would get magnetized. "You had to

make lots of cuts in the big timber, and some didn't think

that these new-fangled saws were worth it." In fact,

Jake's cousin Clarence Roby never really cottoned to

power, he stayed with the cross-cut. Often, in

competition between power and manual sawyers in the woods

the old-style won. Maintenance was so difficult with the

early power saws that the time saved in sawing was often

used in mechanics.

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Changes in clothing and equipment had taken place

in the past fifty years, but for Jake, though he would

never go back to a manual saw, his lifestyle has never

changed. Jake and Barbara worked hard, they raised their

children, attended family reunions, planted their garden,

and did a little hunting. And so the question remains,

what qualified him for the role of a local symbol of the

sawyer's profession? He, more than the young "Bull of

the Woods," is the quintessential sawyer.

Trends come and go, but Jake remains Jake.

Looking back at photographs taken in the 50s, 60s, 70s,

and today shows he has never tried to follow any fashion

in style or attitude. Solid, never varying in his opinion

that the chain is all, Jake was and is for the community

their symbol of the logger.

His experiences did not make him special. Others

may have been better, faster, or stronger sawyers, so why

Jake? Why did everyone suggest that he was the man to

interview about logging when in fact others had far more

information about the history and changes in the

profession?

Jake stuck to one thing, being a fine sawyer. He

believed in the technology of a fine chain and had been

consistent in his competition in the logging shows. He

had missed one since the inception in 1946 because of an

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automobile accident. Jake did what he did well, and

everyone appreciated that trait. He had also consented to

being the consummate performer, appearing in every show,

and quietly plying his skill.

He and Barbara were typical of other loggers in

this region, less aware of their European antecedents than

their American ancestors. They spoke of 1950 and their

early married years together in a one-room cabin. They

worked hard. They were run-of-the-mill. Their life was

the same as everyone else's. They were not special; they

were on the same plane with everyone else, not above, not

below, not winners or losers, merely players in the

community.

They, as many in their age group, had gone through

the Depression, surviving by depending on their garden.

Jake had worked in the woods in the 1930s and remembered

the "foreigners" who didn't have people here. They were

the Swedes and Finns who, according to Jake, eventually

died out. In his memory it was as if an entire generation

of unmarried lumberjacks disappeared and a new breed of

family men took their places.

Jake felled trees and then cut them to lengths so

that the skidder could take them to a landing. For Jake

and other sawyers, there is a real art in making sure that

the trees fall at the proper angle to the skidder. To

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make any kind of money you had to be efficient, and Jake

was able to fall for two Caterpillar tractors, at the same

time. He was paid by the board foot and knew his pay

check would reflect the care he took in his work and the

extra chain he had as a replacement in the afternoon.

Yet, there was never any talk of finances or

economic gain throughout our conversation, never a pride

in the amount of money brought home. Instead there was

constant conversation about technology and the joys of

doing the best job of falling in the woods. He had been

offered the possibility of promotion to woodsboss, but

Jake declined, for he liked what he was doing and knew

that he did it well. He was like Paul Leeper, the great

skidder operator. He never seemed fast but never got hung

up, he never broke up a tree, and always seemed to do his

job with a minimum of movement.

Jake proclaimed the beauties of the top loader's

art as had other veteran loggers. It seems as though it

is the top loader's skill that was most apparent when you

look at the log loads. Not only could a good loader

handle more in one day than any other man, but his load

looked good. It was built up square; the ends were even

and balanced. The face log fit in the notch so that the

entire load could be transported easily.

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Praise for others permeated Jake's comments.

Others always seemed to be doing a great job. Inventors

right in the woods found better ways of measuring or

scaling logs so that they could get a fair price. Human

skills at manipulating logs were perfected with new

inventions like the skidding carriage. And why? Because

if you needed a better or safer way of doing something,

"you invented it yourself," said Jake.

Jake was willing to talk about performance skills

and tactics. You have to be careful if you are the first

on a log. Check the saw, put your hand on the cylinder to

make sure its hot, and get your feet planted so you don't

have to move. At least these were Jake's techniques.

Evaluating other sawyers, Jake admitted that many were

good but it wasn't only the fast cut. In the woods you

had to use good judgement, make sure your path is clear

and if the tree you are cutting falls it does not hit

another that falls and hurts you.

But over and over again, Jake and other loggers

emphasized the differences between performance with its

stress on speed in a controlled setting and work in the

woods where skill is characterized by good judgement.

Performance is meant to please crowds, not get a job done.

The work, invisible though it may seem, has been done by

those preparing the arena (see To Build a Birlina Pond).

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The cuts are little more than spectacular moments that

have very little to do with work in the woods. Today,

many contestants own saw shops and do not work in the

woods; they are a part of the entertainment and not a part

of the craft. But again and again, Jake returns to the

theme of sharpening the chain. He has his own method,

perfected in his sharpening shed and evaluated when

Barbara times him.

And what about the education of a sawyer? Jake

would happily teach a young man all he knew— "be careful

and alert." He would willingly let a young man follow him

around in the woods and learn from observing. Would he

make a good sawyer? That would be difficult until you got

him into the woods and watched to see whether the

lifestyle grew on him.

Some seemed hopeless, were awful slow to start, but after two or three years they got the swing of it. You have to be a sticker to be a logger. Today there are schools, but if it doesn't appeal to you, you won't want to do it and will never do it right.

Time and perseverance— in the woods and in performance—

but also in those silent times when you do nothing more

interesting than sharpen your chain, that's what makes a

good sawyer.

"And family ties help," says Jake. He had seven

brothers, and they were all woodsworkers. The Altmillers

married the Robys and the Barnetts and the Burches, all of

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whom are known to be important members of the logging

network. Today they are still logging families and

interconnect with one another, a functional dynasty of

timber arts.

Jake doesn't hesitate to talk about others he

feels were truly skilled. "A real artist, Don

Christenson," says Jake, who never saw a man handle a

piece of equipment as easily as Don could. "He could

cross cut, load, and line skid. And he was a good

mechanic too."

Jake is used as a symbol of the sawyer's art in

the local newspapers and promotional pamphlets. He is the

classical version of the lumberjack, and his performances

demonstrate this. But there are no fool-hardy adventure

stories in Jake's life. The big theme of his life is not

going on heroic quests; it is working hard, day in and day

out. It is having a sense of honesty and integrity, and

earning a reputation as a human being as well as a master

sawyer. As others have said, he is not only a good

logger, Jake is also a good man. He's just Jake; he knows

this lifestyle, he likes it, and has no intention of

changing. In his life, no one keeps score except Jake.

He has an eye for filing and sharpening chains. He has

learned all the angles and can make it cut fast, but not

so fast that it will bind. That is a very specific

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talent. But Jake's life in logging is seen as more than

just filing skills. Jeüce knows what to do in the woods

(see The Lees).

And what does Jake do when he can't go logging?

Says Jake, "You go hunting and fishing instead. That's

the reason to live here in the Clearwater Valley."

The Sawver as Artist

I had heard Kingsley Steinbruecker's name, in

relationship to the Clearwater Resource Coalition and knew

that he was an outspoken advocate for the logging way of

life. But I had not met him until I went to see the

preparation of the Potlatch showload. He was a humorous

guy, full of pranks, turning this time-consuming and

difficult job into an outing of the guys. That is, until

it came time to actually do the sawing.

Kingsley is the complete sawyer, proud of his work

and demanding on himself and those who work with him. He

is never boastful or overbearing, but everyone knows that,

with Kingsley on the crew, the job will be done correctly.

He is careful, and concerned about the appearance of the

job and exacting about the technique applied to each

operation. If Louie Porter's statement is true about the

best loggers being those that have it in their family,

Kingsley's ancestors must go back to Gilgamesh.

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But, as is so often the case with a piece of

information, it can be refuted with the facts. Kingsley

is the first in his feunily to choose logging as a

profession. During my interview with him, had I banked on

that bit of information I would automatically have called

Louie wrong and gone on perhaps to posit that skill in

sawing is an inherent trait. Not so, for in further

discussion I learned that Kingsley, as a young boy had

been in constant contact with the Altmiller brothers.

King's dad went hunting with them frequently and

the young boy would tag along. When it was time to build

a fire, he would watch the Altmillers prepare the wood.

They were always generous with their knowledge, letting

him ask questions but, more importantly, watch what and

how they plied their craft. He remembers it so well,

admitting that he learned more by listening while sitting

around the camp fire, than talking. He was like "a mouse

in the corner." So too, he remembers and is proud of the

fact that they used to call him "The Kingfisher."

When time for college came, his dad was sure he

would be off. Instead he went to the Altmiller's camp and

then to work for Carney Pole. Dad was disappointed, but

by then Kingsley had gotten "a love for it [logging]."

Kingsley's artisan status is apparent in two ways.

First, his actual physical abilities as a sawyer, his

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talent to use a machine so that his sense of perfection

results in the product. I discovered this through several

of the photographs that show Kings sawing. They give a

good visual sense of his skill and precision. His

performance as well as his production were framed

artistically. Second, the attitude with which he

approaches his job. His relationship with the masters of

the craft, the Altmillers has already been confirmed, and

if we consider logging, more specifically sawing, an art,

he is a perfect example of one who has followed in the

footsteps of greatness. He has continued a sense of the

appropriate from the Altmiller generation to his own.

He had done well in high school, and so it

surprised his family that, instead of continuing on, he

wanted to get a job in the woods. He stayed with it and

learned to do well in difficult situations. Every time

one came up and he was confused he would ask himself, "How

would Jake do it?" He'd think about it and decide, "Jake

would do it this way." And that is what Kings would do.

Now he can look at a strip and figure it out using his own

devices.

Kingsley, as so many other sawyers, mentioned that

sharpening the saw or chain is an important sign of an

artist. In general, the care one gives one's tools is an

important sign of perfecting your art. Good sawyers

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rarely divulge how to sharpen a chain. While Kings was

learning he remembered that they would say that the "main

thing is to get it sharp." But in order to do this he

would sharpen and sharpen, then hand-file. He would

change techniques and finally, by trial and error and

perhaps sneaking a look at an experts' chains, he learned.

Kings said that after about seven or eight years

on the job he began to feel comfortable and gain

competence. Even so, he learns something new every day.

It is an evolving art, one that demands that the artist be

open to new challenges, always finding ways to invent

techniques that will produce a better performance and a

better product. The performance revolves around high

production, the quality of the work, and meeting necessary

safety standards. One then evaluates the visual impact of

the end result, the stand of trees that remains and the

appearance of the environment once the job is done.

This means a daily attention to detail, not

waiting until the last day and merely "cleaning it up."

The process is ongoing, proceeding in an orderly fashion

so that the job throughout its execution, tree by tree,

evidences a care for the final product. Three cardinal

rules that Kings holds to are: never use anyone else's

tools; be sure that yours are running right; and always.

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even on the most rugged of jobs, give it a delicate, soft

touch.

Pam, Kingsley's wife who was also the niece of Don

Ponozzo, couldn't wait to give an example of his skill.

She wanted him to tell the story of using his expertise at

Red River. She wanted to highlight her husband's

specialized skill and talent. Her life had been spent

growing up in logging when her folks lived in Weippe. She

appreciated the artistry that he, someone from a non

logging family, had developed.

Friends of theirs had property in a meadow with a

home and large propane tank situated near it. They had

asked Kings to fell a tree that was situated between the

two in a position that put the house or tank in jeopardy

if the falling was not done properly. Kingsley evaluated

the situation and felt that he could bring down the tree

without harming either.

He prepared his cut and readied two men to pull on

a rope attached to it when he called out to do so. Of

course, in the performance Kings added a bit of intrigue,

just enough so that the owner of the property would feel

"rattled" enough to make a good story when the feat had

been accomplished. The owner wanted to be "too

technical." Kings felt he would go wrong if technique

overshadowed his intuition of how to do the job.

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For the first half hour Kingsley made a "big game"

out of the occasion. He even made the owner, who was

afraid of heights, climb up the tree and tie a guide rope

around it. All the while Kingsley was concentrating on

the stump which he knew would tell him how to make the

cut. To add to the excitement, he asked the owner to

stand exactly where the tree would hit.

He made his cut and yelled for the owner to move.

They pulled the rope and the tree fell, the tips of its

branches gently kissing the edge of the tank as it hit the

ground in exactly the spot from which the owner had moved

moments earlier. There had been no talk of insurance or

liability. It had been a "gentlemen's agreement," no

written contract or request for payment. For Kingsley, it

was a challenge, but he also acknowledged that if he had

any doubt about his ability to succeed, he wouldn't have

attempted it. They, in turn, trusted that he knew his

capabilities. Both sides knew that there was no way to

put a monetary value on this type of specialized

operation, or at least, in this country between these

parties there were no prices set.

Instead, they all knew that it had created a bond.

Kingsley would never ask for a return on the job but knew

that if the occasion arose, reciprocity would occur. And

it did. Pam and their daughter were riding at Red River

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some months later and one of their horses threw a shoe.

They asked for help from the property owner and were given

not any horse, but their best horse to ride back. It was

a return in kind and in quality for the day of the "Big

Game."

Words come easy to Kingsley; he uses them wisely

and has been called upon often to represent the logging

industry.? His statements are sincere and possess clarity

when he is speaking of the political issues attendant with

logging as well as when he speaks of it as an art.

For Kingsley, to be a good sawyer means to have a

neat, nice fluid motion. Everything about the action

should look easy. In fact, he claims that before he

became a sawyer, when all his knowledge was gained from

watching the Altmillers, he had no idea that logging was

hard work.

In life as in work, the Steinbrueckers seek and

attain a quality of life beginning with creating an

environment in the natural setting that pleases the eye.

Because logging is a seasonal occupation, they bought a

rundown homestead and began ranching, keeping horses and

cattle. The cattle are gone now, but the homestead might

easily appear in a copy of Southern Living if there were a

western equivalent. When you drive up High Valley Road,

not knowing exactly which spread to stop at, all you have

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to ask is what would the home of a sawyer committed to

artistry look like? The answer comes easily. Without the

need for an address painted on mailboxes, you know that a

family concerned with visual impact must live on this

spread.

The house, even though it is under renovation, is

orderly. Construction materials are neatly organized.

Tarpaulins are secured, and equipment is out of the

weather. As you look out the large windows across the

finely cut meadow, toward the out buildings, you can see

that there has been care given to every visual element.

Though used for storage and not human habitation, they are

roofed, repaired, and painted, as if done yesterday, as if

maintenance is perpetual. A pride in their homestead is

exemplified in the way it is kept up, so similar to that

of Bob Allen's spread, and Joe Richardson's, and the

Altmiller's, and the Barnett's and the Snook's. In both

their living and their work, fine woods artists seek

perfection.

Kingsley takes an active role in his profession.

His day begins at 4:30 A.M. with coffee at the Ponderosa.

He wouldn't miss a day. There, with other loggers,

Kingley finds out what is happening; where current jobs

are being done, how many logs are being processed, and

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what new ideas are coming out. Of course he also enjoys

listening to the early morning "lies."

From there he goes to his job as a Potlatch

sawyer. In the woods Kingsley knows that he can find a

strip slated to be cut even if he's never been there

before. In as large as a forty square mile area, he can

find the job with the vaguest directions. Once there,

Kingsley does what he does best. He finds a way to

selectively log the right timber out. Often it will mean

making decisions on the way to get the best production out

of the stand now, while maintaining its appearance and

potential yield for the future. The sawyer, on the spot,

one with experience like Kingsley, is the ultimate

decision maker.

Kingsley feels that there is no substitute for

experience. Logging couldn't be done better with

computers or formulas. In fact, he claims that

occasionally men committed to the textbook approach will

come back to him and admit that the "book doesn't work."

He admits to the need for a "methodical manner," one in

which there is no room for mistakes but one that is

learned through experience, not in a classroom. So many

areas are so rugged that a sawyer needs forethought, must

plan an operation. "You can't have a guy who does a big

mess. You pace it off, you 'walk' it, before you form

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your idea." And if you're really good, the supervisor

comes to you, as he does to Kingsley to ask for a plan to

log a region.

In Kingsley's own words, he's like a modern day

John Henry. He's competing with modern machinery. There

are regions that can't accommodate new technology because

they are too rough. And he must go in and do the job.

But like the fate of other independent, self-motivated men

of legend and real life, Kingsley sees the current

problems in his profession. At one time the risks and

hard work paid off with a good wage and a good living. In

the past ten years, the pay for a good sawyer has not

increased in proportion to the cost of living. It becomes

more and more difficult.

I asked about the teamwork that I saw in the

specialized task of preparing the show load. What struck

me most was that it seemed as if the job was orchestrated

but that no one was giving orders. Why? According to

Kingsley, everyone knows what everyone else is thinking

and knows that they are thinking ahead. Because they have

long years of experience^ they will come up with the same

conclusions as to how to accomplish the job. The team

works with, in my words, a style of psychic unity.

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Kingsley added that, to him. Potlatch is like a

big family, a place to keep learning. There would be no

reason to stay if you weren't learning all the time. They

learn as a group, they "get synchronized," they do it

right and have fun in the process. To him, the best crew,

the one I saw in operation, was Bill Stephenson, John

Curtis, and Paul Cleveland. It was smooth. They knew in

one day that everything was right, that regardless of the

strip they would come together in a good, hard-working

relationship. They'd go the extra mile to help one

another and have a good time in the process. "You have to

have a good time because the job is hard and you don't

want to make it any harder by not getting along."

Kingsley worries about his profession. In a way

it is becoming a lost art. Loggers are turning to other

things. Mothers don't want their sons in the woods. The

risks that woodsworkers have to take were in the past

financially worth it, but no more. You can barely make a

living as a sawyer.

But how does he see a sawyer can survive? Kings

enumerated his tenets for me: (1) Show pride in your work.

(2) Build a good reputation, its your way of life.

(3) Don't worry about your physical size or muscular

attributes, but stay in good shape. (4) Don't be afraid of

hard work. (5) Take advantage of education but count on

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experience, "being there," to get the job done. (6) Keep a

sharp, clear mind.

Finally, Kingsley returned to the theme from which

our discussion began: (7) learn from the oldtimers. They

became experts by doing, and the best bet for a young

logger is to work with someone who knows the country. He

called back the Altmillers for an encore. They took time

with Kingsley when he was a youngster. They were patient,

and let the messages penetrate. They never lost their

temper or made a young fellow afraid to ask questions.

According to Kingsley, "Albert Altermiller had forgotten

more than he [Kingsley] would ever know." "And the

biggest secret to success is to have a good teacher."

He follows the Altmillers' training both in the

woods and in preparation, readying himself for each day,

the night before by sharpening his chain. He is

meticulous with his tools and his clothing. There is no

time during the day to fix a saw or find a pair of gloves.

You don't leave a job to travel twenty miles home or into

town to pick up a set of earplugs.

Kingsley Steinbruecker is an artist. He seeks

perfection. His performance on the job and in life is a

constant preoccupation. Says Kingsley, "Everything has to

feel right and be right— be in the heartbeat."

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The Art of the Loader Operator

Mike and Darlene Lee lead a simple life, in a

modest, rented home in Orofino. As you enter from a cold

and rainy night you realize that it is warm and toasty.

Like so many other houses in the region, it is heated with

a wood-burning stove always kept supplied by Mike's

enterprise. He and other men cut, split, and supply their

stoves for the cold.

The second thing of which you see is that the

Lee's home seems like a communication nerve center. There

are two CB radios, and an ambulance scanner, as well as

constant communication through hand-held radio to

Orofino's 100 percent volunteer Fire Department. Mike Lee

sits, looking tired, because he had been on a 2:00 A.M.

call last night and expects to be called out again,

anytime.

The department is small, only twenty-eight men,

but it prides itself on being one of the best. And why?

Because these men know the terrain; many of them are

loggers. They know the course of a fire in the city, but

more importantly in rural areas. But their greatest value

rests in their ability to get to an emergency in any

location without elaborate directions. They do it

everyday. Once there, they can examine the situation and,

knowing equipment as well as they do, they can devise a

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system for taking care of any emergency, any accident, any

fire.

Although extinguishing fires is their main job,

these men are often called in to take care of automobile

crashes. In this region it is common for someone to go

off the road into a barrow pit or skid on a narrow

downhill grade and plow into a tree. The weekly count of

accidents in the Clearwater Tribune attests to this.

When we arrived, I could tell that Mike was

quizzical about why he and Darlene had been chosen to be

interviewed. He was accommodating, but reserved. I had,

in fact, decided to ask the Lee's about their life, not so

much because I believed it would demonstrate "work as

art," but principally because I had seen the non-stop

pattern of Darlene's daily activity.

She's the tiniest, "drink of water" you can

imagine, perhaps five feet tall, slight, freckled with a

halo of pale carrot-red hair. When not cooking at Jean's

Bakery, she's working for O.C.I. or grandmothering for her

daughter.

To my surprise, Darlene mentioned that she had

grown up among the other nine families in logging at Frank

Fromelt's camp. Frank, to many in this area, is a hero.

He ran a good operation, but also in his quiet way he made

sure that the town of Pierce and especially its children

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were protected and loved. According to Darlene, she

"needed a little spoiled," and it was Frank that did the

spoiling.

Darlene's dad had been a mechanic, and Frank had

all but adopted her. He'd come by every evening to play

with her, teaching her to run a road grader, even taking

her out in the late evenings and early mornings to run

equipment. She remembers taking a short nap and then

going off to school but never regretting the tom-boy time

she led with Grandpa Frank. He was 150 percent behind the

kids and, as a tribute, the Pierce High School dedicated

their yearbook to him. Darlene brought it out with pride

to show me the picture of this oldtime logging hero.

Darlene was Frank's shadow and, from him, she

learned that, even if you start poor, you work to be

nothing but the best. Darlene feels that Frank became

prominent because he was dedicated and worked day and

night. "There was no better human being."

Here, in the Lee's living room, the influence of

Frank Fromelt and the importance of the early independent

logging contractors shines. The facts of their life

demonstrate that they were instrumental in developing the

fine, contemporary, logging family tradition. Mike and

Darlene perpetuate the practices and attitudes they saw in

men like Frank Fromelt. They lead an existence that is

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common for this way of life. Nike was born in Orofino and

Darlene in Pierce, which is about thirty miles away.

They admit that they have an easy-flowing life

with no real schedule; "you get done what you can, when

you can." But this doesn't mean an easy-going life. As

they both agree, "It's a hard life, but a good life." But

life for a logger has changed. At one time, if you worked

hard you could earn a good living. This is not the case

today. Today it takes two to make a living.

Darlene and Mike both rise at about 1:00 A.M.; she

is always up to prepare breakfast and see Mike off. As a

loader operator, Mike is the first to arrive on a job and

the last to leave. He's on the job for about twelve

hours. If you add to that at least one hour travel time

each way, longer in the winter, you have a fourteen hour

day. Subtract from that the possibility of a nightly

emergency call and you can see that Mike has a very full

schedule and very little time to sleep.

The annual, as well as the daily cycle, follows

the whims of the weather. Loggers work from May through

October, but not much during November before the freeze.

When December comes and the ground is hard again they will

work until approximately Valentine's Day. Then they have

layoff time when they allow themselves the luxury to be

tired. They might rest or do a little mechanical work in

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the company shop. The daily schedule also operates

without benefit of calendar or clock. Time is based on

two natural occurrences, daybreak and nightfall.

These days. Hike's job is to operate the loader,

but during his life in the woods he has driven a truck, a

skidder, and done some falling and bucking. For him,

working the loader is the epitome of high status in the

woods. Falling may be most dangerous. A logger might

lose one or two sawyer friends each year to accidents in

the woods. But it is the loader operator who can make or

break a job. He takes on the role of the daily go-between

for the men and the boss. He carries on the role of

loaders and toploaders who were so often known as artists

before the time of intensive mechanization (see: "Canada

Joe. He was a Real Artist"^.

As if echoing the words of Sharon Barnett, Mike

says "Every day is different in the woods, different for

the logger." He is proud of that fact, because associated

with it is the understanding that he, as a logger, must

meet new challenges each day. And the loggers make their

days so.

For example, Mike, like so many others, takes up

the challenges it offers. He had never driven a truck,

and yet he remembers that one Sunday he just got in and

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did it. His experience with a loader began in exactly the

same way.

Skill develops through experience. As a young

logger you've seen others perform a job, and so you just

go at it and practice. And how would Mike teach someone a

skill? "You show them once, maybe twice. That's it. They

either learn it or will never master it." When he said

this, I was amazed that not only were there no manuals or

instructional tapes to guide a young logger, but there

were also very few chances. Either you understand and are

able to do a job right away, or you're written off; you

leave the woods. It is an expected trait. If you want to

do a job you concentrate on it and get it right, the first

or second time, not after constant oversight.

Concentration seemed to be the key to much of what

had made Mike a success. He had been working in the woods

for thirteen years. In that time he had learned to be

fast and efficient at his job, but equally important, he

is cautious. He knows exactly where every crew member is

at all times during the logging operation.

Your equipment is expensive and that is a consideration, but the lives around you are irreplaceable. As a loader you are hoisting approximately 15,000 pounds with each swing of the crane's arm. One false move can damage a truck or kill a man.

Mike has never lost a man.

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Knowledge of species, size, and length also plays

an important part in any loader's talent. Eyeballing each

individual lift of timber, the loader is responsible for

making sure that it balances properly on the truck. This

must be done instantaneously without the aid of charts or

blueprints. The flow charts for procedures are in the

loader's head, imprinted there through years of

experience.

"You can't learn these things out of a book," says

Mike. "There is an art to all of it, and part of that art

is based on routine, speed, efficiency, and knowing the

woods. And one of the best of them all is Jake

Altmiller."

I was surprised that Mike, who is of the younger

breed, would bring up Jake, who is all but retired. So I

asked him about Jake's artistry. "Jake is amazing. He

never has a wasted movement. He never gets excited and

yet he can outsaw anyone." With these comments, Mike had

reconfirmed my sense that there was a validity in Jake's

mystique. It was not only the tribute paid to someone who

had outlasted other sawyers but that his artistry was

based on specific qualities of performance.

Mike continued.

Falling timber is definitely an art. You have to know where the log is going to fall. You want it as near to the skid trail as possible. To do that you have to

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know how to make different cuts and where to put your wedges.

But according to Hike, you can't believe everything you

hear about talent. "There is more timber skidded in the

restaurants in town then in the woods," he said. At this

Darlene and I both laughed because we could imagine

loggers making that prize fish grow bigger and bigger with

each telling.

Mike was thoughtful and paused often during our

conversation as if weighing his every word. He believes

in what he and his fellow loggers are doing, the fact that

they are applying decades of knowledge and using well-

honed skills in their profession. He may have been

somewhat suspicious about my questioning but never

faltered in trying to give a true rendition of woodswork.

He was a part of a team, not only on the crew but in the

total scheme of the logging tradition.

One of his most memorable experiences in logging

was when he became a part of the logging truck convoy to

Darby, Montana. As a supporter of the timber industry, he

and hundreds of loggers throughout the region took loads

of logs to a mill that was about to close. It, and the

town were in dire straits. If the mill closed, the town

was doomed. Mike and other loggers banded together and

carried logs to Montana to keep the mill open. To see

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fifteen miles of logging trucks traveling on the highway

and into the mill's yard was truly a sight to behold.

Teamwork pays off, both in the woods and in major

crises. A good crew does a fine job, and a coalition of

loggers can keep a town alive. If the future means more

demonstrations of this kind, Mike Lee will be right in the

middle of them with his compatriots.

But success on the job and in letting the outside

world know about their industry can't happen, if loggers'

intentions or their lives are sporadic. Life must be

lived dependably day by day. Routine is essential. There

is a consistency to work and production. There is a

proper mix of men doing their specific tasks to the best

of their ability, and a system that supports their

strivings for excellence. According to Mike, "you have to

care about your job, have pride in it, and that means

doing it better all the time."

In talking about routine, Mike clarified one of my

questions concerning communication on the job. I had

wondered why, when I saw a crew at work, there was rarely

discussion on what to do or how to do it. I thought that

it was in part due to the difficulty of communicating in

the open forest and under conditions in which noise

prevailed. Mike assured me that there was little need to

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give orders, for once you set up a routine, "you don't

have to straighten people out."

This to me answered an important question about

communication. There was rarely a need for criticism,

because everyone knew the expected behavior. It

reaffirmed my belief that much of the communication I had

seen in both the woods and in town functioned in precisely

this way. Everyone knew the expectations and the

procedures that were to be followed. They, as a corporate

unit, had no question as to what to do, or how, or when to

do it, so that the goal could be achieved.

You might think that, with the little time they

have at their disposal, the Lees would turn down any other

volunteer opportunities. The fire department should be

enough community spirit to qualify Mike as a logger who is

good member of the Clearwater County community. Not so,

for the Lees have begun to help with the O.C.I. logging

show. Now they are in the thick of the planning and are

valued members of the Board.

If there is little sleep in the Lee household,

there is even less during Fair time. This past year

Darlene and Mike averaged about two hours a night during

the weeks before the show. Darlene was in charge of the

auction, and Mike was in charge of all the firewood that

was to be sold.

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Since they have benefitted so often from logging

shows and have a wall filled with ribbons and a case full

of trophies to prove it, Darlene and Mike throw themselves

into this volunteer work. It has become just another part

of their lives.

"What is beautiful?" I asked Mike. Without

hesitation he replied.

If you do a good job, that's beautiful. You should take a look at the job we did at Greer Grade three years ago. It looks really nice. You can't even see where we had to put in roads.

He continued.

You should look at logging just like farming, but it takes longer. You make sure that in years to come you can go into that area and enjoy it. There's nothing prettier than walking on a landing you've worked and see elk and bear among the newly planted trees.

I was curious about the future for the Lees. They

work so hard, non-stop. I wondered how they would treat

the years to come? As far as Mike is concerned, he will,

"keep loading logs." He wants a reputation for being the

best. Even though he knows that there is less money in

his profession than there was in the 1970s, it is

something he wants to do. He loves what he is doing, and

for him retirement doesn't even figure into his future.

Life for the Lees is in logging.

This is a proud family, so like the other logging

families with whom I spoke. Life might be difficult, but

it is always different. Finances might be uncertain, but

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pride in one's work is never questioned. As with so many

who have been raised in the woods, their life and labor is

in their blood. The opportunity to work in nature, to

smell a fresh-cut log, to see a finely harvested area will

sustain them regardless of what else life has in store for

them. Say Darlene and Mike, "Logging, it's what you live

for. "

Pepsi

Two A.M. is too early for man or beast, let alone

a middle-aged anthropologist, but there I was walking out

of the door of the Helgeson's to meet Norman and Sharon

Baugh. In the dark, on our first leg of the trip up to

Princeton, Idaho my eyes were closed, but I still asked

questions. Now, I can't remember a single answer but do

remember that at the time I knew that they were critical

insights into the life of a logging truck driver's family

life. These answers will never come back; they will not

be a part of the dialogue and never appear as the Baughs'

voice in their own story.

I only hope that somehow, throughout the day, over

the three hundred and twenty miles and thirteen hours of

travel, we touched upon areas that capture the pride that

they have in their chosen profession. Truck driving is an

art, especially when you are hauling 80,000 pounds of

unwieldy logs down severe inclines on dirt roads. Norman

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is an artist; he takes care and pride in every aspect of

driving his truck. From improving its equipage to

concerning himself with road safety, Norman takes his job

seriously and would have no other. He, like other drivers

I met, can't really say why, but regardless of its

hardships, they want to "drive truck." It is a passion

and sustains them. Its satisfaction is perpetual, its

aesthetic is elusive to those other than logging truck

drivers.

Norman consumes Pepsi after Pepsi driving down the

highway. He never drinks coffee or Coke, only Pepsi. And

just to reaffirm his enjoyment for this refreshment, his

white with brown and orange striped Kenworth truck— it's

named "Pepsi." His CB handle is "Pepsi." He started with

his first one at the cafe in Deary one cloudy day in May

when we went out hauling. It had been a difficult time;

the rain had caused the work in the woods to slow down.

It is nearly impossible to keep equipment working in mud,

and in fact, it would be environmentally irresponsible to

rut the terrain during the rainy season. And so, for a

week, sawyers, woodsbosses, loaders, truckers, and the

mills, were slowed down and almost at a standstill.

I had waited for this ride during the week of

rain, and as we began I realized that there were many

technical elements of truck driving that were beyond me.

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Norman began to fill me in on the details. A legal weight

limit for a logging truck is 80,000 pounds, and it is

critical that the man loading your rig could get as close

to that amount, without surpassing it. The loader needed

an eye and a touch with the equipment so that the weight

is right and the load balanced in such a way that it is

not top-heavy. If it is positioned properly between the

stakes, the truck would be easier to handle on the road.

If properly loaded, it is economically beneficial to the

trucker because hauling payment was determined by weight.

Several other factors were added to the equation

of weight. First, if a load exceeded the limit and the

truck was stopped at a weighing station, the driver could

receive a fine of several hundred dollars for the overage.

If it were unbalanced and difficult to drive, the trip

would take longer and it would be impossible to haul an

additional load that day. The ordering of trucks to the

mill was done in rotation. If you were at the yard at

precisely 6:00 A.M. and dumped the load, reorganized your

truck, and were back on the road for another load, you

might get an additional trip in that day. That was ideal,

but the driver never knew if the mud would necessitate

chains or some other unforeseen occurrence would slow him

down.

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Inside, the cab of the truck was comfortable, a

necessity for anyone who spends as much as eighteen hours

on the road in a day. It had fifteen gears, a two-speed

rear end, and more gauges than I could count. Both seats

had sturdy shock absorbers.

Eighteen hours a day for thirty-one years,

beginning at age nineteen, that was Norman's history. He

had taken a lot of vibration and a lot of knocks in trucks

both new and used. The modern ones like this Kenworth

were a driver's delight, but it took a good driver and

mechanic to understand both how to handle and to maintain

them.

Driver-owners watch the competitions at logging

fairs to see how a new model operates; often they will buy

a truck with some demonstration miles on it because it has

been shaken down and the bugs worked out of it. So buying

new means never buying the untested, and buying second

hand means knowing the driving and maintenance reputation

of the previous owner.

For example, Norman stays away from some of the

very new technology; it causes nothing but trouble.

Trucks designed in factories, without knowledge of

conditions under which they are driven, often just don't

work. On this four hundred and twenty-five horse power

machine, Norman does most of his own mechanics. Often,

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instead of getting a replacement part even on a guarantee,

he will invent a new piece. The logic is, if the original

broke there was something wrong with the design and a

second one of the same design will break as well. "If

it's not engineered right, you [the driver] change it and

don't wait for a company improvement." And for Norman's

taste, "they still don't make a logging truck right for

Idaho." The roads are such, the incline such, that you

have to steer more than in other regions.

Skill meets economy again in the ability to drive

the truck. It is not unusual to use thirty or forty

gallons of diesel on a run, and it is the master driver

that can cut down consumption by using finely honed

techniques of braking and shifting. Our drive that day

took us up Swamp Creek, then Bishop Creek, between Elk

River to the logging site, down again, and to Bennett's

mill in Princeton, Idaho. At each mile marker. Norm

radioed his exact location so that any other trucker in

the vicinity would proceed with caution. There were

always greeting on the CB, short but personal and

humorous, and then, when in sight, a wave and

acknowledgement. These passersby were a part of the

complicated economic arrangement. If they worked

together, they could increase their daily income, but

working against each other would do little more than foul

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up the orderly progression of trucks going up to the

loader and back down to the mill.

When we arrived at the deck of logs for the

loading, Norman took off his visor cap and put on a hard

hat. I stayed in the truck and for the first time

experienced the sensation of 80,000 pounds. The loader

placed the logs on the bed. Norman filled out a small

slip of paper, stapled it to the face of a log, sprayed

initials on it, tightened and checked the wrappers, and we

were off.

It took less than ten minutes to load these logs.

The crew was efficient, each knowing his job and every

other job there on site. The sawyers, hookers, boomman,

and loader operator kept moving as truck after truck

appeared for its load. Months later, while watching the

loading of the show logs for Lumberjack Days, I would see

the difference between utility and artistry, but for the

time being, Norman and I had a job to do, to get the logs

to Bennett's. Stability and balance characterized this

load because of the skill of the loader operator, and it

would make our trip easier.

Once at the yard, the sensation of weight came

back to me in an even more striking fashion. For the

quaking that occurred during loading was nothing compared

to unloading. The machine, like a giant claw, attacked

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the logs on the truck, pulled them off, and onto the

ground. The entire truck rocked from side to side, and I

realized that for the past two hours this enormous weight

had been following us. If we had a mishap on the road, we

would have been crushed by this weight, a situation that

the logging truck driver lives with daily.

Looking around the yard, I began to wonder about

its appearance and whether there were both standards for

efficiency and aesthetics. Bennett's well-organized and

managed yard meant that the trucker would have an easy

access, would rarely sustain any damage to his truck, and

could count on a safe delivery.

I was trying to learn just what it took to be a

driver, but Norman assured me that teaching only goes so

far. Some drivers have it and others don't; it's the same

way with all equipment operators, skidders, cats, and top

loaders. When you see a driver you can tell immediately

how skilled he is. Norman, himself, learned on the job.

He rode with another driver for three days, and that was

it, he was hooked, he was a driver. Some might want to

put him into a category of "dumb trucker"; Norman knows

that. But to Norman, he's his own boss and proud of the

job he does.

During the past three decades, Norman and Sharon

have been a team, often living in a camper near a job

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site, abandoning their home in Orofino to be together on

the road. They have shared the hours and the jolts.

They've raised their daughters to appreciate a life in

logging. Both Norman and Sharon help during logging

shows, organizing and judging the contests. Both are

outspoken about their love of this way of life and

appreciate the beauties they see in it.

Norman recounted a story about the prize load as

well. Years ago.

Bud Deyo, quite a guy, heard a Potlatch representative brag about winning the prize for the load. That's all Bud needed; he was determined to win, and did, for the next seven years running.

He had looked for trees for months, measured each one and

cut eight or ten just to get what he needed (see Show

Load). The aesthetics of the show load are something that

Norman can discuss, for he has been a judge of the loads

for the past several years. It is a matter of meeting

specific standards. But the judges also try, in addition

to using their basic honesty and interpretation of

quality, to spread the prizes out so that there can be a

distribution of pride as well.

Norman believes in the critical differences, those

elements that make one man a real expert, a real artist,

and another just a driver, or a skidder operator, or a

sawyer. For the logging truck driver it includes

something as seemingly inconsequential as the fact and

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method of washing tires. This separates the true

perfectionist from the also-rans.

Norman is forthright about his skills and his

opinions. He prides himself on his driving ability, but

is not proud. He understands what he sees in nature but

admits that he hasn't concentrated much on writing and

spelling. He isn't much for book learning.

Norman and Sharon also share their love of toys,

especially metal miniatures of trucks. As if driving a

rig for all these hours and years has not been enough, the

Baughs are always looking for replicas of trucks. They

carry their life into their hobby, subscribing to

periodicals about toys and searching out trucks in antique

shops, flea markets, and garage sales wherever they go.

Norman and Sharon are a team; they share a life totally,

in work and pleasure. They typify many of the logging

families in this area.

And their grandsons— will they become loggers?

Says Norman, "I hope not . . . and I hope so."

A Lesson in Attitude and Skill

Over a drink at the Brass Rail, I was chastised

soundly, and rightly so. I had transgressed against one

of the basic tenets of logging life. "Always do what you

say."

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During my first visit in 1990, I told Ted Leach

that I would visit Chinese Ditches and photograph it for

the Smithsonian Institution. I also promised to go with

him to Cow Creek where he had a job that he was most proud

to show. I didn't. Because of family matters and the

rush of Smithsonian volunteers that were coming with me to

the Lumberjack Days, the visit never happened.

Because of breaking an appointment, Ted was now

not totally convinced of my commitment. But he was

willing to take a chance and talk to me a second time (see

Lessons on a Ridae). However, before my questions, he'd

have his say. He told me soundly that I had broken a

cardinal rule. With my apology and promise that I'd hold

true to his advice in the future, we got that out of the

way. The record was set straight and we could proceed.

Regardless of the blemish on my reputation, I

believe that Ted understood that I was truly interested in

the perfection toward which loggers strive in the woods.

He was one of the major forces in instilling the knowledge

and attitudes of good woodsmanship into the young men

coming into logging.

Ted's technical knowledge was impeccable, but he

also had an important philosophical orientation to impart.

He took logging out of the merely physical realm and

placed it into the category of a noble profession. And

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for him, work values translated into values for living.

There was no question of that.

First, Ted wanted to tell me about the operation

that he felt was indicative of a great, artistic logging

job. The Cow Creek site had been done between 1986 and

1988. It was very special. For one, it was highly

visible. With a county road running directly through its

middle, the public could see it every time they rode past.

It had to be evidence of the best possible use of logging

technology that kept an area pleasing to the eye. At that

same time, Ted had to show the contractor that he had made

the best use of the machinery to harvest the best possible

timber.

Second, it was Ted's way of proving an important

point. He holds to an aesthetic principle that is central

to the quality of his work, but he had to prove it to

others. He had to convince them that it was possible in

this era of stressing production. To him, both quality

and high production were possible on the same job.

Although some tradeoffs were necessary in the process, all

in all, you could maintain standards of appearance at the

same time your harvest demonstrated a high degree of

economic output. In a way, for Ted this was a political

as well as an artistic statement.

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He carried this goal through in his third reason

for using this region as a demonstration. It was an ideal

stand of timber to saw. It had inherently good production

potential, but it was also a way of showing proper

procedures for complying with ecological impact standards.

It was an area in which logging would affect water quality

and Ted was sure that he could prove that his techniques

would work in maintaining a good environmental balance.

Yes, it was exhilarating to saw a wonderful stand of

trees, but there was also a sense of superiority when you

could maintain the visual and functional environment.

Ted took pride in the technical know-how he

applied to the job and the productivity he had received.

But for him, his reputation was also on the line. He was

known for his preventive practices. He had done many

projects and gained notice for his skill. He wanted this

to be one of his finest hours, and now, years later, it

was proving to be exactly that.

Perhaps Ted's background in forestry makes him

more sensitive to the requirements of good timber

management. But when you hear him talk about his work, it

is obvious that his degree may have been merely a welcomed

additive to his already highly developed sense of

appropriateness in the woods. He's a "bug" on soil

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erosion and doesn't let anything— weather, boss, crew, or

equipment failure— stand in his way to avoid it.

Ted was not only an informant in this fieldwork

experience. He was also an analyst. He was sensitive to

my concerns for the aesthetics of the logging moments and

could volunteer his ideas about artistry in the woods.

Ted assured me that he could tell who had cut a stand of

trees when the logs were on the ground. He could look at

the timber that had been cut and the stumps and evaluate

the job. According to Ted, each sawyer had his own

signature. This stamp was the result of work habits.

It is typified in the sawyer's reaction to time

and its constraints, from the moment he hears the alarm

clock go off, to the time he gets back into bed at night.

The artist, the real specialist, can look at a project and

organize his time. It is done with precision and

forethought so that he will be on time, and using time

properly, regardless of extenuating circumstances

throughout the day. Precision and forethought then become

two of the critical characteristics in the aesthetics of a

life in logging.

During the course of our conversation, I had to

ask, "Who is the classiest, the most stylish woodsworker

you know?" While Ted was giving concentrated thought to

this question, Donna, his wife chimed in.

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You'd have to consider Ted for that honor. He's a professional. He's proud. He leaves a stand looking good. He doesn't destroy young timber. He's an environmentalist.

Donna was speaking from wifely pride, but also from first

hand knowledge.

She had been in the woods with Ted frequently when

he had been with the Forest Service. Ted had taught her

how to look at logging. Always on the sidelines, never

taking center stage, Donna was a logger's wife. She

spread herself thin with volunteer work in the art

association, sorority, extension service, and other

community concerns. Although she is currently an

entrepreneur and owns a mail-order knitting company, she

is first and foremost a woman who is steeped in the

logging world.

Donna knows of Ted's concerns for this way of

life. She knows that he has been a supporter of O.C.I.

and has spent substantial parts of his year in making the

logging show a success. She knows that he has political

concerns and is not shy about speaking out or

demonstrating to maintain a logging way of life. But

underneath all the strength of conviction is an untiring

commitment to the woods and especially to the young men

who enter into the profession.

Ted is a born teacher and scholarly in his

approach. He discovered from insurance company tables

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that sawyers were one of the most accident-prone working

groups. To combat the problems of safety in the woods, he

developed a course for young sawyers. Techniques of

sawing were taught, but at the core of his course was the

belief that good sawing and good woodswork is only one

element of job safety. In order to be good at your job,

you must be good at your life. You have to prepare the

young sawyer to fashion his lifestyle not only his manual

skills.

During the course, the students were taught first

to observe. They were taught the preparation of an area

to avoid dangerous pitfalls. But above all, Ted tried to

instill in them a good sense of "habits." These

transcended what happened on the job and extended into

their everyday life. They included: getting up on time,

getting your equipment ready at home before you go to a

job, being properly dressed for weather conditions, and

having a sense of the appropriate, of the proper in

everything you do.

It doesn't matter how smart or intelligent you are

if your work habits are lacking. Often it depends on how

the young logger has been raised, but good habits can also

be taught. There are rules of thumb in logging, ways of

acting that everyone expects. For example, the bucker is

the man on the crew who should have the landing clear and

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ready to go. The rest of the teem counts on the fact that

he is industrious and will set the proper footing for

them. On a good team the bucker will do his best to get

everything organized, but if the workload is too great,

others will help him out. The team members don't sit in

the rig and wait until it is their turn to perform; they

help, they are a team. And this spirit becomes a part of

the life and the art of the logger.

As well-trained as one is, and as careful as one

might be, tragedies do happen. You can get killed easily,

even though you know your skills and the terrain. Often

it is taking that extra precaution that means the

difference between life and death.

Often there will be a dead tree in any stand.

Although it is still upright, the roots are already

deteriorating. This occurs with all trees, but especially

with white fir. If a tree is in a group of others, it may

remain standing. But if others are cut and one is left,

it may be more prone to winds. The snag, or dead tree,

can fall with the slightest provocation. Dead trees

without limbs make very little sound until they hit the

ground. Then it is too late.

The snag may fall in any direction and so, in a

sense, it's effect on the sawyer can be fate. The sawyer

can be in the wrong place at the wrong time when it falls.

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The only way to avoid the chance disaster is to cut the

snags before you begin clearing a stand of trees.

While Ted was explaining the combination of safety

precautions and unexpected dangers in work in the woods, I

remembered the writings of Evans-Pritchard on magic and

witchcraft. It was ever so vague, but I remember the

example of a man, sitting in a hut that collapses.

Regardless of how careful he had been in its construction,

and regardless of what offerings or prayers he had said to

propitiate the gods, when the hut is going to fall, it is

going to fall.

In logging, there is good technique, knowledge of

proper safety precautions, and a strong sense of the need

for caution. Skilled and careful loggers may have a

better chance of survival, but there are many

imponderables. It is almost as if you accept that

sometimes there will be disasters. You and your logging

friends go on trying to protect yourselves from danger but

know that it can come any time. For one, it may be a

snag, falling, hitting you, and sending you tumbling to

your death. For another, it may be a two inch diameter

stick hurling itself with such velocity at your head that

it strikes you in just the wrong spot and causes your

death. Even the most careful sawyer may be preoccupied

with other work. He may be fixing a saw or preparing for

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another cut. His earplugs may block out noises and,

before he can react, a tree may fall and end his life.

What do those who are left behind do? They go on

(see Not All Roses). Friends and crew participate in the

religious memorial that is planned and then go back to the

woods. For the wife, there is generally one of two

reactions. Some wives are dedicated and continue on in a

logger's world; others want out. They leave the past

behind and never return.

It may be an art to learn the necessary skills to

allay disaster, but it is also an art to construct your

life to live with potential tragedies. This is a part of

the world of the logger. Again and again, I marvelled at

the ability of the people in the community to speak gently

but dispassionately about death. It lives with them.

Ted is concerned with these tragedies but also

feels deeply about the tragedies of history. Chinese

Diggings came up in our conversation again. The fact that

much of it was destroyed, this unbelievable technological

accomplishment was erased by a logging job was criminal.

Ted feels that history was destroyed. It sticks in Ted's

mind. It is part of a lost technological tradition. The

Chinese were in Clearwater County, they showed phenomenal

skill and creativeness, and they should be included in the

panorama of history of northern Idaho.

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Aside from his concerns with the past, I was

interested in the future, both Ted's and that of the other

loggers with whom I had spoken. What did Ted see in the

years to come? As far as he is concerned, Ted will work

in the woods as long as he is physically and mentally

capable. Then, if not in the woods he will try to find

something in a timber-related industry. This is his life,

and Donna agrees. They've invested a lot in logging, both

in the study of its past, in its proper management today,

and in the lives of the young men who will be tomorrow's

loggers.

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FESTIVAL: THE GOOD FICTION

Writing a dissertation is no easy task; yet, as I

began to think back to the coauthors and the experiences,

I was able to relive and reorient the information in a way

that I felt demonstrated their way of life. That is, with

the exception of one area. After spending thirteen years

thinking, writing, and defending a proposal about the

festival, I couldn't seem to write about it.

For many years I attended the Orofino Celebrations

Lumberjack Days and Fair. I looked upon it at as a

wonderful time out of time, a celebration of a tradition.*

I wanted to believe Grimes when he said that it was "good

fiction— a celebration of social and metaphysical fiction

in which questions about reality were irrelevant." I

wanted "it to be a mode of embracing the past that draws

the future and past to itself" (1982:150). Or perhaps I

wanted to be a part of the Durkheimian collective

effervescence in which there was a supreme moment of

solidarity of collective consciousness. But perhaps I was

looking at the wrong source. It was the crisis and its

359

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resolution, like the Crisis Day and the drive to Darby

that generated solidarity.

Before May, 1990, I was absolutely certain how to

deal with this dissertation. I had read works on festival

and would look at it symbolically. But then I began to

believe that the festival had quite a different meaning.

The performers were not the real artists, because real art

took place in the landscape and the real artists were

those that organized the events. I had created a slide

show, one that was not real. Slide shows stop action.

They capture some images and leave other out, freezing

certain moments that visually may seem ceremonial or

sentimental but are rarely typical of the underlying

nature of the event.

I did so without really understanding the

tradition, without putting the festival in context. It

was only after I began riding on logging trucks, talking

to oldtimers, and going on logging jobs that I realized

that it was a time out of time but not in the way I had

thought. The festival may have been a metaphor for a

belief in work in the woods, but it was not the

professionals who were the show, it was the behind-the-

scenes loggers and community that were actually

reinforcing their beliefs in this profession. The

performers, most of whom were from outside the area, were

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the spectacle to entice visitors, while the true festival

was the camaraderie of the loggers and townspeople who

were working at the show.

This realization took place when I attended the

Centennial Logging show that O.C.I. organized in Lewiston.

It wasn't the same. The audiences were smaller, but that

was not the critical factor. O.C.I. members commented,

"This is not a logging community, they're just here for

the show." These competitions had little resemblance to

what went on in the woods. It struck me that for the

loggers it was not the professional performances but the

show set up, smooth operation, and cleanup that were more

important. Instead the teamwork necessary in a tug-of-war

by local teams, the skill with which the climbing pole had

been erected, and the ability of loggers to jump on and

operate equipment in the clean up were actually what

logging and its art was all about.

Seeing this I began to look for the

characteristics of logging skills that were appreciated.

As I did, I realized that it was a much more complicated

than I had expected. Logging itself had an aesthetic, and

the behind-the-scenes activity of the logging show was a

once a year reaffirmation of some of these standards.

I began to define my problem. Logging is a

traditional, product-oriented occupation in a physically

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distinct environment, but it also has standards that are

developed by social consensus. Although the independent

loggers operate toward producing a product, they are also

concerned with the resulting visual impact on the natural

setting. Logging is physical labor, but it has its own

aesthetic that fits within the way of life of this group.

Work becomes an artistic form, a part of the intellectual

framework and worldview of a specific segment of the

community. This segment, primarily traditional loggers

and logging contractors, lives this aesthetic in the woods

and also applies it to the operation of the festival.

Interviews with them reinforce their aesthetic sense,

which is not limited to one occupational category.

Instead, sawyers, log truck drivers, loader operators, and

woods bosses can all point to characteristics of quality

work, much the same as an art historian can point to the

fineness of a painting or a piece of sculpture. For them

the festival provides another opportunity to demonstrate

this artistry in execution of their skills.

The logging show is a way to apply their ability

at stagecraft to produce a repeatable performance that

strives for precision and perfection and a reflection of

the talents of those who organize and run the show. The

skills necessary to produce the show are actually closer

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to those in the woods and are the essence of logging and

ingrained attitudes toward logging that they hold.

When words finally began to flow, I realized the

cause of this blockage in writing about the festival. It

was not lack of data or background on theoretical

positions concerning festival behavior,% nor was it a

disinterest in its significance or a distance from it. I

had attended the Festival again in 1990, and participated

even more fully in the events. I was concerned with its

perpetuation as were the members of O.C.I., but suddenly I

realized that it did not tell the story of logging or

demonstrate the skills and talents of loggers as I had

learned them to be. Perhaps that is what festival is, the

unrealistic portrayal of a way of life based on symbols

instead of actualities.

I do remember, when I actually switched gears, and

revised my thinking about a topic. It was after the

Lewiston TIMBER festival when it was apparent that the

"show" actually occurred because of O.C.I. and its

stagecraft. It was the week before and after the

performances that were significant, and not the afternoon

of competition.

I had proposed that when the show was held outside

of Orofino it would become a spectacle, an event for

others to watch and not for all to participate. This was

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true; other organizations had taken over promotion and

publicity, but it was more than that. The pride in one's

own loggers was diluted because few people in the stands

knew of the long-standing competitions and pride in

reputation that these events produced. Yet when I

returned to Orofino Lumberjack Days in September, I felt

that same foreign sense. The festival had taken on a

totally different meaning, not one of symbolically acting

out an entire life way in a weekend, but instead one in

which the occupational skills were subjected to the

demands of an external performative style, a style that

was far more spectacle than festival. At the same time,

artistry was occurring, but behind the scenes.

As I have mentioned before, this is not to say

that the extensive literature on festivals should be

disregarded. Nor is it to imply that I will never again

return to looking at the floats, the banners, and the

progression of ideas in a parade. Nor will I disregard

the types of events that become a part of the festival or

the fact that new festivals and celebrations are coming

into the community as it experiences a change in its

industrial base and its economy. Instead, I hope to be

able to put the festival in perspective based on my

experience with work experiences. I recognize the

importance of festivals. In fact, you will recall my

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conversation with Tony Shank of South Carolina. As he

pondered the reason that logging in his state had not

retained its importance as an occupation, he suggested

that perhaps it was because they had not had a festival to

support the traditions that had been prevalent before the

coming of power.

Originally I had intended to look at the

celebrations as simple, colorful events with a primary

purpose of providing fun for the community.* Describing

them was like writing about a flashy promotional brochure.

Further examination showed me the relationship between

natural resources, technology, logging history, and the

intertwining of the community with its physical world and

the resulting self-image was the preoccupation of this

group more so than its festive behavior.

Undercurrents of economic redistribution,

performative roles and style, the dialectic between

segments of the community, and the pattern interaction

were embedded in this particular type of communicative

experience. Public performances such as Lumberjack Days

are dynamic forces. They demonstrate the values, symbols,

aesthetics, and politics of the group. They are forces

for stability and for change. But, all this being true, I

must stand back and take another look at the festival as a

vehicle for understanding the aesthetics of logging.

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It is necessary to look at the festival from a

different perspective. The Clearwater County Fair and

Lumberjack Days does demonstrate the economic and

occupational focus of the region, but the real artistic

skills in performance are not those of the professionals

who travel the circuit; they are instead in the

organizational and engineering talents of the people,

O.C.I., and Fair Board members who make the festival

possible. They provide a stage and a script that makes

this weekend a community performance, in the realm of

taking real life and transforming it. But the Fair is not

only a celebration, it is a demonstration of a continual

aesthetic made possible by the planning organizations who

base their daily beliefs on striving for perfection.

These may seem lackluster in comparison with the hot saws

and hot shot young contestants, but I hope to show that

this is where performance art resides, in the stagecraft

that the community applies to the events and the way in

which they are players in the weekend.

Instead of analyzing each and every event, looking

for embedded symbols, I will briefly describe those events

that characterize stagecraft and community theatrics. The

focus will be on the management of the logging image, the

performance of the community, and finally the stagecraft

necessary to put on this event. This is essentially a

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behind-the-scenes look at the event as an artistic

product, not at the acts of those who perform as

professionals in the events.

Piece of Cake Redux

You have already read about the way in which the

festival takes shape; it is done by volunteer groups that

guide new members in such a way that they learn the task

of stagecraft from their elders as they go through the

ranks of the committees. You have seen that the

commitment of the individuals is such that there is no

question that the tasks will be accomplished, and somehow

the events go off as conceived. There seems to be very

little planning but a great deal of individual initiative

to accomplish the goal of a good show.

The daily values of the community concerning the

forests and the interplay between loggers and non-loggers

are demonstrated during the fair. But these are not

communicated in the events. For example, in speaking with

Kingsley Steinbruecker, I learned that many sawyers feel

that they are able to win the competition over the

professionals but are rarely motivated to enter the

competition. They feel that it just takes too long to

work on the chain and to work on practicing for a short

competition that is not based in the reality of working in

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to woods. Instead they continue to sharpen and saw in

their daily work life and gain gratification from a job

well-done instead of the applause of the crowd.

Perhaps the best proof for the distance between

what happens in the woods and in the area is the hot saws.

The values of the woods say that safety is a first

consideration. In contrast, the hot saws are dangerous

machines, almost impossible to maintain, and with no

useful purpose outside of speed. Yet, they are the finale

of the logging show, the event that many people come to

see. Often a sawyer will come from a long distance to

enter only this contest. Instead most loggers would

prefer to devote themselves to perfection in woods work.

Their concepts of beauty are drawn from the care and

appearance of a stand of trees, the skill with which a man

demonstrates his daily work skills, or the ability to

apply these to the construction of a birling pond.

The vignettes that follow include statements on

art and aesthetics in festive times and the preparation

for performative events created by Orofino to convey a

communal self-image. I will concentrate on O.C.I., the

community, voluntary organization that perpetuates the

logging aspect of the Fair.

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Logs as Art

I had heard often about the characteristics of a

prize-winning load of logs, but I never realized the time,

money, and effort this endeavor took. Sharon Baugh

introduced me to the beauty and the emotional importance

of the showload in 1980. Sharon couldn't quite believe

that anyone from the East would be interested in

Lumberjack Days. Orofino had tourists who came once, but

the next year they might go to the Lewiston Roundup or

Pierce Old Timer's Days. But why would anyone come year

after year?

When I told her that I thought there was something

special about Lumberjack Days she didn't register the same

type of ebullient behavior one might expect when her

community was complimented. Instead, in a matter of fact

way she began to describe her morning's trip to town.

Sharon had passed the trucks being prepared for

the logging parade. She had to stop. She had to see the

logs that were even, proportioned, and perfectly loaded on

the truck bed. Each vehicle showed the best of its

species— white pine, yellow pine, and cedar. And the

group of men looking on knew it too. She paused in her

story, not knowing whether it would be embarrassing to

continue.

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Then a nostalgic look captured her. As if

experiencing a thing of beauty, she was transported from

the living room, seeing those logs, and thinking of other

loads in parades of the past.

It's awfully hard to find good logs these days; the Forest Service helps for the parade, but good trees are getting harder and harder to find. Sure the youngsters can see the ordinary loads coming through town. There's a talent to loading them too, but most of that work is done for production and you can't take the time to produce real beauty. But my grandsons, I want them to see what these forests can produce and how much we appreciate it. Those loads brought tears to my eyes.

Naively and perhaps with less delicacy than the

situation demanded I said, "But Sharon you can't push back

time; if you keep cutting trees, you lose the good

stands." Firmly, Sharon replied, "You'd better join Women

in Timber; they'll teach you something about forest

management— the facts, the facts that Washington doesn't

understand."

With that our conversation was over, but I knew

that the next day Sharon would take her grandchildren to

the staging area, to see those loads of logs before the

parade. She'd point out each and every detail of their

natural grandeur and the artistry with which the loggers

of Orofino had put them on display.

It was several years until I realized that Sharon

was talking about was a work of art that met important

criteria for fine quality. Other people helped me

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load. Bill Cummings explained them to me over coffee at

the Ponderosa and the minutes of the OCI as far back as

1960 including the rules for judging the loads. It

included rating elements and points based on three

dimensions— safety, appearance, and quality. In each

category specific practices were given points; for

example, in safety the important characteristics were

secure binders and stakes with a compact well-balanced

load, for appearance the logs were to have uniform size

and length, cut straight and free of bark scuffs or

loading marks.

The logs themselves were to be of high quality,

free of defects, and in conformity to standard mill

lengths for the type of load it was. Of the one hundred

points, the trees themselves rated forty points, but the

way in which they had been handled, the way in which the

load was created and conformed to the safety of the

industry added up to sixty points, the majority of the

judging criteria. Even though the truck itself was not

rated, Norman Baugh, Sharon's husband, let me know that it

was the pride of the driver that helped them and their

families get up early on parade day, perhaps after a long

week of early morning hauling, to make their trucks

sparkle. It was the driver's part in this creation, his

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are the finishing touches. He will be driving the load,

and for him, even though it is not in the official judging

rules, the appearance of the truck makes an impression on

the crowd. I had heard often about the characteristics of

the prize-winning load of logs for the Lumberjack Parade.

On September 14, 1990, Chet Donley of Potlatch Corporation

took me to watch the show load being prepared. Only then

did I see that, for a few minutes of inspection in the

parade, days of toil went into their preparation.

The Perfect Load of Logs

Chet Donley always carries a thermos of coffee

with him in his pickup; he'll stop for food if necessary,

but that coffee is the mainstay of his day. I knew that

from previous trips with him to Potlatch jobs, but for me,

this day's drive was something very different. He warned

me that the current timber harvest didn't allow for the

true perfection of log loads of the past; it was less

necessary to be as precise because the competition was

less rigorous, and that we were really coming into the

last part of the process. I was still excited about

seeing the perfect load.

The intensity of this expectation had developed

over the years. At first, all log loads looked the same

to me, some perhaps a bit more even than others, but

essentially all falling into the same general category.

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My sighting of the logs was without discrimination. I had

developed a certain general sense of the aesthetics in

architecture, furniture, and visual arts but had never

applied this to loads of logs. I had heard of the

criteria for these loads and had read the stipulations

given to the judges. Though this helped in appraising the

finished product, the truckload of logs in the parade, I

was totally unaware of the process. How was a load of

logs created? Was there a genius underlying the work?

Was the thought process a part of any timber code, or did

the loggers do what was expedient to put together the load

of logs.^

Chet and I traveled up Grangemont Road, passed

places that were familiar to me; the school, the homes of

loggers and truck drivers. We drove off the pavement,

onto gravel, and finally onto the logging road. The area

had been "clear-cut," a term and practice that

linguistically and aesthetically cries out as if to say

that loggers have raped the land. All signs of

silviculture had been cut down. The slopes were barren.

But Chet had prepared me for this and had taken the

precaution of explaining the various opinions on this

practice.

Throughout this drive and my many trips to Idaho,

I have been exposed to the controversies that rage over

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forest management. My Eastern, academic opinions, and

Western pragmatic opinions are at odds. But for now, in

looking at the preparation of the show load, let me say

only that I have experienced concern from many quarters of

the logging community. Independent logging contractors

and corporate CEOs alike are sensitive to finding a

rational, judicious use of timber resources.

The clearcut from which the prize logs were cut

may not have been pleasing to the eye, but it had been

done with the intent of replanting in the current

tradition of good forest management. What we were seeing

was a temporary situation that would be remedied once the

land was prepared and saplings were seeded.

The nine yellow pine had already been cut and

skidded, that is, brought to the landing with a

Caterpillar. Although I had hoped to see the entire

process from actual falling to driving into town, Chet

assured me I would see the most technical procedures. The

entire process had begun the day before when the sawyers

and skidder operator, working throughout the day, had

brought the trees down. Some might say that there is

nothing as beautiful as a growing stand of trees. But the

task of these hardworking men was that they were expected

to turn the raw, natural materials into something even

more beautiful, into a work of art— an image of

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perfection. They, too, were concentrating on the

beautiful.

Potlatch provided the timber and crew. Its very

best men were here. Two sawyers, a loader operator, and

woods boss all knew their jobs, both the mundane, daily

acts of logging, and this specialized occasion of

preparing a "show" load. This job would come under

scrutiny by the entire community. The truck used to carry

the load and its driver, Dwayne Opdahl, one of the very

best in the region, were also a part of this attempt at

perfection. Before the parade it would be cleaned and

polished and become a part of the image. Though not

judged as integral to the show load, the pride of

perfection in the vehicle was ever-present.

Art and science came together, beauty and

practicality, finesse and precision blended that

afternoon. Nine trees had been cut in the hopes that nine

sections from those trees each thirty-five feet long could

be found to put on the load. There was little place for

experimentation, because we were dealing with massive

weights and every move meant more time spent on the

process as well as the possibility of a mishap. They had

only one afternoon to prepare the load. Each loaded log

weighed approximately 9,000 pounds, but added together the

load could not exceed the legal road limit of 80,000

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pounds. Thus, eight logs may seem to be too meager a

load, whereas nine would be too great for road safety.

All of the factors must be correct: Aesthetically

the load must be beautiful; legally it must be within the

limit to travel on the highway; practically it would have

to be cut to dimensions that the potential buyer could

process in his mill. Its aesthetic beauty had to match

its practical usefulness because, even now, the show load

crew knew that the best potential buyer would be a veneer

company that had exact specifications for the logs they

mill.

Dave Kludt, in charge of logging safety for the

Associated Logging Contractors, was there, adding another

factor to the preparation. It was his job to see that the

highest safety standards were being met. He had taken the

job on the condition that he would work with his fellow

loggers, issuing advice instead of violation tickets.

The current situation as well as years of

experience came into play as the men calculated how to cut

the logs. They consulted each other often. As a team the

sawyers spoke to the loader, a man with years of

experience in placing logs on trucks. In his everyday

role this man was responsible for speed and proper balance

of logs on trucks that were trying to make as many trips

as possible to and from the mill. Today he was

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calculating how to load them not only for efficiency, but

also for beauty. He wants to be sure not to scar them,

and yet have them balanced. Even before the loading, a

seemingly minor matter as to whether the retaining posts

on the particular truck that was coming to carry the load

were curved or straight, was discussed. This would make a

difference in the appearance but also in the dimensions of

the logs that were cut.

The loader operator also wanted to hide the bad

spots, not that they were unmarketable, but that they

seemed less-sightly than other parts of the bark. As a

loader operator, he had to make important decisions. For

the sake of balance and image, should he try to reposition

the logs, chancing that the bark would be damaged, or was

the lesser of two evils that of having a less-perfect

surface visible?

Throughout the afternoon a transformation was

taking place. Logs, laying helter skelter on the ground

amidst underbrush and gravel were being turned into

pristine cylinders. I believe, that this was very

important to the crew, the transformation of a natural

object into art. For them, the progress of their work was

an aesthetic moment.

The sawyers, Kingsley Steinbruecker and Bill

Stephenson, concern themselves daily with safety.

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efficiency, and accuracy, for off-sized logs cannot go

through the mills easily. This applied to the show load,

but with added diligence. All the logs were to be the

same length on the load. That meant that whenever the

truck moved from place to place picking up the logs, one

of those already positioned would move. It was necessary

for the sawyers to hop on top of the load and cut them to

even out the ends. Sawing too much would mean that the

logs would be off-sized for the mill, sawing too little

might mean that they would not appear even. Additionally

since the saw bar was only twenty-eight inches long, it

was nearly impossible to cut the bottom logs a second

time.

Positioning the logs on the truck was a technical

nightmare, but the sawyers and loader operator seemed to

have the instinct to make any error correctable. They

would use imprecision as an interim step toward this

perfect show load. In the end the logs would be thirty-

five feet long, "they won't be off an inch," said Chet.

Once the job began, there may have been several

opinions, but few discussions, and no controversies. The

woods boss worked with the rest of them, jumping atop the

load when it was necessary, watching from a distance when

only the person performing the work could control the

product.

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When loggers speak of the prize-winning load of

logs or the performances at the logging show; when they

recall the log drives or grandeur of a beautifully

harvested stand, these loggers are sensing not only the

object but the process that made it possible. As the crew

of Potlatch activated all their skills in cutting the show

load, it too became a part of the work of art. It, like

the recollections of early logging with horses or the log

drives that still have a romantic ring for the loggers, is

as much a part of the art of logging as the product

itself. Transitory and ephemeral though it may be, the

loggers hold on to these thoughts. When they put their

experience into action, it is not only the object but the

artistic process that lives.

The Birling Pond

Tim couldn't help it. He had to take over. As he

had so often in the past, in his quiet way, he just took

charge. He and Ted had been working on the arena for the

WATS Timber Show for days and now it was obvious that the

birling pond would fall in if they didn't take over.

Although the Potlatch Corporation papermakers' union had

the best of intentions, they didn't understand the physics

of building a birling pond, making it stand, and most

importantly, holding water for the contests.

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Neither Tim nor Ted had built a pond before, but

that wouldn't stop them. They had worked in the woods

with machinery and materials for a cumulative total of

seventy years, and if something had to be done, they could

do it. They knew their materials and they knew the

capability of their equipment. Engineering meant merely

making it do what you wanted it to do; making it work. So

they set about re-resurrecting the pond.

Both Tim and Ted have owned logging companies at

one time or another in their careers. Now, in their

fifties, they still work in the woods, but for other

logging contractors who take the financial risk. One

might ask if their workload had lessened any in the years

since they had given up ownership? Probably not. Their

concern for their crews, involvement in proper timber

management, and decision-making roles in cost and

production remain, even though they are no longer

independent logging contractors. These attitudes don't

leave you; they are ingrained in the long years it takes

to become an expert logger. There are things you just

know and keep doing regardless of who is making the money

or paying the bills.

Tim's parents had owned a logging company. He can

remember the family working in the mill. Fondest of all

were his memories of his mother driving a caterpillar and

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skidding logs when he was thirteen. Even though she was

one of the finest skidder operators there was, she always

needed the help from her teenage son. When you begin

working in the woods, understanding the skills as well as

the dangers at so young an age, you don't put them aside

because of so small a matter as legal ownership.

Both men have taken their knocks. They have

worked hard and sometimes not realized all the benefits of

their labors. But through it all, their pride in their

profession has translated not only into a job well-done,

but into actions that show others what a job well-done

should be. Either might have been a miner or farmer.

They would have thrown themselves just as readily into

those jobs. But they are loggers, up and out early in the

morning, checking equipment, making sure that their men

are safe and working.

Here in the Lewiston rodeo arena, Tim had spent

the week figuring out what to do. With Ted, he would have

to translate what they knew about logging, logging shows,

and manipulation of men and machines into a birling pond.

They studied the space, paced it off, looked at the

overhead lines, figured out where the underground dangers

might be, evaluated which tactics to use. Should they

weld the stanchions, or bury them more deeply? Should

they use another layer of plastic sheeting in the pond or

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would one suffice? And how would they raise the two,

eighty-foot climbing poles?

Without plans or blueprints, they set about their

work, for that was their modus operandi. here, and in

town, and in the woods. They knew the potential of their

machinery, what it could do and how it could maneuver.

They understood the stress that the contestants would put

on the equipment and knew what it took to have the

necessary margin of safety. Driving machinery as if it

were second nature, even pieces that they had never worked

before, Tim and Ted made the arena ready for the show.

This facility for operating machines was almost a

gift; some men have it and some don't. They don't need

training or a break-in period, they just get on and get at

it. And it's impossible to explain how they do it or

where the talent comes from.

Even Tim and Ted have recognized it in the woods,

in other men. It is as if by second nature a man can

hoist logs on a truck or find that special touch to make

the new computerized delimber do its job. Without mishap

or breakdown, some men just have the knack; a talent

recognizable by those in the profession. For Tim and Ted

it might be a young guy who knows how to handle a power

saw; for an old-timer like Mel Snook it might have been

watching someone load a team of horses with logs to be

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taken to the flume for the log drive. Whatever the

equipment, whenever the age, some men were, in Mel's

words, "artists" at their craft.

Their touch meant that others were happy to loan

out machinery so the kinks could be worked out of new

equipment. In contrast to a city dweller getting a new

car, loggers know that it is wise for equipment to have a

bit of use on it.

In fact, many exhibitors at logging fairs see the

advantage of having their machinery used. First, it does

work out some of the kinks. But second, even though the

trucks, skidders, or loaders, that cost hundreds-of-

thousands of dollars might run the risk of being damaged,

it is the only way loggers, wondering whether the

investment is worth it, can see the new technology in

operation. Like trade fairs throughout American's

industrial history, the logging shows are times to show

their wares.

Returning to Ted and Tim, during the preparation

process I observed them. Pacing, looking, saying little,

but seemingly having knowledge of the earth, water, and

air that comes from knowing their many conditions, not

from books but from years of seeing them react, they

worked. This information was being applied to what might

seem to be a relatively simple project; preparing the show

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arena. But it was not simple, it had to perform right

during the events, it had to withstand the rigors of the

competitors. Contending with conditions was not enough,

and handling equipment in the tradition of men who could

build a.sawmill out of their heads, Ted and Tim knew that

success would be measured in the human reaction to their

work. Just as in the woods when they must negotiate the

desires of their employees, their employers, the Forest

Service, state safety supervisor, and local communities

that see their logging jobs everyday, Tim and Ted factored

the audience and the contestants into their equation for a

good show arena. For what use is it if the equipment was

set up "properly" if the audience couldn't see it or the

contestants didn't feel that they were given the best

opportunity to show their skills? These two men knew

every foot of the area, every inch of the show space as

they knew every ridge and contour of the land on which

they work everyday in the woods.

And it goes without question, everyone else knows

their job and does it right. Time management, teamwork,

and flow charts are terms and practices unnecessary to

Tim, Ted, and their cohorts during the performance and on

the job in the woods. The point is to do the job and to

do it right with as little fuss as possible. Their

objective is timeless, not trendy; it is product-oriented

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not process-preoccupied. Operating manuals are

unnecessary, plans— typed, labeled, and diagrammed— are a

waste of time when you know what works and what doesn't.

After pacing, there is only one solution when the

job isn't going quite right: You pick up a shovel, and

begin to do it singlehandedly. You don't issue orders for

others to do it. And as you accomplish this goal, you do

it with artistry as well as sweat. To be an artist is to

have expertise with things.

Sharon Barnett is the fan who is most loyal to Tim

and most enthusiastic about his artistry. When it was

necessary to raise the climbing poles, Tim did it with one

try, using the big equipment to get a technically detailed

job done. For Sharon, it was like painting the Sistine

Chapel; the whole town should have been there to see the

competence of her husband and his manipulation of

machinery. He and the men assisting him knew their job—

to get those poles in the air— as if they did it every day

of their lives.

Jokes about sexuality and the ability with

machinery were part of the constant patter in setting up

the arena, but never intruded on the job at hand. After a

week of work and several alterations to the original plan,

the arena was ready. Tim had lost fifteen pounds in the

process, Ted a comparable amount, and the entire crew had

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lost several nights' sleep. But the task was accomplished

and the people of Lewiston would see that the Orofino

crowd knew how to arrange a show. They knew how to stage

an event to perfection. For that was what they had

intended to prove, the artistry of stagecraft.

The Auction; Continuitv Regardless of Price

It hadn't been a very good year for logging in

Clearwater County. Even though it had been difficult,

that didn't mean that the Lumberjack Days would suffer.

Everyone gave it their all, as usual. For example, this

was the day of Lumberjack Days and Tim Barnett was a judge

and Sharon, as the manager of the show, had work that had

to be done.

Tim went to the preliminaries early, then caught a

cup of coffee and a doughnut at the Ponderosa. Sharon

picked up Bobbi Samuels and together they began to set up

for the activities. By midday, Tim and Sharon had met or

at least passed each other on the grounds. Both were busy

with different functions and had little chance to see each

other much that weekend.

As the floats carrying auction goods to the arena

arrived, Sharon took her place in the announcer's booth

and Tim took his with his buddies in the stands. The

refreshment trailer was open, and those who knew about it

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took advantage of the libations intended to loosen up even

the tightest bidder.

Tim and Sharon had discussed their plans for

bidding late last night. Both agreed that perhaps this

year, like many other loggers, they'd lay off a bit; let

some of the others in the community pick up the goods.

Bidding on the sandwiches or flowers as a gesture of

community support would be just right. Even buying the

oil tank would be a practical purchase that they could

use. The money would have gone to Crockett's supply store

anyway. Now, instead of a purchase, their bid on a

donated tank would be money used for next year's show.

Their strategy was set. No unnecessary purchases.

Tim, sitting with the guys, joined in their joking and

kept his own counsel about his bidding. Some of the other

loggers were in the same financial boat, and everyone was

being cautious, or so they thought. It had been a bad

year all around.

The bidding began with few surprises; useful

objects went for double their market value. The

auctioneer had fun with the crowd, bringing up community

leaders and having fun with the crowd at their expense,

asking for personal items to be auctioned. Don Ponozzo's

socks even brought a few dollars, and to the auctioneer it

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was worth the laugh and to Don worth the acknowledgement

of his position in the community and in O.C.I.

But then, somehow, mysteriously contrived in some way, a

bidding war began. It may not have been at the level of

Wall Street traders or Madison Avenue art auctions, but

once it began, no one could stop it. The Barnett-Finke

bidding war is legendary.

Les Schwab had donated a set of truck tires that

both men wanted, not that they couldn't have gone to the

garage tomorrow and purchased the same tires. But they

wanted them, then and there. It got to the point that it

didn't matter how much they cost; the war was on.

Not to be outdone, Sharon decided she wanted a

mailbox. She wouldn't let it go regardless of the

unlimited resources of the other bidder. For Sharon knew

that, if it aggravates you to spend, you don't belong

here, and of course, as always she could justify her

actions because it went for next year's show.

This bidding war happened years ago, but they were

not uncommon at the auction. By 1990, my relationship

with the people of Orofino was such that they would

probably answer surveys on their financial circumstances.

Town records are also available, and a person's economic

status is common knowledge. Everyone knows when someone

purchases a new piece of equipment or mobile home. The

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prices of purchases are easy to document. Few people use

their disposable income on commodities that are invisible-

-fine art secreted away in vaults, or stocks and bonds.

In the logging community investments can take the form of

land or timber, items of public record, or machinery that

will enhance your ability to do a job. To my mind, the

actual dollar amounts are less important than the way in

which that wealth moves around the community. And the

auction was one way to see that movement, the playing out

of the redistribution of wealth in the community.

So often, too, Orofinoans comment on their "toys";

these are visible in garages or backyards. They may be

the latest in "rigs"— four wheel drive vehicles presumably

equipped to go anywhere, or novelty modes of

transportation like big-wheels or snowmobiles. The truly

specialized "toys" include antique autos, trucks, and

steam operated equipment.

At the auction, some people bid only on practical

things that they will use, perhaps paying a bit more but

knowing that the extra dollars will go to next year's

Logging Show. Others bid on firewood or objects to

contribute to charity. Others concentrate on the special

loads of logs, and still others don't bid at all. But

throughout the afternoon, bidding or not, the members of

the community go on display for the rest of the town. In

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case anyone misses the auction, the audience's buying

patterns can be seen in next Thursday's issue of the

CLEARWATER TRIBUNE.

The auctioneer. Bill Crutcher, one time county

commissioner, keeps the auction going and ekes out the

last dollar from a reluctant townsfolk. Sometimes the

action is brisk, generally caused by a bidding war, often

between two women who want a specialty item like a hand-

painted mail box or hand-carved bowl. At times it is

slow, but never is an item passed. They are all sold, and

often for three or four times their worth. It's not

uncommon for a high bidder or someone caught "just

sticking up their hand" to get a rousing round of

applause.

Crutcher is an expert performer, knowing exactly

when to lighten up the crowd, engendering in them a pride

of community by saying, "Oh, our guests this weekend come

worldwide; we even have people from Walla Walla, that sure

is the end of the world." He causes purchases by taking

bids where none were offered, knowing that the non-bidding

individual will purchase the object regardless. He knows

the way to prompt someone to shake their head, or point

their finger which in his mind, but not in theirs is a

legitimate bid.

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Bill is especially hard on politicians, commenting

on their bald pates and making them go higher just for the

honor of standing up and being recognized as a candidate

for office. "Just rub that bald head of yours and see

what happens," is a frequent comment of Crutcher's. He

allows access to the microphone, if and only if he can

fine the user a hundred dollars if he mentions his

campaign. Governor Cecil Andrus, a past resident of

Orofino, attended the 1990 festivities and was often in

evidence during the weekend. At the auction he barely

escaped making a contribution. Bill stretches the limits

of social decorum, but never too far. For example, he

might say "make sure so-and-so stays sober so that we can

make some money off of him," but he would never use this

ploy if there were a question of insobriety.

In analyzing the prices paid and the buyers from

any one auction, it is apparent that the largest donations

come from the sale of loads of logs that have been in the

parade. These sales provide the substantial contributions

for the next year's show. As years have gone by, it has

been the timber mills that have bid, made contributions,

and allowed the weekend to flourish. When more mills were

in operation, the number of show loads and ferocity of

bidding was greater. Now, with only three operating mills

in the county, much of the responsibility falls to

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Potlatch, the major timber corporation in the region, to

use its wealth to support the weekend.

Potlatch and its employees play a crucial part in

the activities. In 1990 they donated a load of logs,

bought it for the market rate, and then donated it back to

be sold again. Thus their total contribution figured as

log donation, bid, and re-donation to several thousand

dollars. Currently, no other mill in the region can

afford this type of beneficence. Few others can even

undertake the expense of submitting a show load to the

parade. But these contributions are not blind gifts. For

example, even before the auction, most of the audience

knew that the show load was of the quality and cut to the

length that one bidder, who would be most interested and

most likely to bid. It was a matter of moving the price

up to a reasonable bid and then allowing the company to

purchase it at a fair market price.

The auction realizes the largest portion of the

money necessary for the following year's events. Added to

that is the revenue from the sale of souvenirs and

percentage from the carnival rides, and O.C.I. knows what

its budget for the coming year will be. Budget set aside,

the auction is a good way to recognize those people and

organizations that are prominent in this logging

community. It, along with the livestock auction of the

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Clearwater County Fair, provides the opportunity for

members of the community to gain recognition if they wish,

but even this does not seem to be the underlying reason

for their purchases. Instead, members of the community

seem to feel an obligation to redistribute .

The auction is a performance that the community

puts on each year, a performance of the reality of the

community's economics, but always in the spirit of

friendship. The community becomes a cast of characters

expecting a level of performance and communication one

with the other. The play that results is a theater piece

of the community, not only at play but in its daily life.

Conclusion

As I began with Charlie Millard's guidance, I will

end with my own definition. I propose that people in the

logging community are both artists and connoisseurs of

art. In both roles they understand and seek perfection in

the object as well as the technical ability, mechanical

acuity, and craftsmanship necessary to produce the

artistically significant. Those in the business community

add to that a skill in management, the knowledge of

handling people and training the young. From an artistic

point of view, this can be seen as the manipulation of

history and resources.

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The logger as artist takes the world around him,

changes it, alters it according to what he believes is

proper, and then gives us a new world. With what he does

in the woods of Clearwater County as a base, he projects

these beliefs to his friends, family, and the community

during Lumberjack Days and allows the community to be

emotional about their world. Not the least of these

emotions is pride in the stewardship, craftsmanship, and

the inherent value of this way of life. The logger has

established the standards; he presents them, and hopes for

an understanding by the viewer, not only of the end

product, but a recognition of everything that went into

the work. Just as a painting is only the result and the

artist expects his audience to see his technique and his

orientation, his ouvre, in order to express himself, the

logger also experiences self-expression in a larger but

perhaps more anonymous way. He is an artist; he has been

creative with his technical skills, his sense of the

appropriate and proper. The intellectual and experiential

equipment he uses shows him to be an artist. He creates

art— as process and object— that is created for the

public. In turn he hopes that the public will respond and

be supportive of his work and recognize his talents. For

the logger, with his subtle, low-key ways, the recognition

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need not be a ribbon or raise; it may be a handshake and

nod of the head.

From the superior examples from loggers, I can

define aesthetics as the sense of the proper. In both the

visual and kinesthetic sense, it is the ability of a

person to seek and find perfection or properness in the

world around him. The logger has this sense. For him,

work, the natural setting, history, and skills in

transforming raw to fashioned products join together into

an aesthetic moment.

Art and work are not in two separate spheres of

thought, one without usefulness, enjoyed in leisure, while

the other a practical, immediate, and utilitarian way of

meeting basic human needs for subsistence or a market

economy. Loggers have shown these to be inseparable.

Loggers have very little leisure time; they don't create

art works; they rarely collect or ponder objects. They

are inspired by nature and prompted to action, but not by

armchair meditation.

Loggers may not have developed this list of

characteristics, because to them what they do is a part of

normal, everyday life which may have its own pursuit of

perfection and need not be identified in terms of specific

traits. They would merely say that this is the way in

which their work is done. There is far less concern for

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analyzing the minute details of their work than in

experiencing the results.

For example, logging history and the directives of

the elders may play a part in the logging aesthetic, but

these are not stuck in time or a specific technology.

Today someone who logs with horses may not have the sense

of properness that someone using the most modern

techniques might have. He may not be considered an artist

just because he did the job with horses. Artistry would

apply not only to the techniques used but to the way in

which the job was run. Someone who does an excellent job

with mechanized equipment would not be faulted because his

technique is not traditional. The art form will not die

because of high productivity and the potential for more

mechanization, for it is the artist, and not level of

mechanization that is important. As with all visual arts,

they demand a seasoned eye and a sensitivity to what one

is looking at in order to classify it as an art form. It

demands an understanding of visual impact, the look of a

stand of trees as well as the technique that was used to

cause the effect. Just as Jake must take care of his saw

in order to qualify as a true master sawyer, so too the

operators of computerized delimbers and faller-bunchers

will have to excel not only at doing the job but

maintaining their equipment with the eye of an expert.

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The techniques and the innovativeness with which the

practitioner uses his knowledge of the technique is a part

of the finished product.

Keeler Ward (1968:262) may have put the proper

perspective on this type of study: "My contention is that

both social life and aesthetics develop out of a deeply

held assumption about the world, and that neither one need

be seen as cause or effect of the other." The logger uses

this same perspective; his social life revolves around his

work and his aesthetic life revolves around getting his

work done in the proper fashion. There can be no

divisions or divorce between the life, the work, and the

art. The way in which all these elements blend produces

the type of logging that is apparent in Clearwater County,

the landscape, the techniques, and the reputations that

are gained and held by local loggers.

Dewey (1986:37) adds the dimension of experience

to aesthetics and speaks "of the fulfillment that reaches

the depths of the experiencer's being or constitutes the

necessary obstacles and flaws that provoke the joyous

struggle to achieve the consummation surpassing pleasure

and equilibrium, which is indeed the joy and happiness of

fulfillment." This sense of doing, joy of accomplishment,

and predisposition to work results in beauty. In the

simplest terms, for the logger, aesthetics is doing your

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work properly, using your tools to their best advantage,

living up to the standards set by earlier generations, and

appreciating the natural and social world around you.

As stated in the introduction to CHAPTER FIVE,

first, loggers have a common experience which comes from

both the words of oldtimers and the visions they see on

the landscape. These become the bases for the aesthetics.

Second, the source for this sense of quality is practical;

it does not stress over-embellishment. There is an

efficiency and understanding of work, and the artistic

milieu is not removed from daily life. Third,

distinctions can be drawn between degrees of good work

because there are standards that can be verbalized.

Fourth, emotions or emotional quality is

associated with this object or experience, as has been

demonstrated again and again in these vignettes. These

are not vague, ephemeral qualities. The work of art lives

in some individualized experience such as loading a

logging truck, making a perfect cut, or producing a show

that meets all the standards of a perfect show.

Being able to identify the masters, objects,

exemplary technique, creativity, and inventiveness must be

a part of the aesthetic, the judgement on that which is

seeking perfection. Again, the vignettes have described

those loggers who excel at their jobs and have also

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applied a creative touch to meeting practical problems

such as building a birling pond.

Finally, this sense of aesthetics is applied to

the management and execution of the performance of the

festival so that a "perfect" experience is possible for

the spectator, one that subliminally demonstrates the care

with which the volunteers of O.C.I. see a stagecraft that

is based on standards that are maintained throughout the

year.

In summary, this chapter has suggested that work

is art and logging is an aesthetic experience or moment to

the loggers who have contributed to this text. Art is not

isolated or removed but is a way to perpetuate continuity

with the past and interject the quest for flawless

practices of work and workmanship in an entire life. Art

is not only the object but action that prompts the end

result and the experience and associated emotional

response that occurs when work in an everyday context

meets the standards of the practitioners.

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THE LIMNER REVISITS

The INTRODUCTION states that this study has two

objectives: first, to provide an ethnography that is both

coauthored^ by the community and readable to the public;

second, to concentrate on the theme that in the logging

industry, work is not only a physical act but also an

aesthetic experience.

The premise of the second objective is that

logging, a product-oriented occupation in a physically

demanding environment, has developed its own standards,

both socially and artistically. The timber that is

produced, the resulting visual impact on the natural

setting, and the manner in which the task is performed in

daily life figure significantly in the end result. The

aesthetic, which is a particular brand of the appropriate,

fits into the rest of the loggers' way of life, which is

to say, that work is an inseparable part of a balanced

life. It is not segmented out. Work, as a part of life,

becomes a social outlet and an artistic pursuit.%

It can also be seen in the stagecraft employed by

those who value this way of life when they present the

400

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annual celebration. Some semblance of the occupational

skills used in everyday life is encapsulated as

performance by professionals, but it is the management,

organization, and use of woods skills by O.C.I. that are

the bases for performance and are, in fact, the important

sources of aesthetics in the competitions. The

professionals are competing in woods games, whereas the

members of O.C.I. are actually providing and producing the

aesthetic framework in which this is possible. I believe

that the second objective has been discussed fully.

The intention of this chapter, THE LIMNER

REVISITS, is to provide a critique of the technique that I

used to gather, interpret, and present information.^ It

will begin by reassessing my positioning in the community,

Flatlander on an Incline.* Then it will look at the form

and style of writing. Anthropologist as Writer.^

Suggestions for Future Study will propose directions for

this intimate style and the study of work as an art form

that may apply to anthropological studies of occupational

groups as well as set Orofino in the context of other

community studies.*

Finally, The Unveiling returns to the allusion of

being a liminer suggested in the INTRODUCTION and

describes how I believe this painting of Orofino,

Clearwater County, and the logging industry would appear.

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I revisited Orofino during the Thanksgiving

holiday season in 1990. By then several people were

wondering why I had made so many visits. They had not

seen a word on paper, although the Smithsonian volunteers

that accompanied me to observe the Lumberjack Days

Festival in September had produced a videotape of Joe

Richardson. Although I did not provide the community with

a concrete product of this research, the people who had

spoken with me before did so again and were willing to

clarify points specifically on technology.

Prior to returning, I had outlined the content of

this dissertation and had begun to write vignettes.? This

allowed me to see the gaps in information as well as have

a sense of the way in which conversations had been

transformed into a written text. I was also able to

evaluate my position in the community, as well as think

about the way in which the coauthors and I had shared

experiences. Prepared with this information, I returned

with a list of people who were critical to the study as

well as experiences that were necessary to provide me with

a better sense of the specifics of logging as an

occupation.

During this visit I was confident that I had

defined the focus, the discussion of work as art in a

selective way. I recognized the need, which I hadn't seen

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before, to speak with master sawyers and logging

contractors who should have been my primary resources in

earlier visits. These included Kingsley Steinbruecker,

Mike and Darlene Lee, and Ted Leach.

Another indispensable feature of this revisit was

that my husband accompanied me to Orofino. While writing

vignettes in Washington, D.C., I had learned that he

understood, far better than I, the technicalities of

logging as well as the way in which these people

communicate. He was raised on a ranch in Lusk, Wyoming,

an isolated region of the West. Because of this, he had a

certain affinity for an out-of-doors lifestyle and the

straightforward way in which information is shared.

Often, after reading a vignette, he would comment, "Throw

some words at it." This indicated to me that the writing

lacked clarity, that it was not grounded in the reality

that these people live.

The revisitation that occurred by flying 3,000

miles to Idaho was a reconnecting with the coauthors. But

I had been back in Orofino every day for six months as I

reread field notes® and revisited the feelings® that we had

shared when we had spoken together. Pondering this

material and rewriting,^ again and again, I tried to

discover a literary form that would work to conjure up the

proper mood to continue my work as a limner."

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In November, I could be less of an anthropological

limnar, on the periphery, for now I was also a part of the

canvas, a part of the landscape, as if my self-portrait

was in their midst. Like an anthropological Velazquez,

looking out from her paintings, I was influencing my

subjects with my presence more so than in previous visits.

They were thinking about being the source of information

that was not understood outside of their region. In fact,

since then I have learned that Tim Barnett has begun to

take a video camera to his jobs. He is recording the new

technology introduced within the past year, as well as the

mechanization that had been the primary method of

woodswork since the coming of power. This suggests to me

that the coauthorship had taken hold and was giving rise

to data collection for use by the logging community

itself, as well as for my future study.

But as a limner I was also questioning what I had

done with the initial experiences. I had to acknowledge

the role that the "investigator" plays in ethnography and

in this dissertation. Finding a way to interpret my

position in the community, as well as reliability of my

collecting, remained a concern." I had tried to guard

against suggesting the idea that work was art. But my

revisits and constant inquiries may have encouraged the

loggers to look more closely at their occupation.

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Would these people have thought of themselves and

the development of their profession as artistic without my

prompting?" They had, on occasion, in previous visits

used the term on their own, but I knew that they had not

subjected the idea to the rigorous analysis that would be

necessary to make this argument convincing. They might

equate the skills of their industry as art in a general

way, but they were using the term "artist" in a metaphoric

and not a real sense.

The long-distance textual revisits while I was

writing also made me question the approach of joint

authorship and my role in it. Was it really occurring, or

was it merely a hope that I had for a technique that could

be used in anthropological writing?" How could I find out

their perception of their role in this study? I

discovered that those vignettes in which they took the

upper hand provided the bulk of specific technical

information; in a setting of their choosing, were most

successful." These vignettes created both an atmosphere

and voice for the coauthor." And so, during this actual

revisit I requested conversation situations that were

based on technological information in settings that would

prompt experiences: on logging jobs, in homes, and

conducted among the tools of the logging industry. There

were very few sessions conducted in an interview-type

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environment such as my hotel or an office. The results

were that experiences on the terrain with Bill Cummings,

among the grandeur of early steam engines with Joe

Richardson, and in the comfortable setting of Konkolville,

well-known to the oldtime loggers, proved to be rich with

information.

Flatlander on an Incline

From the beginning of this dissertation, my first

suggestion as a flatlander was that the "incline," though

first and foremost a physical dimension of life for the

logger, is much more. I have demonstrated that social

life also revolves around understanding the proper

procedures for negotiating the incline and staying on

balance. The lives of the people of Orofino, the loggers,

and the surrounding county possess techniques for making

social life operate smoothly.

In LIFE ON A INCLINE I have tried to capture a

significant feature of this occupation, the context in

which it must operate. I don't believe this dimension has

been explored. The "Incline Principle" must be

experienced, as I have said often in this writing. When

it is, a new understanding of social relationships based

on environmental factors emerges. I believe that it opens

the possibility for research into other occupational

groups, but only if the conditions under which they work

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are defined in the broadest and most abstract terms like

"incline." There are studies of occupational groups."

They place groups like miners, fishermen, and truck

drivers in an occupational setting, but as far as I know,

the characteristics of the environment have not been

abstracted. They do not concentrate on "the incline,"

"the depths," "the open sky," or "perpetual mobility."

Perhaps, as for me, recognizing that I was a flatlander in

an environment of the incline, is another approach.

Second, this way of life in which work is valued,

not only as a physical act but as a measure of one's skill

and commitment to perfection has important ramifications.

I have shown that these people perceive their lives both

as being a constant struggle for perfection and this state

is not removed from everyday life like the works of art we

see in museums or the volumes available in libraries. It

is in the reality that they perform and observe every day.

The results are concrete and visible, not only on paper,

but in the environment.

Third, in many ways I was an unnecessary element

in the analysis of this way of life, for these people were

able to tell their own story. They may not have been

given the opportunity to put it on paper up to this time,

but what it means is always with them. They maintain a

sense of what the occupation of logging does to them and

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their community. They could make succinct statements

about its presence in their lives.

Fourth, an open communication system is also a

novelty to a flatlander, at least to this one. I would

not presume to state that life in logging and Orofino

typifies all varieties of it, but it does provide some

insight into one rendition of Western living. In other

words, there are many different "Wests," and this is but

one version.

There are certain elements that I believe are

indigenous to this particular West that play a crucial

part in the way in which society in Clearwater County is

organized. The most pervasive is the human need to live

with nature and the inability to conquer either the land

or the weather. It includes a social network based on

small populations that necessitate an economy in social

organization and multiple roles for each individual. This

in turn gives rise to cooperation and teamwork, not only

on a logging job but in living."

For example, in this area of the country,

regardless of your travel plans, you stop to assist

someone in need, for there are few people driving on

infrequently used roads. If you change your plans, you do

so because you know that this principle applies to

everyone and you may be the beneficiary in the future.

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People in need, because of environmental and climatic

setbacks, are a priority.

I remember, during June, we visited the small town

of Dixie, Idaho. It has a population of twenty-four

people. Instead of taking the well-traveled road back, we

tried a route that is known to have snow even as late as

July. Halfway through the region, at Eutopia Creek, the

land rover burrowed down in the snow. After three hours

of trying, we couldn't shovel it out. There were two

choices, to sleep in the rover overnight and try again in

the morning, or to walk the ten miles back to Dixie. We

chose the latter. Part way there we were given a lift,

for about a mile by prospectors, but after that we

continued our walk. Once at Dixie we were able to find

accommodations for the night.

The next morning three people equipped with a

winch and accompanied by a dog went with us to get the

rover out. The entire process took half the day, but when

we returned to Dixie, there was no talk of repayment, for

either gas or time. It was an episode that would go down

in Dixie lore, but definitely not one in which monetary

gain was at issue. There may be an occasion for

reciprocity in the future, but it was not a matter of

instant repayment.

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The same situation that emphasizes assistance

without immediate return was true of the help that Kinsley

Steinbreucker gave to his friends in falling their tree,

or Norman Baugh offered in the task of moving of the Peck

Bridge. It was not a job, it was a challenge. It was not

done for pay; instead it was done for enjoyment, for a

kind of entertainment and a memorable experience, to

relate to others. These are opportunities to change the

course of everyday life, to enrich them with experiences

that would never take place if these particular Westerners

hadn't put themselves out.

The sense of humans being at the mercy of the

environment may also be another important reason for the

realization and reconciliation of reality that pervades

the logging community and may also apply to others living

in the West. Often there is absolutely nothing a human

being can do. Nature, the elements, and conditions over

which there is no control take over, and you are the

victim or victor in the conditions that surround you.

The same is true of the expending of energy,

called work. These people and perhaps others living in

the West and working in natural resource-based

occupations, don't divide their lives into work and

leisure. Instead they know that work is a perpetual state

of being busy; things must get done and you continue to

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move to do them. Work is less a matter of labor than a

matter of meeting commitments.

Fifth, a "flatlander" transgresses often in the

West. She is too quick, too organized, too often

preemptory in learning who people are, and what they

believe. Sometimes she equates silences with lack of

knowledge or lack of interest, instead of the desire to be

either accurate or to fashion each comment with the

precision that it needs. Initially, I thought that

everyone was taciturn, that they spoke little, and paid

limited attention to what I think of as the conversational

arts. Now I see that this was not the case, that

communication is not slow or halting, it is selective.

People speak when there is reason to say something.

Chatter is noise.

I can attribute this realization in part to the

eight years that I have spent with my husband. He adapted

to Washington, D.C., but it was a painful process. My

definition of sociability was foreign to him. In

contrast, when we visited Idaho together in November,

1990, it was as if he was totally in tune with the way in

which life was led and the manner in which people

interacted with one another. He was accepted immediately,

more readily than I had been. He is cut to the same

pattern.

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For example he had often said to me "a man's word

is his bond.” I thought this applied to major business

and interpersonal relationships; treaties, contracts, and

so forth. It was a revelation to see what it meant in

action. As soon as Ted Leach began to talk to me about

breaking our appointment to see the archeological site,

Jim sat there grinning. I was learning that, even though

it means sacrifice on the part of the bondmaker or it

seems to be a very minor (to me) matter, "a man's or

woman's word is their bond.”

Sixth, pioneer women are said to be strong and

supportive. But seeing these traits in action is another

matter.In the logging community, women activate their

talents to make the corporate unit work. Strength here is

measured by women having backbone, not only in a

supporting role but always being active players. It is

obvious in the vignettes that without question the woman

in many logging households plays a role equal to that of

the man. It is also interesting to note that in the

telephone directory for Orofino and vicinity, phones are

not listed only in the name of the male in the household.

Often they include both spouses, for example: Leach Ted &

Donna, Greene Scott & Nancy, Burnham L C Bob & Betty, and

Hill R & S.

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Seventh, several people in Orofino and the logging

community said they felt that Easterners labeled them as

anti-intellectual. I would suggest that instead, these

people have an attitude that knowledge is found not only

in books. There is a no-nonsense approach to the written

word. Some facts can be learned from published works, but

experience is the true teacher. For example, a sense of

weight, volume, and danger can never be real unless you

have experienced it while riding on a logging truck. The

workings of a sawmill are nothing but reactions to visual

information unless you have actually done it. And so my

work in this community has made me more aware of the

benefits of experiential learning. However, there is a

respect for knowledge, as was demonstrated when Joe

Richardson's devoured Engines of change. But this is

activated when the reader can trust the information and

when it adds something to his understanding that

experience cannot bring to him.

Eighth, in addition to these personality traits, I

believe that this region of the country, as a political

area, has a strong sense of state's rights. Understanding

this will add perspective to the recent political movement

of the "sagebrush rebellion" both in the United States and

in Canada. It was no idle threat of succession. It

called attention to regional differences and suggested

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that people in this would be better off outside the

control of the Eastern establishment.

I am still reluctant to identify these as Western

traits, but I do believe that these indicators do exist

and should be explored in the future.

In summary, a "flatlander" changes after doing

research in Idaho and on an incline. She becomes more

outspoken when the occasion warrants it and more cautious

when it doesn't. For this reason, I must advise the

reader that the specifics of this community have been

reported as accurately as possible, but using them as an

indicator of "things Western" must be done carefully. I

speak only as a flatlander on an incline in Clearwater

County, not as an anthropologist with a firm research

design to test for the Western frame of mind.

Anthropologist as Writer

Writing this text was an integral part of my

research methodology. It is not a tidy list of

observations done from a distance. As the limner I was in

the center of life, with as much involvement with the

community as I could possibly maintain. But after the

experience of participation and observation, my intention

was to find the proper way to make this study live. This

experiment in a writing style is central to the

methodology of this dissertation.“

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In CHAPTER ONE, I described the style that would

be used in writing, the bridge and vignette approach to an

ethnography. As far as possible, this style was

maintained, but in analyzing the text it is obvious that

in some cases it became a difficult technique. On

occasion, there were no personal experiences that led me

into the understanding of the field situation. In some

cases the field experience, even with the personal bridge,

was one in which my participation was difficult because I

had not been raised in logging. And, on some occasions

there were no parallels. I did not contrive a bridge but

let the reader dive in as I had done.

The content of the vignettes from both an

anthropological and literary point of view was also

difficult for other reasons. First, occasionally it is

necessary to rearrange the chronology of occurrences

because they would make more sense to a reader. The

repositioning of information, as a necessity suggested by

Lederman (1990:82), allows the reader to learn about

necessary information first in the written text even

though it was not chronologically first in the actual

experience. In other words, there were times that I

learned an important fact late in fieldwork, but it had to

be conveyed early to the reader.

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For example, I had been in the Ponderosa on many

occasions, but it was not until midway through the

fieldwork that I captured the essence of the place as the

site for communication and reciprocity. If I had waited

until half-way through the text, the reader would have

been floundering to understand the social patterns that

take place in this community. It, and the treatment of

Orofino were positioned before the vignettes on logging,

because I believe it is easier for the reader to associate

with a small town than to be taken directly into the

foreign environment of the forests, especially those

related by the oldtimers.

The second difficulty with the technique is that I

have tried to give the people who have spoken with me the

principal voices. Whenever possible I captured these with

quotes.I learned in the process that these people, and

perhaps any people, who know that they are on stage, will

try to be quotable. Could being quotable cast a shadow of

pretentiousness on the conversation? I don't think that

this occurred in the discourse.

I have tried to be proseworthy and poetic in much

of the writing. In reviewing the literature on the

development of experimental ethnography over the past

twenty years, I discovered that there are many critiques

of what is being done, perhaps far more than attempts to

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experiment with new styles. Questions of authority,

representation, reflexivity, power, and knowledge are

under consideration by many anthropologists. But, I

believe that most of the attempts, both those at the

beginning of this phase, are the recasting of either the

life history approach, or translation and transcription of

standard interviews.^ In contrast, I hope that this

attempt is a step toward a more comprehensive

coauthorship. I believe it is bold but also realize that

it will be held up for criticism. Nonetheless, I believe

it is an important step, even though not the final word.

The loggers and people of Orofino helped me, not

in a passive way by allowing me to observe, but in a way

in which the experiences they offered gave action to their

role in this dissertation. The people who are portrayed

provided me with the opportunity to experience with them

what they see to be essential features of their lives.

This was their part in the coauthorship and is not unlike

motifs derived from living folk traditions that are used

by composers and artists in their classical works.

My role was to take these experiences and write

vignettes, each of which picked up the tone, the cadence,

and the intention of the person who was sharing

information with me. That is why the style may be

disconcerting; it may not seem the product of one writer.

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You may have had to change gears as you read from vignette

to vignette, for this is precisely what I had to do in

writing them. Each person who is portrayed is different,

in appearance, background, attitude, and style. I have

tried to capture this in the written word.

You may have had difficulty reading some of the

sections on the married couples that are pictured.

Sometimes it is not clear who said a specific statement.

This is in part because one spouse might have said the

words, but the other was in total agreement as if a

silent part of a unified chorus. I discussed this with

Sharon Barnett after she had read the draft. She felt

these vignettes were successful because, in fact, there

are couples, to her count about six sets of spouses, that

do exist as one. She said, "Some of us [these couples]

have been married for over thirty years, and we do

everything as one. We know what the other is thinking and

what the other is going to say." Yet, to counteract the

possibility of a silent voice, I also interviewed each

spouse independently so that the reader can see the

individual as well as the married couple.

Returning to my initial point, the variety of

styles in the vignettes is a reflection of the person on

the other side of this authorship. Admittedly, it is

filtered through my perception of our encounter and the

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necessity of transforming a dialogue into a written text.

But again it is a first step in the combination of a

literary form reinforcing ethnographic observation. To my

mind, the ultimate compliment by a coauthor would be to

have them say, "that's exactly the way I'd put it."

For a better sense of how this was written, let me

explain the literary procedures. While in Idaho, I made

notes of my interviews. I did not tape record any of the

material, although I must thank Darryl Olson for some of

his tapes with oldtime loggers that provided background

for me. I listened closely to the intent of the

information, hearing the quotables and repeating them on

the spot.

I also found that, because technical features of

occupations are difficult to describe, it was critical to

do the interviews at work. To be out there with the

loggers or in the mills showed commitment to this study,

as well as a better technique to obtain information. When

we sat down to discuss operations or technology, the

description in words took so long that it was impossible

to get to the overriding themes. This feeling was

reinforced on my revisit when most of the sessions took

place on site.

The reader may also feel that I have introduced

minor issues into a vignette. I begin with statements

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Friends who read this draft in Washington D.C registered

this reaction. By the end of each vignette, the questions

are answered but in the process the reader may wonder

whether their curiosity will be satisfied. In some

instances it was not until the last comment that the

reader finds the completion of a theme. But this is done

precisely because it is exactly how the experience took

place for me. In almost every instance, I was filled with

questions and had loose ends hanging until the very end of

the encounter or even until well into writing the piece.

I hope that nothing is minor or extraneous. Every

fact should connect with another fact somewhere else in

the volume. Often it is necessary to hold on to an

imponderable for tens of pages before an answer is

offered. There is an interconnectedness in life, and in

people's roles in the community that occasionally is not

obvious at first.

For example, both Paul Pippinger and Roy Clay are

members of the entrepreneurial sector, but without

reference to their backgrounds in logging, above and

beyond its economic benefit to them, its importance is

unclear. Without their personal histories, the story

would be incomplete. Similarly, Darlene Lee is the wife

of a logger, but she also works at Jean's Bakery. Karen

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Glover is a farmer, but her husband is a guard at the

prison. Doreen Walrath, a sorority member, is the wife of

Harry Walrath, who owns an insurance agency but is also an

active member of O.C.I. Harriet Reece is the wife of a

farmer, but members of her family have been loggers.

There is no way to separate the interconnectedness of

personalities in this area.

In some instances the people portrayed might have

been drawn larger or with greater verve. They may have

more presence than the writing conveys. This is

especially true with Louie and Faye Porter, Joe

Richardson, and Sharon Barnett. These vignettes may not

have the richness they deserve. In the case of the

Porters, their hospitality was so warm that it was nearly

impossible to concentrate on business. We were having too

good a time getting to know one another in those intimate

ways necessary for building a friendship. Much the same

is true of the information presented about Sharon Barnett.

Because we are friends, it was difficult to get out of

that mold to write about her life in logging. I had seen

it, and you might think that having seen it, I could

describe it. But in this case, I took too much for

granted.

Finally, with Joe Richardson, I find myself in the

position of feeling that I am in the company of a real

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celebrity, a man who has never stepped in time with any

drummer other than his own. I must leave it to others to

do justice to the personality and significance of Joe

Richardson in the logging industry.

In addition to a concern for the individual

personalities that are conveyed in the vignettes, I

revisit the writing in this work with questions about my

relationship with the town and the loggers. I admit that

I feel more comfortable, more myself in the woods, on the

job, than in town. For this reason, the reader may want

to add more depth to my words about Orofino. On the other

hand, as you read, you might mute the enthusiasm that I

have for the logging industry. It's only fair for a

balanced view of Clearwater County.

A difficult element to introduce into this writing

was building the transitions from vignette to vignette

when a bridge was not appropriate. Sometimes a single

thread like communication and where it occurs— at the

Ponderosa— and how it occurs— freely and openly— were a

possible avenue for exposition. Occasionally, I have

tried chronology as the best approach. But often it was

impossible to find the necessary connections, and the

reader is left with jumping from theme to theme with

little guidance. Presently, I have no solution for this

problem, for this is precisely the way I had to maneuver

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from experience to experience, and the writing skills

necessary to work out these transitions were not mine.

When I actually sat down to write, I took all the

notes from each interview and tried to characterize them

in terms of theme and tone. Sometimes this was not easy,

and I let the interviews sit and mellow before I could

work on them. In fact, the most difficult vignette was

that on the festival, which had actually been my original

focus for research.

When finally they took on a written form, I

examined them to see if the specific theme was actually

embedded in them. For example: in You Forgot About the

Farmers. I wanted to use the theme that all members and

segments of the community believe that the basic

characteristic of social interaction is that all others

should be seen as important players. It is by combining

the concerns of the loggers with the role of the farmer

that I hoped to do this. Yet, the vignette discusses more

than this relationship.. It focused on land tenure

patterns, multiple occupations of people in the region,

the role of women and family life, and the incursion of

newcomers to the region. Facts were inserted by quoting

coauthors. Norm Fitzsimmons, then, becomes the source of

information on farmers as well as an individual who speaks

about one side of this relationship.

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Another characteristic of the writing style is

familiarity. The loggers and the people of Orofino use

the speech patterns that I have documented. Sometimes the

colloquialisms may be specific to the region such as

"drive truck," or "I needed spoiled." I believe using

their way of speaking is important to the text.

Additionally, my own style of writing and conversation is

informal. I wrote as I lived my experiences during

fieldwork, not as would be recast using anthropological

terminology. As a Midwesterner by birth, I can understand

the tone of familiarity that does not see a necessity for

rephrasing information based on a disengaged vocabulary.

For example, I might have called Joe Richardson, Mr. Joe

Richardson, but that is not who he is. He is Joe to

everyone, and so when I met him he was introduced as Joe.

The same is true of the other personalities. Family names

are rarely used in the community; nicknames are used

often, and so 1 did not feel the need to formalize that

which is not formal.

I have not trivialized or been too familiar with

any of the coauthors. To cast them in a role, with terms

of respect or honorifics, is inappropriate, and I believe

would not be suitable to them. Likewise, to alter the

tone of our relationships with a more formal choice of

words would not be appropriate. They would not feel that

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because they had become a part of a written text they

should be renamed, or that their mode of building familiar

relationships and their use of a commonplace vocabulary

should be replaced with a more acceptable academic form.

This is by way of saying that I believe that my choice of

words is both appropriate and acceptable to my coauthors.

They should, and will, be able to recognize themselves,

not as they have been squeezed into a more literate

speaker's body, but as they are.

The writing style is also undeniably filled with

emotion. Each person affected me. Aside from the factual

information they provided, they were real people with

strong views and always opinionated. Sometimes they were

in the midst of personal joys or sorrows. If the writing

succeeds, these states should also be apparent.

Finally, I would suggest that there is a problem

with this style of the presentation of text. It assumes

that anyone who does fieldwork can be a writer. It is as

if by some magical transfiguration the experiences are

transformed into beautifully written and totally accurate

texts. This is not the case. I do know that, before

beginning this ethnography, I committed myself to the

written word, sought isolation, and pursued the perfection

of the language. I hope the product is not only readable

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but flows and makes the eye move across the page without

the hardship of physically seeing words. The art of this

literary form is interweaving fact with emotional

response, maintaining aesthetic control over the data

while pressing for ethnographic accuracy. It should

provide a sense of place, persons, and lives in an

anthropological context.

Suggestions for Future Study

I believe that this work on logging or Clearwater

County is not a finished product. It is a beginning for

many themes that could be contributions to the field of

anthropology. These include: (1) Work as art as it is

applies to other industries, especially those that appear

to be most dissimilar from art or works of art like

painting and sculpture; (2) The spirit of place as well as

the dimensions of that place as they affect social life;

(3) A new interpretation of the role of women in an

industry that has been viewed as a male domain, when it is

based on the history of settlement patterns; (4) Continued

work on logging as an occupation as it traveled from the

East to the West Coast; (5) A look at the linguistic

features that have been used by both logging and

environmentalist communities to reinforce their positions

on natural resource management; (6) A social history of

this region, which as was shown in CHAPTER TWO, is

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lacking. The beginning of this process might include the

repositioning of information that is embedded in the

vignettes and the basic outline of the chronology of

logging era; (7) A look at the less vocal members of the

logging community who are not considered artists but

satisfactory woodsworkers.

But setting aside the suggestions for future work

that can take place in this particular community, I

believe that the most important future study should be the

testing of the concept of coauthorship both in this work

and in others. I believe that it should be tested more

fully in works based on American community studies,

because they provide potential coauthors to a greater

extent than those done in societies in which the authors

and potential readers do not share a common language.

One area that might be interesting to explore is

the loggers' belief in competency through experience as it

applies to the pursuit of anthropological experimentation.

In other words just as they believe in doing, I believe

that it will only be through experiment after experiment,

time and time again of putting words on paper that the

anthropologist will be able to learn this craft. It is

not enough to read the commentaries of others; it is

necessary to put this competency into practice and

actually write.

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This would be especially useful when the community

is already looking at itself, reevaluating its economy and

existence in a changing world. Change in Orofino is a

grassroots phenomenon. Perhaps seeing the way in which

the community authors its own new image would be

beneficial in understanding change in small communities.

Here too, additional work in Orofino could add to the

research in American community studies.“

Returning to the metaphor of a limner. I

suggest that, if a painter did not do a good job, the

client need not take the painting. It qualifies as good

art only if the work is held and treasured by the person,

family, or community that commissioned it. If it is not

considered true, it is because it does not provide a

perception of reality for the people at that time. They

have the right to reject it. To date, I have set a copy

of the draft to Tim and Sharon Barnett. As I had hoped,

they were thorough in their reading and had substantial,

as well as substantive, comments. These have been

incorporated into this dissertation. All in all, I was

delighted by the postscript to their letter. It read.

To this point— OK!! ! Can't believe you can find that much to say about our little realm in this huge world. Even reading about it makes me want to live here. Keep up the good work. Cheers.

But this will be only one interaction with the

coauthors.

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As a limner I know that another visitation is

necessary; it is the transport of this manuscript to these

people.* It is for them to judge whether first, the

likenesses are true and second, whether the frame— that of

work as art— fits the painting. I will ask the community,

O.C.I. and F.W.I.T., to comment on the work. Once my

initial job is completed, copies will be sent to the

Clearwater County Library, Clearwater Historical Society,

and the Clearwater Tribune. I hope that the newspaper will

publish sections for all to read. They can then comment

on the portrait of their lives.

I have written about my positioning in their lives

in the bridges and expect comments on these as well. They

rarely asked questions about my background and now in

telling them about myself they will have an opportunity to

respond to me as a person as I have to them. If the

canvas composed of Orofino and life are accurate but the

frame of work as art is wrong, the total presentation

suffers. An appropriate frame is mandatory for a fine

piece of art, and if my interpretation of their work is

incorrect the presentation of the image is inaccurate.

And so, like the limners of the past, I will hold

this work up to my patrons' scrutiny, let them see what

has been said about them, and how they have been pictured.

I will explain the frame, or better yet, see if without

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any further explanation they feel that it holds the

picture properly. Theirs is the final decision on my

work. If they agree, my work may be a literary and

analytical piece of art comparable to theirs.

As the final judges, I would expect them to

examine all the details. Not only will they examine the

dates and names, but they can be conscious and judgmental

about the intent. Was each person and each action

portrayed as is true of its nature? I hope that this will

be the beginning of this community's presence, with their

own voice in the literature. I intend to continue an

ongoing discourse so that there will be changes and

modification of the study as they are suggested by the

loggers and people of Orofino. I believe that they are

the ultimate public before whom I must appear. They are

the real critics of both the information about their

lives, their actions, attitudes, and values, and literary

quality of this work. They are to be satisfied first and

foremost. This too makes the work a contribution, for

because it has no specifically stated conclusions, it will

be the people of Clearwater County that add their

comments, write the marginalia that will complete this

work.

And what of making a contribution of unique

information to the field? My contribution will begin the

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process of thinking about it. I hope that it will

stimulate looking at the work and trying to discover the

context in which workers build their own definition of

what they do. In seeing a community less concerned with

the products of fine art than the process of their lives,

I believe that I have begun to explore the question of

work as art. The methodology, based on a style of writing

is highly qualitative, with very little quantitative data.

The tool of methodology is myself and my attempt to get at

a universal principle, that of work as art, and to extend

this definition so that contemporary life will include art

as a process, not only those objects that are often

restricted to museums.

Unveiling The Canvas

The canvas of this community and loggers that

emerges cannot be a post-modern work filled with symbolic

images. If interpreted only by an iconographer, the image

would be abstracted to the point of distortion. The

people of Orofino would feel it was untrue, uncharac

teristic of their way of life. Or for example, were this

rendering a holograph with its three-dimensional

capabilities, Orofino would find its colors unrealistic

and its motion jarring.

It might be a more popular work if Orofino was

seen through the eyes of an Impressionist, but the lack of

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definition would not be suitable. These are not a vague

and hazy people. Just as unsuitable would be a stark

black and white artistically contrived photograph. It

would be too mechanical and technically adept.

Instead, Orofino is best captured as a large

salon piece, epic in its statement, rendered realistically

with the natural setting, nearly a scientific illustration

in its detail. This composition allows each element to

stand on its own, for each of the characters to smile out,

confident and assured against the elegance of the natural

surroundings. But just as the snags and clearcuts must

appear as blemishes on the horizon, the imperfections of

the people must show through in the technique of this

work. Realism, not mannerism or abstractionism, is the

rule in Orofino.

On the canvas, first and foremost, there is a

sense of place. Orofino does, and always has, taken

advantage of its enviable natural setting. Natural

resources in both plant and animal life are abundant and

set the backdrop for community life. It sets the style

for action, human endeavors that are an overlay to the

painting.

The individuals, as they have been portrayed, do

not jump out of the environment; they blend with it, fit

into it in both their work and leisure. The Clearwater

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River Valley is a perfect setting for life, as has been so

often stated by residents and visitors alike. It allows

human inhabitants to feel inseparable from it as if forms

and faces become part of the terrain.

Just as human images are never an intrusive

element in the environment, neither should any one of the

characters jump out at you, leaving the others in the

background. Every figure from this chosen segment of the

population has definition, yet everyone is blended with

everyone else. The rich do not take center stage; the

males do not take the foreground leaving the women as

shadows. So too, the harmony of nature and humans is

repeated in the balance of individual with individual.

But, the palette is conservative, primary, majority colors

only. There are no ochres, burnt umbers, or ebonies.

This typifies the population composition which is the

reality of Orofino.

Some did not figure significantly in this study of

work as art. The woodsworker and millworker, those work

ing in service industries, restaurants, at the hospital,

government facilities, and the prison have not been given

speaking parts nor captured as images. Their portraits

may have to wait for another day and another limner to

arrive.

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But those that are featured look out, straight on,

as if from a painting by George Caleb Bingham with its

directness and conversational stance. It is intimate, the

way in which each captures your eye. Roy, Karen, Sharon,

Father Mike, Norman and all the others come to speeüc to

you.

The figures are bold. For since they think that

people outside of this logging community comment on their

treatment of American resources, the images on this canvas

must be even more outspoken. They are always eager to

tell an outsider about logging techniques, past and

present, and so in their portrait the tools of the trade

are in full view.

Epic, yes, because the people who live in Orofino

today encapsulate much of its history. The written

records are sparse, perhaps in part because so much of

living history is still coming to the Ponderosa for a cup

of morning coffee. As you have seen, many of the

characters in the painting are elderly men and women,

still a part of the community, still causing it to exist

in a very special way. Epic, too, because Orofino is on

the cusp of change, and this is reflected in the dynamism

of the painting. It is busy, active but never frenzied.

There is a whimsy about this painting as well.

Here and there we see the toys, those inconsequential

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Objects of contemporary delight. Almost as if cartoon

like, they rest in the landscape, more caricature than

real. The boats, hot tubs, airplanes, and motor homes are

penciled in, as if, as the artist, I want to remove them

from the scene.

But humor, like a twist of Henri Rousseau, is also

here as an accent. The quotable comments, so often wry

and intimate, add a freshness rarely found in epic

paintings. They appear as surprises in an often

formidable scene.

If only in this dissertation I might have painted

everyone, not only those that represent a way of life. If

only there were no gaping holes. Perhaps I have created

only one panel of a triptych to be completed by another

artist who adds those loggers who had not spoken in this

coauthorship as well as the national, and international

panels to this work. I would hope that this happened but

always with the thought that this must constitute one work

of art, not three separate canvases hung on the same wall.

As I revisit this canvas, I wish that I was in

fact a painter instead of writing as an anthropologist. I

would have gladly used a different art form. I wish I

could put on canvas what I see as the image of Clearwater

County; humans in harmony with their environment and each

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other, proud of their accomplishments, and seeing every

act of work, every act of living, as art.

There is a nobility in this panel. Regardless of

the sporadic instances of alcoholism, wayward teenagers,

children raised without proper guidance, the overall wash

of the canvas is one of fine quality. But perhaps in

time, as with other aging paintings, cracks will occur and

the undercoat will give way. Until now, I have not seen

wear so significant that it will destroy the painting.

Throughout my fieldwork I did not see a truly

abusive woodsworker or anyone dismissed for poor work. No

one failed in business because of dishonesty or scandal.

True criminal behavior did not occur. No one was ostra

cized or asked to relinquish their role in the industry or

in the community. And so. I'd hope that instead of

grazing, a pentimento would layer my canvas of Orofino and

Clearwater County.

I hope that in some small part I have played the

role of a liminer similar to the role of bard, that Jean

Rouch played in his anthropological filmmaking. To be

considered one who could tell the story well, to learn

whether all my images live as well on canvas and on paper

as they do in reality.% This would be a compliment. And

with my belief that artfulness can cause results, I hope

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their work and mine will give rise to power and strengthen

their voices.

I was heartened when I received a note from Sharon

Barnett after she had read the draft of this work. She

said, "Good job! Quite a piece of work! You've finally

begun to get the feel of our life! Cheers! Sharon.”

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MAPS

438

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m m IDAHO

Mosco'

LEGEND

Clearwater National Forest

State of Idaho

0 70

Figure 1. Location Map showing the State of Idaho and the Clearwater National Forest.

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(0 0) •H •P •H § 8 S' •H 8: o

1 IId H >ilU I

I(U rH U ■g I

rsj 0)

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IH o | g •H (M

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1 Î

n (I)

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CHRONOLOGY OF LOGGING IN CLEARWATER COUNTY

Prepared with the assistance of Tim and Sharon Barnett

First Era— Beginning in 1930s but developed in 1930s.

Pioneers, retired of deceased.

Leonard Cardiff (deceased)

Owner of Cardiff Lumber Company and Sawmill at

Pierce, Idaho

Originally established the town of Cardiff.

Company operated from the 1930s to the 1950s.

Lawrence Olson (deceased)

Owner of "O" Mill, operated in the 1930s and

1940s.

Frank Fromelt (deceased)

Owner of Fromelt Logging Company, operated 1935 to

1970.

Joe Me earthy (retired)

Owner of White Pine Lumber, operated in the 1940s

and 1950s.

442

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 443 Lewis N. Porter (retired)

Owner of L. N. Porter Logging, operated in 1940s

to 1970s.

Jake Altmiller (retired)

Sawyer for numerous logging companies and finished

career with R.F. Coon Logging, sawed in 1940s

through 1970s.

Joe Richardson (retired)

Owner of Riverside, operated in the 1940s to early

1980s.

Andrew "Andy" Konkol (deceased)

Owner of Konkolville Lumber, operated 1930s

through 1970s. Son continues sawmill operation.

Albert "Bert" Curtis (deceased)

Superintendent of Clearwater Potlatch Timber

Protective Association (CPTPA). Mayor of Orofino.

Involved in community from 1940s to 1960s.

Mel Snook (retired)

Owner of Snook Logging and State legislator.

Operation was active between 1940s and 1950s.

Ralph Space (retired)

National Forest Service superintendent.

Bill Cummings (retired)

Cummings Road Construction and Contracting from

1950s to 1970s.

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Ray Coon (active)

R.F. Coon Logging, operating 1950s to present.

Carl Finke (retired)

Finke Logging founded in 1947. Currently operated

by sons Jim and "Butch."

Don Ponozzo (retired)

Owner of Ponozzo Logging and county commissioner.

Operated between 1950s and 1980s.

Bruce McLaughlin, Senior (active)

McLaughlin Logging operated 1950s to present,

currently run by son, Mick.

Third Era— Currentlv working in logging

Tim and Sharon Barnett (active)

Past owners of Barnett Logging, currently Tim is

woods supervisor for K.J. Weller Logging Inc.

Active 1950s to present.

Don Konkol (active)

Owner Konkolville Lumber established by father

"Andy."

Gail Triplett (active)

Owner of Triplett Lumber and Tripplet Logging

operated from 1950s to present. Trippco Inc.owned

by son, Ross.

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Emerald and Eldon Hutchins (active)

Timberline Lumber Company operated from 1960s to

present.

Ted Leach (active)

Past owner of Leach Logging operated from 1960s to

1980s. Ted currently woods supervisor. Son

Stanley now runs the business.

Ken Weller (active)

Owner K. J. Weller Logging Inc. operating from

1960s to present.

Cliff Kleer

Owner Kleer Logging Company operated from 1970s to

present.

Gary Medley (active)

Owner Medley Logging operated 1970s and 1980s.

Currently active in land development.

Kenny Coon (active)

Owner K. M. C. Trucking began operation in 1980s.

"Butch" Finke (active)

Finke Logging Inc. took over from Carl Finke in

1970s and is currently active in company.

Alex Irby (active)

Woods superintendent for Konkolville Lumber

Company since 1980s andwith CPTPA for much of his

career.

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"Mick" McLaughlin (active)

McLaughlin Logging Company with father Bruce,

since 1980s.

Chet and Cindy Barnett (active)

Barnett Logging Company, purchased company from

uncle, Tim Barnett in 1980s.

Darold Stanton (active)

Owner Darold Stanton Logging Company began

operation in 1980s.

Steve Barham

In partnership with father, Ernie, in business

that was established three years ago. Steve is

married to sister of Chet Barnett, Barnett Logging

Company.

Potential Future Loggers

Bruce McLaughin III

Son of "Mick" and Mary Ann, Grandson of Bruce and

Marguerite. Nine years of age, already showing

desire to go into logging.

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Chapter I

1. In Plain Painters. John Vlach provides a comprehensive explanation of the artistic skills of early itinerant painters. His art historical view provides excellent background information on the movements of these painters through history. For example, in the 1670s the Freake limner might have been a professional painter who put on canvas exactly the image he was striving to portray without the simple two-dimensional style of other "naive" painters (1988:92). The New England portraits functioned as a marker of status, and according to Vlach

their painters did not shun realism but instead transformed realism into materialism. It was not from an inability to capture the characters but from a desire to show their embellishments. Eighteenth- century settlers of the upper Hudson River employed portrait painters in order to establish their authority (1988:108)

I realize the complexity of the analysis of the limner's work and style. It is not for this reason, but because I believe it is an apt illusion to his role in documenting American lives that I use the term. In a sense, too, my portraits are of a specific segment of the population and may add authority to their role when this dissertation is presented to the community.

2. According to Grimes (1982:149) limnars are threshold people in a temporary state of whoness. He cites Turner as seeing liminality as having a generative quality as well that may lend motion to the society. Sometimes, limnars are metaphorically identical with the dead or the infantile. Since they are unclassified, they are located at the interstices of things. In this dissertation I will refer to myself as unclassified, a sense that I had about my role in this community. I did not presume that this extended as far as becoming an initiate or being integrated into the community. However, during the Lumberjack Days, September, 1990, I was thrown

447

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into the birling pool with the royalty and other members of the O.C.I. show committee. If one wished to carry through the symbolism, I was baptized into the ranks of members by this gesture, even though I was not asked formally to join the organization. Perhaps this was my rite of passage, the transitional rite before integration.

3. As Freilich states in Marginal Natives (33), "the critical tool in anthropological research is the researcher himself." This tool is self-conscious, as pointed out by Powermaker: "A peculiar character of field work in anthropology and in other social sciences is that the scientist has to communicate with the objects studied and they with him, and that he is part of the situation studied" (Dumont 1966:286-287).

4. Their world is a world of logging. In addition to proposing a literary genre for future works in anthropology, this dissertation focuses on the occupation. McCarl, working as a folklorist of occupational groups, provided a statement on its significance to the discipline. He suggested that it demanded a new approach to oral expression as well as an understanding of the work processes and techniques from which this expression is derived. Throughout this work, the reader will be able to see that information flowed from descriptions of work and technology much in line with the suggestion of McCarl for the study of occupational groups. He sees "that technique is the pattern of manipulations, actions, and rhythms which are the result of the interaction between an individual and his or her work environment which are prescribed by the group and used as a criteria for the determination of membership and status within it" (1978:7). I have demonstrated the existence of this relationship in vignettes that describe the loggers' viewpoints on work and the praise that is accorded those who excel. McCarl shows that the occupational group must feel that the research has something to offer to them, in his case a pamphlet about their work (1978:18). He carried out this plan with Washington D.C. firefighters and helped them see their perception of themselves as well as community misunderstanding of their job. He also emphasizes that his work became a public document. The same has also occurred in my work with Orofino, I can expect that this dissertation will be used in some way by the community.

5. In the 1970s the term "gyppo" was still being used as a designation for independent loggers, but by 1990

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its use seems to have declined. According to NcCulloch (1977:76),

a gyppo is (1) a small logger, (2) almost any woods job done on contract, (3) to log by contract. According to Colonel W.B. Greeley, the term began with western railroad building. Several laborers from a construction gang would form a little co-operative with a few old tools and mules. They gypped the regular gangs by working all hours of the day and night and so established the neuae gyppo for a small contractor. . . It meant an outfit that could stay in business only by cutting corners. So many one-time gyppos have grown into medium-sized or big operators that the term has become more respectable today, and does not mean gypping.

6. Attempts at coproduction are seen as a necessary practice in the contemporary museum world. As under represented populations are encouraged to seek notice in exhibitions, enlightened administrators work with these groups to build presentations according to their perspective. The resources and skills of museum professionals are combined with the outlook of those to be featured for a more accurate representation. The process is long, often taking several years of negotiation, but it is seen as the necessary next step (personal communication with Alicia Gonzalez, Director, Quincentenary Project, Smithsonian Institution).

7. Specific references to studies of small communities in contemporary America will be cited in the CONCLUSION.

8. This comment does not imply that the study of festivals is not important. The works of Falassi (1987), Abrahams (1987), Lavenda (1980, 1983, 1988), Mac Aloon (1984), Manning (1983), Ozouf (1988), Stoelje (1981, 1983, 1987), Tenefeld (1978), Smith (1975), and Turner (1982, 1983) sustained me in my original search for a thesis. They provided important insights into the celebratory life that then led me to look at the everyday life of the community.

9. I use the term "social drama" much the way Victor Turner defined it (1974:35). He saw these as "moments of revelation of social divisions when people must take sides in terms of deeply entrenched moral imperatives and constraints." The demonstration against the large corporation was the independent loggers' way of

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activating redressive action that then resulted in the reintegration of both sides, both contested parties into a working economic system. I will not pursue this further, only to say that study of the situation confronting loggers, corporations, and the environmental movement may be an interesting area to explore as social drama.

10. For a fuller development of the dramaturgical approach and a group that operates with a heightened sense of stagecraft, the reader might consult Thomas Gregor (1977).

11. There may be some question as to the validity of the sample which was chosen for this study. As mentioned, it concentrates on the independent logging contractors, prominent loggers of the past, and townspeople who are central to the management of Orofino. It does not concentrate on all segments of the population, because the focus is on the qualities of the occupation and community life. Margaret Mead addressed this problem.

Anthropological sampling is not a poor or inadequate version of sociological or sociopsychological sampling, a version where n equals too few cases. It is simply a different kind of sampling, in which the validity of the sample depends not so much upon the number of cases as upon the proper specifications of the informant. . . Within this very extensive degree of specification, each informant is studied as a perfect example, an organic representation of his complete cultural experience. (1969:46)

12. These people were professionals in the way that Abrahams defines them (1978:19-42).

A real pro is someone who has both learned the operation of the job and is able to transcend the routine character of the occupation, bring an individual "something" to it, a personal style or a unique strategy . . . where style becomes an especially marked feature of one's abilities, the worker is called an artist as well as a professional at the job. . . the focus on style and intensity of focus inherent in the ideal of professionalism has actually provided a middle term between work and play. A professional approach, after all, is characteristic of both.

13. Plath (1980:33) admits to the "dilemma that haunts every ethnographer."

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On the one hand, he (or she) wants to re-present the singularity and dignity of individual lives as he encounters them. . . On the other hand, he (or she) also want to convey the life-ordering powers, even the beauty, of the social institutions and cultural patterns found in this setting.

I too felt that there was a need for both the individual and the social. My solution to this problem is the vignette. It is not a life history approach, because it does not include all the necessary facts for a history. Instead it takes a section of a life as it relates to a theme and uses it to demonstrate the patterns that are found in Orofino and in logging.

14. Robert Plant Armstrong has written extensively on humanistic anthropology.

Sometimes anthropology is little more than the exercise of exotic nit-picking. . . . But the end of what I think of as real anthropology is in the deep mid-point of human being where there is to be found an understanding, an appreciation, and a compassion for man. . . I believe that the study of man ought to be fraught with meaning for man. This is a primary tenet of humanistic anthropology. . . . [it] is concerned with the varieties, the qualities, and through these the nature and the value of human experience. It is not dedicated to the simple description of institutions, nor to reductions, nor to models."(1975:159)

"One is a humanistic anthropologist for the simple reason that he enjoys a passionate concern to perceive something of the outlines of that nearly inscrutable condition of being human" (1975:4).

15. I am aware of Simon Ottenberg's suggestion that the research process includes "headnotes" as well as field notes. These are remembered observations. They continue to evolve and change as they did during the time in the field (Sanjek 1990:93). Although during the writing of these vignettes I had not described them as headnotes, my recollections were extremely important in focusing on a theme for the vignettes. These were derived from remembering the "atmosphere" of each experience.

16. Clifford attempted the opposite technique in using the device of distancing in reporting the court appearances of the Mashpee.

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Overall, if the witnesses seem flat and somewhat elusive, the effect is intentional. Using the usual rhetorical techniques, I could have given a more intimate sense of people's personalities or of what they were really trying to express, but I have preferred to keep my distance. (1988:291)

In contrast, my approach was to give as full a sense of personality as possible in the vignettes.

17. There had been several articles about my work in the local newspaper. An earlier work (James-Duguid 1985) had been used by Women in Timber during a lobbying effort to Washington in order to cite that a social scientist had commented on the integrity of the way of life of logging in this region. Announcements of slide programs that I had presented were published, and summaries of these also appeared in the newspaper.

18. The analysis of work as art will be explored in CHAPTER FIVE; however let me introduce the possibility with the following quote: "In the first place, it is fraudulent to pass from a great artistic moment felt by one or more persons at a certain time and place to Art in general. Art does not consist only of masterpieces" (Barzun 1973:87).

19. It would be a great accomplishment to weave together facts in a way that the reader enjoys learning about the reality of the loggers' world. I strive for the skill described by Llosa when speaking about a fictitious young anthropologist. "In the stories he told me, Saul's enthusiasm made the most trivial happening— clearing a patch of forest or fishing for aamitant— take on heroic proportions" (Llosa 1990:19).

Chapter II

1. At the time of the Lewis and Clark expedition, there were approximately 5,000 Nez Perce in the region that is now Clearwater County. After homesteading was opened, the reservation size was set at 784,996 acres, which has been maintained to the present. As more and more settlers arrived, the pressure for land grew, and eventually the dispute erupted in the Nez Perce War of 1877. Currently the Nez Perce population is 2,871, of which 1,595 live on the reservation, northeast of Orofino. Tribal leaders have purchased timber land and take

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advantage of the natural resources and the economic opportunities of the region.

2. According to Reverend Michael Spegele, when Protestant and Catholic missionaries arrived in the region they arbitrarily divided the Indian populations among themselves for conversion efforts. Still today, there are pockets of Christian Indians of different denominations spread throughout the area.

3. According to Petersen (1987:14) Michigan's commercial logging began in 1820. In 1837 there were over 400 sawmills; by 1870 it replaced Pennsylvania and New York in lumber production. By then Michiganders were moving west to Minnesota. Frederick Weyerhaeuser emigrated in 1852, settled in Pennsylvania but then moved to Illinois and finally came to the northwest to buy land and establish logging operations.

4. The approach of this dissertation is historical consciousness based on the memories of oldtime loggers. I have not concentrated in detail on the historical events in this region. Thanks to Robert Spencer, director of the Clearwater Historical Society for personal communications on the history of the region. The museum includes some documentation, both written and photographic, on the early development of Clearwater County. An informal photographic record is also on view in Snyder's Clothing Store. Morey Snyder has gathered photographs that date back to the 1910s. Additionally, for future research into the social history of this region, along with primary documents and past issues of the local newspaper, a researcher might examine the minutes and reports of Orofino Celebrations Incorporated. Though sketchy at times, they provide information concerning the themes which hold an important focus for specific social and technological developments in the region at a given time. They are also documents on the key players in the logging community since 1947, not only those who were performers but those who provided management and stimulated the interest in logging. Additionally, through the changes in the performance feats, they demonstrate the changes that occurred in logging technology. For example 1967 was the first year that a checker setting contest was a part of the events. Other sources of information include: audiotapes of life histories of oldtime loggers collected by Darrel Olson (approximately twenty five individuals on fifty hours of audiotape), transcripts of oral history tapes

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collected by volunteers of the Clearwater Historical Society. One might also look at the work of Peterson (1987) on Potlatch, a mill town in an adjoining county for information on one variant of logging communities. Currently, Tom Farbo, a retired United States Forest Service employee, is completing a map that locate the logging camps and railroads in Clearwater County. He has found 160 Potlatch camps and has been able to verify 156 of them. He has also followed the development of the railroad from west to east. Potlatch to Elk River, to Bovill and on to Lewiston. According to Farbo, in the 1920s loggers of different nationalities occupied different positions. Irish ran engines and were supervisors; Swedes and Norwegians cut the timber and built and manned the flumes. Italians, Hungarians, and Bohemians built the railroad.

5. The concept of human interaction with place is developed extensively by Catherine Allen (1988:32).

This book is about the practices, in particular the ritual practices, through which the people of Sonqo connect themselves with the land and, in the process, define and express their cultural identity as Runakuna. The land is many correlated things: it bears their crops, feeds their animals, and supplies mud bricks for their houses. It is also a legal unit, a bounded territory that they have defended for centuries. It is moreover, a land-scape a constellation of familiar topographical features that serve as reference points in time as well as space. To Runakuna. these topographical features are sacred places called Tirakuna; they are experienced as a parallel society of animate and powerful personalities. The ritual use of coca brings about the integration of these two parallel societies, and by connecting Runakuna and Tiraiuna. coca effectively binds the people to their land.

Glassie (1982:609) also noted this type of relationship in Ballymenone when he writes: "Space becomes time as people turn earth into landscape and claim it with names. He writes on the edge of poetry when he says:

Dark mountains loft on the west. Along them cuts the Border. From them rivers of rain and green hills fall, crest after crest, into Lough Erne. Half drowned small hills rise through the reeds, disrupting

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placid waters. The island hills of Lough Erne, Hugh Nolan teaches, contain history." (1982:159)

I too experienced this sense that the natural setting has logging history written upon it when I traveled with Tim Barnett into the timber country. Similarly, Keith Basso (1984) analyzes the ability of the landscape to teach lessons among the Western Apache. The land is always stalking the people, making them live in the proper fashion. One wonders whether it would be possible to look at the loggers' world to see to what extent the landscape is the primary source of history and guidance in their work. It becomes an important factor in the loggers' existence if it does. For as Basso asserts, "Losing the land is something the Western Apache can ill afford to do, for geographical features have served the people for centuries as indispensable mnemonic pegs to hang moral teachings of their history." (1984:44) Finally, Richard Sorenson (1976), writing about the Fore of New Guinea, focuses on the role of humans in changing the face of the earth. He looks at the way in which interaction creates a social structure that operates in a territory and affects the landscape.

6. Perhaps the most persistent of all stories is the tale of Paul Bunyan. Though there is still some discussion as to whether the folk hero is based on a living lumberjack, most sources point to the fact that he was an invention of a publicist for a California lumber company. The stereotype persisted from its creation in a 1914 booklet prompted by William B. Laughead. The myth was so popular that the 1929 edition of Encyclopedia Britannica included an article on Bunyan. The booklet was reissued in 1941 as a collector's item (Greenway 1969:347). Regardless of whether based on a real logger or not, the image persists as the public's perception of logging. According to Dorson (1973:243), when he subscribed to a clipping service, asking for articles about Bunyan, he was inundated. The oversized lumberjack was used both by the Dailv Worker and American capitalists to prove a point about the American spirit. By the former, he was used to symbolize the spirit of the American workingman and the child of rebellion, by the latter, to typify the workingman as a potential capitalist. In fact in 1939, a sculpture using a Bunyanesgue figure which was entitled "Efficiency," attracted a great deal of attention at the World's Fair. Robbins also suggests that this concept of the independent, rebellious, yet entrepreneurially

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individualist was perpetuated by Ken Kesey in Sometimes a Great Notion, the story of a logging family of heroic proportion (1988:54). The Hank Stamper family could "work harder, swim farther, and fight better than any of the others." Bobbin's work on the Oregon timber industry contains important information on the development of logging in the Northwest.

7. This dissertation does not examine unionization in the logging industry and in conversations with loggers in this region, both oldtimers and contemporaries, it was not mentioned as an overriding concern. Although outside union organizers blocked the road at the Frank Fromelt Logging Company and a confrontation did occur in 1936, this seems to be the only instance of union activity in Clearwater County. For further information on attempts to unionize logging in the Northwest, see Robbins. According to him, the IWW became active in Oregon in 1911, but the loggers of Coos Bay

. . . didn't believe that a band of idle braggarts should be permitted to duplicate on Coos Bay the disaster that has followed in their wake wherever they had been permitted to obtain a foothold. The IWW threatened the legitimate enterprise. . . were industrial perverts. . . and threatened the community. . . . the IWW closed only one logging camp and the strike danger passed within a week. (1988:139-52)

Chapter III

1. According to Bond, fieldnotes should have at least two sets of qualities: they possess attributes of both written texts and discourse (1990:273). In my early days in the field, neither seems to be true. I was merely trying to survive. There was little "security and concreteness." However, they did have a shorthand sense to them, the aides-memoire which were very personal. They were based on very human experiences.

2. Here are examples of the early notes that were taken in the field. Orofino, Idaho, May 4, 1990:

I've been scared for a week with sleepless nights and sweaty dreams. A great obligation and I know that studying small communities is not without its problems. How to talk to them, how to get the proper

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data. How to be invisible. How to keep contact and my own counsel yet be the center of attention. If I hadn't been here so often they wouldn't trust me. I know I need to go slowly and appreciate the rigors of other people's fieldwork. Mine will be easy— no that's not true, all fieldwork is difficult. My thinking must be rigorous. I won't suffer physically. Life in Orofino may seem ordinary but I'll be looking for clues to art and work.

Orofino, Idaho, June 12, 1990:

As I look back on my fieldnotes. I'm stunned to see "Facts I know about logging" followed by a blank page. I didn't even know what to ask about logging. Later I discovered that in Orofino the best way to get at information from loggers was through their technology and work. Everything else, social relationships, values, and feelings evolve from a job well done. During a visit to Orofino I had seen the Potlatch crew prepare the showload of logs for the Fair and Lumberjack Days. It was an exciting sight. The loader, truck driver, and sawyers were the best in the woods. There were no errors, no slip-ups, or problems with the load. In fact, this experience prompted me to contact Kingsley Steinbruecker for information about the art of the sawyer. With him was a partner a young man, thirty-six years old. Bill Stephenson, a likeable fellow and himself an excellent sawyer. He, too, was one of those woodsmen who make no excuses for their work. They do a good job, every day of their lives. For Bill, life was short. During my visit in November, he was killed in the woods. I found out about it at the Ponderosa and again from another logger who found out about it at the barber shop. Both were in town that day trying to learn more about Bill's death. The Clearwater Tribune is a weekly and not due until the following Thursday, so there was little chance to find out about his death or the details of a memorial other than through word-of- mouth. The Spokane television station mentioned it because Bill was a sawyer for Potlatch. Finally the Orofino radio station announced the memorial service for Saturday. Again, as had happened so often during my time in the field, I didn't know what to do. Should I attend the funeral? I had met Bill once; I knew his partner and others who knew him. But if I attended, it might seem as if I were going to observe the mourners and

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not pay my respects. To you, the reader, I apologize, for there will never be a report of the funeral. I could not balance the sorrow with this profession of anthropology. I could not sincerely attend, and so I've left a gap in this work. You may think it is critical to this dissertation to include a funeral, but I couldn't justify attending. I was able to specdc to others about the circumstances; killed by a falling snag, probably died instantly, left a wife and three young children, but I could not, in good conscience attend the funeral. It was too close, too intimate, too much a part of the community's life. If I attended I felt they would wonder about my intentions. It may have taken away from the mourning and thrown it into a time to be observed. From the little I knew about Bill, but with the respect I felt for him and his death in the woods, it was impossible to attend the funeral. (Incomplete, November 30, 1990)

This was an instance of questions of the role of the anthropologist in both the experiencing and writing of an ethnography.

3. Sanjek (1990:111) also mentioned that letters can be important, for they "allow the ethnographer to try out descriptions and syntheses in an informal fashion.

4. The common grammatical construction in this region is to drop the article "a" when talking about driving a truck.

5. In the nation's capital we're accused of talking "D.C. Speak," that language that makes facts illusive and reality ephemeral. To us and to a goodly portion of America, this guarded, non-communication is a way to protect ourselves, if not the truth. A result of this practice is that the profession of information holding and selling has developed. As Lucy Lippard, one of the country's major marketing consultants says, "Understanding is a consumer product. We make money off of it." NBC Todav Show. June 13, 1990.

6. McCarl (1978:170) saw these discussions of work techniques as an important part of the formal and informal sharing. He says

Collectively, this set of expectations form the canon of technique performance. The technology, labor

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force, or even the desired product may change, but the learned responses to anticipated circumstances will be reinforced by the collective experiences and practices of the group. . . . Examination of the critical canon on which technique performance is judged provides a means by which to evaluate occupational competence and understand the structure and behavior of the workplace.

7. Setting agriculture in a statewide perspective,

Idaho farms and ranches employed approximately 61,000 persons and sold over two billion dollars worth of commodities in Idaho in 1986. When recognition is given to the manufacturing value added from food processing, agriculture easily becomes the leading contributor to the state's gross product. (Mika, Duncombe, Holden, and Poinelli 1987:11, no page numbers)

8 .

The purpose of the county extension program is to supply educational information and assistance concerning agriculture, home economics, 4-H Club work, and related fields. It is a cooperative program involving the United States Department of Agriculture, the University of Idaho and county governments. Idaho counties are authorized by state law to appropriate funds for demonstration work in agriculture, home economics, and related subjects (31-826 and 31-839). The federal and the state governments also pay part of these programs. (Mika, Duncombe, Holden, and Poinelli 1987:11, no page numbers)

In all states the land grant colleges or universities are given, as one of their responsibilities through the Cooperative Extension Service, the coordination of county and/or state fairs. In actuality, the county commissioners appoint a volunteer Fair Board (5-7 men and women representing areas of the county) that administers the fair. Funding for the fair is provided in Idaho through tax levy. A maximum levy is set for management and operation, and an additional levy can be obtained for buildings. (Personal communication, letter from Becky Dahl, Extension Home Economist,

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Dahl, Extension Home Economist, Cooperative Extension Service, University of Idaho, May 28, 1982)

10. There was no comprehensive statement about the 1990 graduating class of Orofino High School, but perhaps a review of information from a neighboring community will add to the understanding of the career plans of youth in the region. Clearwater Valley High School and Kamiah High School graduates appear to have followed much the same themes and aspirations. Class mottoes both looked at the time span of their short lives as well as the relationships they had developed. "We came together as strangers to leave as eternal friends" (Clearwater Valley High School) and "Through good and bad experiences. We've shared laughter and tears. Time will never erase the memories we have shared" (Kamiah High School). Most students chose technical, non-academic courses that were vocationally oriented at nearby schools. Three to Whitworth College (pre-physical therapy, physical education, refrigeration and air conditioning), two to Master's College (physical education and elementary education), one to North Idaho (communications), one to University of Montana (broadcast journalism), two to Boise State (dental hygiene and para-legal), one to Idaho State University (automotive engineering), five to Lewis and Clark State College (computer science, nursing, public relations, elementary education, and ranch management), one to Pierce College (veterinary technology), two to Brigham Young (dental hygiene and engineering). Few chose high status occupations. One male had career plans to go to UCLA and become a judge; one female intended to go to the University of Idaho to become a scientist. But all in all, it was as if Eastern universities like Harvard, Yale, or Princeton did not exist. These young people view their economic futures in skilled and unskilled jobs. They will be part of the working class, with few in white collar jobs. There was no mention of English, foreign languages, social, political, or natural sciences in their career plans. Liberal arts was not mentioned as a curriculum choice, and careers focusing on physical activity instead of white collar occupations predominated. I believe that the graduating classes in these schools parallel the aspiration and futures of Orofino High School students. If these students follow the pattern I observed in Clearwater County's adult population, they will have several part-time jobs simultaneously in order to support themselves and their families (Horizons for the Future:

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High School Graduate Review," The Clearwater Progress. Wednesday, 23 May 1990).

11. The educational goals of the county according to the Idaho Manual for Commissioners is.

To awaken and nourish in each individual an enthusiasm for inquiry. To help each student appreciate and understand himself and others. Academic achievement is of limited significance if not integrated with knowledge of self and development of values. Sensitivity is essential, as is recognition of other points of view. The curriculum should acquaint the student with his heritage, make him aware of the great issues, and prepare him for modern life.

12. In the November, 1990 elections in Clearwater County, Democrats received 75 percent of all votes that were cast. The Democratic candidate for state representative ran uncontested. In the race for governor. Democratic incumbent Cecil Andrus received 876 votes, while all the Republican candidates received a total of 374 votes. Even though a Republican won the Senate seat by statewide election, in Clearwater County Republican candidates received a total of 393, votes whereas Democratic candidates received 776 votes.

13. A basic summary of land tenure is provided in the manual for commissioners. Of the 21 million acres in Idaho, over 3.8 million acres is wilderness. 6.5 million acres are roadless, 10.7 million acres are for multiple use and 9 million acres are commercial forest land (43 percent). Many timber-related organizations feel that Idaho is actually federally owned. Thirty-one percent of Idaho's national forests are roadless (Mika, Duncombe, Holden and Poinelli (1987:no page numbers).

14. Further information on county governance is provided in the Manual (13-14). A three-member board of county commissioners is the governing body in each Idaho county. Two county commissioners are elected each biennium— one for a two-year term and one for a four-year term. This constitutional provision insures that there will be at least one commissioner with two years of prior experience in office. Executive powers granted commissioners include: appoint some county employees and member of county boards and commissions. Examine and allow all legitimate expenses, issue administrative orders, set salaries for county elective officials not set by law, supervise county officials, establish new services

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provided by law, contract and authorize purchases, issue permits, and licenses as authorized by law.

15. The Clearwater Resource Coalition is a non profit corporation whose objective is the education of the public related to the use of publicly owned lands and their management. The corporation is dedicated to "multi- use" management and the conservation of streams, wildlife, and fisheries, while at the same time, beneficially using our renewable natural resources. Further dedication is given to professional management of our public lands to give the greatest good to the largest number of people over time (taken from a brochure of the CLEARWATER RESOURCE COALITION, BOX 1946, Orofino, Idaho). There is some thought that the Coalition may be building the strongest group in the area, so much so that it may eclipse other lobbying groups for timber management.

16. According to a community assessment document, the area is described as follows: located in North Central Idaho within the Clearwater National Forest and in easy reach of Selway Bitterroot Wilderness Area. Orofino is the county seat, approximately 5,200 inhabitants in city limits and outlying areas. Major product is timber, but also agricultural crops including grains and lentils.

17. As suggested by Father Mike, Orofino and the surrounding area has a plethora of "Protestant" churches, many of which are categorized by him as fundamentalist. These include: Assembly of God, Weippe; Riverside Assembly of God, Orofino; First Baptist Church, Orofino; Orofino Tabernacle, Orofino; First Christian Church of God, Orofino; Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Orofino; Bethel New Covenant Church, Pierce; Ahsahka Full Gospel Fellowship, Ahasahka; Jehovah's Witnesses, Orofino; Ascension Lutheran Church, Orofino; Faith Lutheran Church, Pierce; United Church of the Nazarene, Pierce; Riverside Faith Chapel Pentecostal Church of God, Orofino; Weippe Memorial Wesleyan Church, Weippe; Pentecostal Church of God, Orofino; Cream Ridge United Brethren Church, Cream Ridge.

18. Many West Virginians migrated to Orofino as loggers. Emmett Bonner, who died in May, 1990 at the age of eighty-six worked, in logging for Leonard Cardiff and Mel Snook. He retired in 1968. He also started a ministry in 1939. Currently, his son, Phillip, who is a sawyer, and daughter-in-law Jan minister to his congregation.

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1. Lavenda provides important insights into small town queen pageants in Minnesota (1988:168). He feels that they are about social class, achievement, community values, and femininity in the small town context. Organizers claim that these are not beauty contests, but according to Lavenda they do seek the young women who represent the community's daughters. These royalties form cohorts, and the candidates' families are almost as important as the candidates themselves. Although some of his findings do not correspond to my initial look at the Clearwater County Fair and Lumberjack Days choices, further research would be necessary in this area. I would agree that "The dead seriousness in Minnesota queen pageants is thus twofold: not only does who wins matter to a community's image of itself and what it stands for, it also matters that the candidates begin to learn to present well the skills for the world that they intend to enter" (174).

2. Alistair Cooke explains in his introduction to the Masterpiece Theater Program of the same name that "a piece of cake" was a slang word popularized by the Royal Air Force in World War II. Its meaning connotes a task that lies somewhere between a cinch and a pleasure, and it reflects the squadron's attitude toward the war at its outset (Pearson 1990:10).

3. A complete list of voluntary organizations is not available, but this partial list gives some sense of the magnitude of volunteerism: Orofino Chamber of Commerce, Orofino Progressive Merchants, Rotary, Kiwanis, Eagles, V.F.W. and V.F.W. Auxiliary, Odd Fellows, American Legion and American Legion Auxiliary, Clearwater Community Concert Association, Clearwater Senior Citizens Clubs, Boy Scouts and Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, Clearwater Historical Society, Orofino Gun Club, Bald Mountain Ski Club, Lolo Trail Muzzleloaders, Hangfire Muzzleloaders, Clearwater Riding Club, Orofino Golf Association, Clearwater Art Association, 4-H, AAUW, P.E.O., Beta Sigma Phi, Youth Baseball, Youth Swim Team.

4. According to Janet Kay1er, the special events in the annual cycle include: Old Fashioned Sunday, Lumberjack Days and Clearwater County Fair, Lewis and Clark Challenge Raft Race, Dworshak Lake Hydro Boat Races, Clearwater River Jet Boat Rally, Mid-Summer Cruz, Oktoberfest, and Patchwork Bazzar.

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An Interesting comparison to the efforts of Orofino in development can be found in the description by Robbins of attempts at Coos Bay, Oregon. "While Oregon's Economic Development Commission chases the high-tech mirage in an effort to boost the state's ailing economy, the Port of Coos Bay has been aggressively promoting the estuary as a staging area for offshore oil-drilling platforms and as a potential stopping place for 'Love Boat' cruises" (1988:170).

Chapter V

1. It is impossible to focus on all the prominent logging operations and individuals in logging in Clearwater County. However, in order to set the stage for the importance of the past on current logging and its effects on the concept of "work as art," I have included a chronology of prominent individuals in the appendix. The categories are my invention but verified by Tim and Sharon Barnett. In most eras, the logging contractors and mill owners were the most influential individuals in the development of the industry. It has been suggested by John Ward, Smithsonian Research volunteer and retired CEO of Caterpillar, that because of the strength of these independents, logging in Clearwater County could be sustained even if Potlatch, the large corporation, left the region. The independents have created a niche and a management system that is viable without the need for a Potlatch presence.

2. The reader will see a contrast between the recollections of these elders and the stories of "free wheeling hedonism" similar to that which Robbins (1988:54) saw when he tried to differentiate between the folklore and fiction that has embellished this way of life. He mentions also that women play an important role even in these early camps (1988:62).

3. This was a term applied to me on occasion. I believe it has a variety of meanings some of which include: a person who does not understand the incline, a tenderfoot, a person from the city, or even a non- Westerner. This designation would be an interesting beginning for future investigation.

4. Plath's suggestion is that we look at convoys— the unique clusters of intimates who sojourn with one another through a particular phase of life (1980:15). It applies here. Frequently in my conversations with the

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elders, they would refer to others in their "convoy" as having information that I should pursue. Likewise Plath's definition of the perduring self-image as major guides by which one steers one's personal course, seemed to derive from a commonly held sense of what logging and loggers had been and should be. Throughout this chapter the sense of a convoy being "that group delegated to sponsor one person's maturation and aging" seems to be apparent.

5. Joy's view demonstrates the difference between Headquarters and what Peterson describes as logging camps:

Logging camps were usually temporary bunkhouses or railcars set up at the end of a railroad spur for a year or two until all nearby timber had been cut and hauled away to the mills. Timber company officials hated to invest heavily in such quarters, which generally housed a highly transient work force. Lumberjacks labored in all types of conditions, returning to camps that had no bathing facilities, piling into overcrowded sleeping quarters where the stench from sweat, steam, smoke, and tobacco juice mingled nauseatingly. (1987:159)

Perhaps Headquarters was an enlightened experience; perhaps it was Potlatch's way of insuring a productive workforce at a time when homesteading resulted in stability as well as access to additional lands.

6. Peterson provides an excellent study of Potlatch, another company town in this region that was the site of an important sawmill. He points to the change in corporate attitude.

First, ideal working men should be married. Family men were considered more stable than bachelors and would help eliminate the transiency that often plagued lumber companies. Realizing that their large work force would require some bachelors. Potlatch officials built a number of boarding houses for them. But bachelors were the last hired, first fired. (1987:118)

7. Peterson (1987:145) reinforces this "employee- only" habitation pattern:

Another characteristic distinguished Potlatch as much as anything from the surrounding towns. With the exception of parents living with their children, there were few old people or widows there. If a man died or

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became too ill or disabled to work, the family was asked to leave in order to open up housing for employees. Similarly, the company forced retirees to leave. Management was not uncaring and provided as much time as possible for people to vacate.

Many families from Headquarters eventually settled in Lewiston, a town of approximately 14,000, which is today the site of the large Potlach mill and paper producing facility.

8. This is a good example of the function of the elder loggers' "convoy."

9. For an excellent description of the distinction between the cowboy and the rancher, one that is similar to the distinction between the bachelor lumberjack and these loggers, see Stoelje (1987).

10. This is a stark contrast to the image the lumberjack that Peterson documents.

Lumbering and hard drinking; the words evoke pictures that seem uncomfortably compatible, conjuring a stereotype. The stereotype is based upon the unfortunate fact— visions of lumberjacks 'blowing in' after long months in isolated logging camps. Though the image is at times overdrawn, alcohol did curse the lumber industry, frequently causing absenteeism or tardiness and reducing productivity." (1989:83)

Several vignettes in this dissertation speak of this fact, but many lives like that of Mel Snook, who does not drink, contradict this image.

11. According to Curtis (1983:77-78):

The Clearwater County timber strike occurred between June 29 and August 24, 1936, when the IWW (sometimes called the Wobblies) dealt a blow to the Potlatch Company and the company's contractors. Frank Fromelt, a Potlatch logging contractor, had an operation on Poor Mans Creek. . . Traffic was stopped at the point along Grangemont Road, where workers turned to go to Frank Fromelt's camp. . . The strikers soon became very difficult to get along with. . . The county sheriff was called up to protect the public and assure safety for the citizens. . . The Governor quickly summoned the Idaho State Police to the strike-torn area to bring law and order back to the region. . .

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In telling this story, there is one outstanding situation that should be mentioned. Fromelt was a fine contractor; he fed his men well and accommodations were as good as could be found in the woods. He always attracted fine men who worked seemingly much better than company crews of other contractors. He was a model contractor.

This opinion of Frank Fromelt was reinforced on numerous occasions. For example Darlene Lee in The Loader operator's Art. speaks of his fine character. Peterson (1987:159) also describes the IWW activities in this region.

The 100 percent patriotism demonstrated at Potlatch (the town) and elsewhere solidified the nation behind the war effort. But as is often the case during such displays of unquestioning loyalty, it also unleashed a hysteria that compromised the civil rights of many. In some parts of the country people ridiculed and sometimes attacked German-Americans and virtually banned German music, food, and customs. In Potlatch, nativism took another bent, a fear that socialists, in the guise of the Industrial Workers of the World— or Wobblies— might sabotage the war effort.

12. The Clearwater Historical Society has a series of interviews that contribute specific information on the actual work in the woods.

Well, tell you how that went. I used to cut lots of logs. You'd put your saw over your shoulder and have an ax and a hammer and some wedges in your pocket and an oil bottle for oil to put on the saw to cut through the pitch. You'd go over to a tree and you'd cut the tree down, trim the limbs off of it, measure out and mark it, take your fiddle (cross-cut saw) and start cutting the logs. Then come [sic] the skidders, they called him a swamper. He chopped the trails in so that the feller with the teams skidding them could go in there and hook on to them and take them out. So that's the swamper and the skidder and they'd skid them out where either they loaded them on the sled or wagon and later on, loaded them on trucks. Then they hauled them out. (Clearwater Historical Society interview transcripts, mimeo)

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13. Curtis offers information on cruisers:

Many cruisers travel along with their compass man and the job is very lonesome in some cases. Cruising parties where several work together is better. In most cases, they take with them only the bare necessities of life, since their journey into the forest is often time consuming. Cruising is an old art, but has changed in recent years to new procedures. Many boys going to college taking Forestry know about air photo work and the interpretation of volume and species, but they have a hard time understanding the terrain under the full canopy. Another thing, the new and faster art does not compare with an on-site inspection to determine the rot in trees, shake, disease, and other imperfect trees. They also fail to know the perils that they must work with in their profession. (Curtis 1983:126- 7). 14. The logging industry does have icons. During my visit with Bob, I saw the importance given to the flumes, peavey, and the sharpening shed. I would assume that these objects and others that demonstrate the technological developments of logging will receive places of prominence in the museum.

Chapter VI

1. In conversation with loggers, there were many who felt that retirement was not an option for the future, (Leach, Bruce McLaughlin, Dale Richardson). This "work till they die" attitude has also been documented in newspaper articles.

Wesley Henderson, his balding head void of its hard hat for the moment, is sipping coffee in the driver's seat of the company man-haul (six-passenger pickup truck). He waits, as loggers for the better part of a century have waited for morning light. At sixty-one, he entertains no idea of retiring. "I told them [company bosses] the other day, not until they kick me out." Henderson's father. Art was a logger. So are his sons, Jon and Steve. At least one grandson at the age of twelve, talks like the tradition may span a fourth generation. (Lewiston Tribune Special Centennial Supplement 9:30:90).

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2. Federated Women in Timber founded in 1979, is a network association of members of Women in Timber groups from Alaska, California, Idcdio, Montana, Oregon, and Washington. Texas, Louisiana, Maine, Wisconsin, Utedi, Wyoming, and British Columbian women are also interested in forming groups. State groups have formed independently over the last then years as an answer to perceived needs for an organization to speak for a balance in uses of the forest resources— balance that would include a healthy environment and healthy timber industry.

3. Peterson describes the opening of the sawmill at Potlatch, Idaho (1982:72-74).

Chapter VII

1. The following is an extensive list of sources that both clarified and complicated the definition of work as art in this dissertation. Collingwood summed up aesthetic theory as: "Theoretically, the artist is a person who comes to know himself, to know his emotion. This is also knowing his world, that is, the sights and sounds and so forth which together make up his total imaginative experience" (1938:291). Marcuse speaks of the Marxist aesthetic— art as ideology and the emphasis on the class character of art, the connection between art and the material base, and its relationship to social class. According to this aesthetic, the only authentic, true progressive art is the art of the ascending class, its political, revolutional content and its artistic aesthetic quality tend to coincide. The artist is obliged to express the interests and needs of the proletariat. A declining class produces decadent art and realism is the only correct art form (1978:520). Geertz adds to the sense of the difficulty of looking at art (1983:94): "Art is notoriously hard to talk about."

. . .not only is hard to talk about it; it seems unnecessary to do so. it speaks, as we say for itself....but instead of silence...we erect theories about creativity, form, perception, social function; we characterize art as a language, a structure, a system, an act, a symbol, a pattern of feeling; we reach for scientific metaphors, spiritual ones, technological ones, political ones; and if all else

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fails we string dark sayings together and hope someone else will elucidate them for us. (1983:94)

. . . some people have managed to convince themselves that technical talk about art, however developed, is sufficient to a complete understanding of it; that the whole secret of aesthetic power is located in the formal relations among sounds, images, volumes, themes or gestures. (1983:94) What this implies, among other things, is that the definition of art in any society is never wholly intra-aesthetic, and indeed but rarely more than marginally so. . . The chief problem presented by the sheer phenomenon of aesthetic force, in whatever form and in result of whatever skill it may come, is how to place it within the other modes of social activity, how to incorporate it into the texture of a particular pattern of life. And such placing, the giving to art objects a cultural significance, is always a local matter. . . (1983:97)

Hauser, "Artistic experience is above all delight and sensual pleasure. . . The satisfaction created by the experience, the act of cooperative completion, the taking of inner possession of works of art" (1982:440). Stout:

I use the word "aesthetics" in its dictionary sense of referring to the branch of philosophy dealing with the beautiful, chiefly with respect to theories of the essential character of the beautiful and the tests by which the beautiful may be judged. In short, though the ethnographic literature contains much about the graphic and plastic art forms from many primitive societies, it yield little different information on what ideas of the members of these societies hold concerning beauty or aesthetic worth or the criteria by which they judge these forms." (1971:30)

Arthur Danto speaking on "Bookmark," May 9, 1990, said that art has already come to its end and that it would be a relief if artists would stop thinking of themselves as making history. Art has turned onto itself and artists do not create they theorize. At least 60 percent of what is in contemporary art museums is not art, that the motives for doing art are dead. Sieber says.

It is necessary also to be careful in our use of the term aesthetics which carried a great deal of associated baggage in our culture. The literal

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meaning, the perception of the beautiful and tasteful, is often based on the arts of the Greeks, and that perception is carried as the canon for all works of art anywhere and anytime. If we avoid Western cultural prejudices associated with the term and focus on the response to the object, it may be possible to get close to an understanding of aesthetics, and indeed, to see if there are universels involved. (1971:14-19)

2. Although the term "affecting presence" has not been used extensively in the text, I believe that it is central to understanding what happened in several of the vignettes, especially Lessons on a Ridae. Armstrong (1975:11) says:

Aesthetics for the anthropologist is best defined as the theory or study of form incarnating feeling, not only love etc. . . but rather an unaccountable and basic fact of one's awareness about which one feels significantly. It depends on an adequate approach to culture, an approach that cannot be simply a reduction to functions and structures but must concern itself with experience. It is the affecting presence, the human act perpetually in action so that others, including its own creator might subsequently come to experience it.

Glassie seems to have been able to capture the sense of the affecting presence beautifully in Passing the Time at Ballvmenon. "In Ballymenone my task is to discover and record completely those rich and deep creations that correspond to Bob Armstrong's concept of affecting presence, then to site them within Dell Hymes' social model of performance, and then sit it within Estyn Evans' historical concept of geography" (1982:xvi).

3. Epiphany (Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary. Springfield, Mass: G & C. Meriam Company, 1977:385.)

4. I return the reader to the references cited in note one. These are but a fraction of the materials available on art and aesthetics from both the point of view of a Western perspective and one which is far more global.

5. The work of Abiodun (1990:63-90) in interpreting African art from the inside has had a substantial impact on this work. He says that the aesthetic consciousness must recognize the following: (1) that the artist walks

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with the elders and learns from their to be calm, sensitive, steadfast, and of gentle character; (2) beauty is not superficial physical appearance but deep essence; (3) it is control, stability, and composure manifest in mastery of self; (4) that the artist demonstrates qualities of poise, avoidance of force, grace, thoroughness, endurance and fulfillment; (5) this results in an inner eye an insight and understanding of form, color, substance, outline, rhythm and harmony; (6) that innovation must be appropriate to the meaning and function (7) that the mental and technical must come together in correctness and completeness of result; (8) that there must be sensitivity to the needs of the moment and ability to adapt and change, to be innovative and creative when it is appropriate; and (9) that there are lasting, unfading qualities and a genuineness that leaves little room for transient innovations and ephemeral beauty (1990:63-90).

6. I believe that it is similar to what Glassie found:

Happiness results when work produces objects of delight, when the gleaming dress and trim ridge-and- furrow grow out of necessary toil. 'In the towns, they used to style the countryman a hoker,' Mr. Nolan said, 'but the country man has to have a lot of skill' When that skill reflects back from bright and smooth, clean and fresh creations, a smile widens in the worker's breast. (1982:160)

7. On February 4, 1990, Kingsley Steinbruecker wrote the following to be given when he represented the logging industry at a public meeting.

Let us observe the Idaho logger. Look at him cut down the trees. Many folks think he is evil! He has grim, hard lines on his face, and callouses on his hands, and strides through the forest falling timber. He cuts down trees to make money. Money to feed his family— perhaps to raise sons to cut down more trees. Let me explain, so that you can understand, why the rugged Idaho logger might not be such an evil fellow after all. I don't have a degree if forestry. That's a fact. I don't have a degree in anything. I can, however, give you a couple of Idaho logger ideas, and let you weigh the evidence for yourself. First, if you get true old growth forest, you can't have a second growth. Duff builds up under the old trees and the seeds can't penetrate. The seeds

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have to have minerals, soils, air, and sunlight before they can grow. Old forests defeat all three essential ingredients, and there is no room for young trees to grow. At this point, there are two ways to make room for new growth. A. Cut down the old growth and use it for timber. B. Wait for nature to erase the entire forest by fire. Either way, the area comes back with browse, grass, and new growth forest. I firmly believe that the reason certain people think the Idaho logger is evil, is because these certain people are filled with fear. What is fear? In this situation my definition of fear is the "unknown." The fear that today's logger will gobble up the last tree in the world is justifiable for many people because they are not informed or in some cases, misinformed. Failure to communicate, failure to agree, failure to work together, and failure to separate the fallacies from the realities produces fear. Since the Idaho loggers' livelihood depends upon the quality and volume of their natural resources, why would we want to "exploit" this resource that our future depends on. In no uncertain terms does the Idaho logger want to be stripped of their heritage and their way of life. Have faith in the forest planning and reforestation programs that the Idaho foresters are implementing for they do have degrees and they do know what they are doing. —Kingsley Steinbruecker

Chapter VIII

1. According to Frank Manning (1983:7):

Celebrations begin to grapple with the essential problem of existence. They are performance, entertainment, offer events to publics without effective social exclusion. They are participatory and yet have "paradoxical ambiguity." They are significant as socio-cultural texts and play a role in the sociopolitical process while they demonstrate complex relationships of modernity and hierarchy.

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Definitions of festivals and their functions and organization are extensive. The following includes but a sample of these: Falassi (1987), a periodically recurrent, social occasion in which, through a multiplicity of forms and series of coordinated events, in which all members of a whole community participate. Both the social function and the symbolic meaning of the festival are closely related to a series of overt values that the community recognizes as essential to its ideology and worldview, to its social identity, its historical continuity, and to its physical survival, which is ultimately what festival celebrates. Their characteristics are that they are universal, dramatic, aesthetic, have meaning about history, involvement of natives. Can have renewal, reversal, intensification, trespassing, and abstinence. Abrahams (1982:171): But the vocabularies of celebration remain essentially the same, as do most of the motives. For when we gather together, we do so to bring out our best and to bring out our worst sometimes simultaneously. . . . We overextend ourselves, expecting that everybody else will, too, and without exciting any sense of obligation beyond the event. We rewrite the rules, giving special permission to turn things over, for we gain a new power of action by wearing beggar's rags or regal robes. Either way, we win. Grimes (1982) celebration is social and metaphysical fiction, question about reality are irrelevant. It is a mode of embracing the past that draws the future and past into itself. MacAloon in contrasting festival with spectacle says: Festival is gay, merry, lighthearted, joyous, time to celebrated marked by special observances, balanced and in harmony with traditions, actors and spectators are less distinguished, protects symbols and allows little formal patronage. Spectacle is a choice, primarily visual, sensory and symbolic codes, things to be seen grand and impressive on an epic scale. It institutes roles of actors and audience. It may be grandiloquent and alluring but may merit suspicion and invites caution because epics may be mere images to be admired but can be deceiving (1984).

2. O.C.I. has maintained records of the Fair and Lumberjack Festival sporadically throughout the past forty years. The results of competitions and auction sales are also published in the Clearwater Tribune. These may be the source of important historical information concerning

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the population and its spending patterns through the years. It also may provide information concerning the themes for the parade that may provide clues to the preoccupation of the community during specific times in its history. For example: 1957— "Let's Complete the Lewis-Clark Highway," 1958— "Clearwater— The County Nature Smiled Upon," 1959— "Let's Develop our Resources," 1966— "Today's Resources, Tomorrow's Wealth," and 1967— "Twenty Years— The Jack's Still King." O.C.I. has invented a tradition as would be defined by Hobsbawm (1983:1)

Invented tradition is taken to mean a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behavior by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past. . . Invented traditions, it is assumed here, is essentially a process of formalization and ritualization characterized by reference to the past, if only by imposing repetition.

Chapter IX

1. I want to show that, in fact, Geertz's belief that coauthorship is impossible has been tested here. He claims.

The burden of authorship cannot be evaded, however heavy it may have grown; there is no possibility of displacing it onto "method" "language" or (especially popular at the moment) "the people themselves redescribed (appropriated is probably the better term) as co-authors. . ." Responsibility for ethnography, or the credit, can be placed at no other door than that of the romancers who have dreamt it up. (1988:140)

In other words, I want to prove that coauthorship is possible, and I will ask the people that I have written with to evaluate this work. This will be done not on the basis of if they like the work, but if it is the way they would have written it. Feld has tried a similar practice with his Kaluli material (1937:190). Yet I am not satisfied with the possibility of "a third voice," the coalescing of the insider and outsider as has been suggested by Myerhoff. For me, this causes problems because the third voice seems unconnected to a human person and coming totally from an unknown source.

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2. Berger (1964:211-222) provides interesting observations on the problem of work as has resulted from the Industrial Revolution and the secularization of tha concept of vocation. The logger as well as several occupations that have been studied more recently seem to show that there still exists the intertwining of life and work (Agar 1986), (Applebaum 1981), and (McCarl 1985) as well as a closer relationship and pride of tying one to one's occupation.

3. Throughout the writing process I have been aware that this is an experimental attempt. Yet I had the conviction that instead of a réévaluation of other techniques of this sort it was the coauthorship that should be the focus of the writing. I was heartened to find the following comment:

Once we are home, however, the scales tilt overwhelmingly in one direction. The commitments we have made to people in our field community are subjected to intense if contradictory competition with commitments to our professional community, which for most of us exerts a more persistent influence. (Lederman 1990:89)

I hope that I will be able to maintain strength with the rest of us.

4. I believe that my path in constructing this ethnography has been explained throughout the dissertation in a way similar to that suggested by Sanjek. "The ethnographer's path in ethnographic research is an intensely personal experience for the fieldworker. It is significant for ethnographic validity." I have explained the way in which social networks were formed and the way in which key coauthors were chosen. I have done as Sanjek suggests, "as a measuring stick of ethnographic validity, accounts of an ethnographer's fieldwork path should be incorporated in ethnographic writing" (1990:398).

5. Lederman (1990:82) states that a written ethnography is not just a summary of selection of "what's in the notes." The point of ethnography is not, after all, to describe one's fieldnotes or reconstitute the anthropologist's day through chronological collation of notes but rather to enable one's audience to understand something of interest about the corner of the world they have not experienced directly themselves.

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6. I would hope that this dissertation is only the beginning of work with the loggers and the community of Orofino and that mine could be like the work suggested by Plath,

Fieldwork is the outward manifestation of an inward pledge that most of us make to continue striving to understand a particular people or region or issue, or all of the above. Fieldwork is tears and sweat of effort sustained. (Plath 1990:374)

7. Because I believe that the notes taken during work with Orofinoans and loggers were so critical, it was difficult for me to believe that, "notes can defamiliarize our knowledge of the field, and perhaps that is one reason why they disturb us so much, why some of us avoid using our notes when we write" (Lederman 1990:89).

8. Although I have not concentrated on an explanation of fieldnotes, I would say that those I gathered and used for this dissertation had the qualities noted by Bond.

What are fieldnotes? Fieldnotes have at least two sets of qualities; they possess attributes of both written texts and discourses. They appear to have the security and concreteness that writing lends to observations and as written text they would seem to be permanent, immutable records of some past occurrence, possessing the stamp of authority of an expected professional procedure. But there is that personal, parochial, subjective, indefinable quality about them. They are shorthand statements aides-memoire that stimulate the re-creation the renewal of things past. For the fieldworkers, fieldnotes stimulate and are part of human experiences. (1990:273)

9. Turner (1986:33) says:

Of all the human sciences and studies, anthropology is most deeply rooted in the social and subjective experience of the inquirer. . . Experience is not only sense but feelings, expectations, reflections— helps us see life lived— reality.

This has been a consuming concern throughout the writing of this dissertation.

10. I believe what I have done is ethnography, "not novels, not plays, not journalism. They are to be

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evaluated by different canons. They are ethnography, and made from fieldnotes," (Sanjek 1990:412). The fieldwork and fieldnotes are continuously arising as the source of information for this dissertation.

11. Tyler (1986:138) states that "experience only becomes experience in the writing of ethnography." I found this to be true when I examined the notes taken during interviews. The statements that I recorded fell into two categories, "quotable quotes," or as named by Richard Bauman "reported discourse" (personal communication with Beverly Stoelje, 28 January 1990) and background information. These were turned into the vignettes. I would agree with Tyler that it was only after I was able to see the notes in the perspective of a theme, such as "logging is an industry of educated guessers," that the experience of talking with the oldtimers made sense. It was in the writing, the putting together of background and quotes that I was able to concentrate on the meaning of our luncheon conversation. Bauman, himself defines it somewhat differently (1986:1140) as "reported speech, the dynamics of expressive lying and fabrication, the forms and functions of metanarration and the poetics of performance all as keys to elucidating the devices and processes by which narrated events, narrative texts are inexplicably linked."

12. Throughout the writing of this dissertation I was concerned with the reliability of the data. Sanjek (1990:385-418) examines this problem in great detail.

Interpretationists hold no brief for reliability; what one sees is what you get. Scientists of the hypothesis testing experimental mold, however, are preoccupied with reliability, the repeatability including interpersonal replicability of scientific observations. We want to be certain that other investigators performing the experiment or test get the same results . . . in ethnography "reliability" verges on affectation. We cannot expect and do not hope that another investigator will repeat the fieldwork and confirm the results before they are published. Reliability is flashed to show the integrity or ingenuity of research design, it is not meant as an invitation to go to "my village" and do it over again.

13. Marcus and Fischer (1986:163) suggest that a stronger sense of tying author and subjects should be established. They cite the work of Glassie (1982) when he

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looks at the problem of writing both for his rustic, yet literate subjects and for a wider readership. They say, "Writing single texts with multiple voices exposed within them, as well as with multiple readerships explicitly in mind, is perhaps the sharpest spur to the contemporary experimental impulse in anthropological writing, both as ethnography and cultural critique."

14. This work has been based on a belief that was reinforced by Sanjek,

All roads lead to a return to ethnography in the 1990s. . . If the theoretical movements of the 1960s and 1970s undervalued ethnography, the ethnography of the 70s and 80s absorbs but often underplays those theoretical movements. Theory informs; it need not be worn on one's sleeve.

15. I share with Glassie (1982:xiii) both the following sentiment as well as the technique.

I owe my teachers, the people of Ballymenone, honesty and accuracy. I let their creations stand as they shaped them, but I accept more than their words and the work of their hands. I begin my tale with their categories, with night and day, ceiling and farming, home, clay, moss, bog, talk, cat, and story, then push beyond, following their modes of reasoning to propose their world for contemplation within our own."

The loggers and community live the "incline" "reciprocity", and "history on the landscape." I in turn gave these categories that they live, labels.

16. Bauman (1986:112) has attempted to take story, performance, and event and: "These are the cornerstones on which I have endeavored to construct a framework tying together narrated events, narrative texts, and narrative events, as part of a larger concern with the constitutive role of discourse in social life." I have not applied the rigorous analysis to these elements that he might suggest, but I have been aware of the elements he mentions in my interactions with loggers and the people of Orofino. He also feels that "recent critical theory, for example, with the waning of structuralism, has begun to mount a double attack on the autonomous narrative text, recontextualizing it from the vantage point of both author and reader." This is what I have tried to provide in this text with the added complication of the voice of the community as

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holding authorship in the written text by virtue of their control of the event we shared together.

17. Agar (1986), Swiderski (1986), Wallace (1978), McCarl (1978), and Applebaum (1981) have studied occupational groups and added a variety of important thoughts to this work. For my purpose here, the work of Agar is most noteworthy. Agar (1986:11) proposes that his book is "to learn the texture of the independent truckers' working world from the point of view of those who occupy it." From this he finds a fundamental contradiction that of independence versus control.

18. One of the important characteristics of life in this region that was pointed out to me by Carla Laws, who is now a real estate agent but comes from a logging family, is that.

You're not caught in this lifestyle. You are not stuck here; if you want to leave you can. You are here, in this region because you want to be, even though there may be jobs in other places. You are here because you like it.

This was reinforced by Sharon Barnett who, when she read the draft of this dissertation, wrote, "Can't believe you can find that much to say about our little realm in the huge world. Even reading about it makes me want to live here." Carla added to her description by saying that "in this county, they take care of what is wrong; no government intervention will clear up a problem here, they must do it themselves." Using the example of her teenage daughter's visit to San Francisco and her first contact with street people, Carla said that perhaps this sense of self-determination makes people here a bit insensitive. They can't believe that people don't take care of themselves. This may be a physically demanding area in which to live, but according to Carla, "People like living here. And you can't think negatively, because if you do, you'll winterkill."

19. Riley, believing that the infrequent studies of western women lacked depth, has tried to provide both an analysis of the tales about these women as well as a more logical point to investigate these women's attitudes. This work which examines the migration of the frontier women is based on primary documents kept during their travels.

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20. I have tried to avoid the type of reductionism that Plath mentioned (1990:383). "What about some of the new cults of analysis such as textualism? As I understand its proponents, they want to reduce culture to recorded utterances (textualization) and anthropology to "literary therapy (Marcus 1986, "Afterword" in Writing Culture 1986:264-66). Instead I follow Glassie in believing that (1986:14):

Ethnography is interaction, collaboration. What it demands is not hypotheses, which may unnaturally close study down, obscuring the integrity of the other, but the ability to converse intimately. It is vain to attempt ethnography without a knowledge of the language of daily life, and I expect much fancy theorizing about "unconscious mind" to be but compensation for an inability to ask and have answered a complicated question.

21. Richard Bauman is currently investigating "reported speech" or what I have seen as quotable quotes. His work may be of significance to this study in the future (personal communication with Beverly Stoelje, January 27, 1991).

22. The work of Marjorie Shostak provides an important early example of the way in which the life history approach was reinterpreted to allow the voices of both the person who lived that life and the anthropologist. The intensity of her relationship with Nisa shows clearly in the study and yet does not overpower the teller of a life. However, Pratt's appraisal of this work is that

by introducing Nisa to us clad in a dress and selling her talents on the anthropological free market, Shostak repudiates the image of the pure primitive so often associated with the iKung. Yet it is ultimately that image of the primitive that motivates Shostak's inquiry. (1986:48)

Pratt sets the inquiry less in the experiment in literary representation it attempted and more in the context of the discipline. Perhaps we are seeing instead the preoccupation of the Harvard group, "in the context of the American counterculture of the 1960s many of whose social ideals seem to realize themselves in !Kung, and on the other hand, in the context of the expansion of the biological, 'hard science' sector of anthropology that has made Harvard the center for sociobiology in the 1980s." I

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found this an interesting way of looking at the discipline from the outside and commenting on how the study was motivated and the analysis of the analyst.

23. Francis L. K. Hsu provides a brief summary of early community studies (1969:14). He places them in the context of looking at segments in larger national units. At the time of this writing, community study referred to investigations of small, geographically discrete, rural settlements. His principal examples are the work of Alan Beals in an Indian village and his caution that typicality is not the goal. He cites Robert Redfield, who saw that they would have significance to understanding literate civilizations. Redfield concentrated on the way in which the average village, that was changing, used the acquisition of urban characteristics as a measure of what was happening in Mexican culture. Leach's work in Ceylon is cited for its contribution in recognizing the need for different techniques of investigation. Finally, Hsu sees Wolf's contribution as work on the relationship between informal groups and larger societal organizations. Warner (1959) in The Living and the Dead: A Studv of the Svmbolic Life of Americans, investigated the meaning and functions of some of the symbols, political and historical in contemporary America. They investigated "time as a product of collective life," and concentrated on the Tercentenary parade of Yankee City to see how the symbols of the past took on representation by the collectivity. Henry (1974:9) provides an elaborate explanation of what he believes to be "national character," but in short form it is defined as,

a group of interrelated motivations, values and feelings prevailing among a people . . . not all the traits are assumed to be present in everyone, nor are they assumed to be present in the same strength. . .

Finally, the assumption that there is a bundle of shared character traits in a population which makes it possible for people to make reasonable predictions about each other does not deny the existence of those traits elsewhere, especially if the same cultural tradition is shared. Wolf (1974) feels that there have been three major phases of American anthropology in the last hundred years and that these correspond to the development of American society. He labels them the period of Capitalism Triumphant— from end of Civil War to 1980; Liberal Reform from 1980 to onset of World War II; and the present, what

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he said President Eisenhower called the "military- industrial complex." Varenne provides a somewhat different approach (1986:5).

This overview of the contribution of anthropology applies, in one way or another, to all anthropological work. What I offer here is the product of a general tradition and also an argument for the usefulness of a specific approach within this tradition. While there are many nuances of outlook among them, all those who contribute to this book start with the assumption that one can learn about human beings only in terms of their creative capacity for symbolizing. Symbolizing, as understood here, is the activity of transforming an object, an experience, a social encounter into "something else"— a word, a story, a myth. Symbolizing is an imaginative activity.

More recently, textbooks for undergraduates have concentrated on community studies and those which look at American culture. Spradley and Macready and Conrad Kottak offer good examples of the way in which the study of anthropology "at home" are being taught. Often, however, the groups that receive emphasis are both those that are outside the mainstream of middle class American life and those that concentrate on the mass media. Students are encouraged to used anthropological tools to gain a better understanding of the contemporary scene. Kottak used his interest in mass or "pop" culture to develop this a course in which field research was the main objective. The Cornell University series on "Anthropology of Contemporary Issues," provides a full range of community studies, those that concentrate on special segments as well as specific geographical regions of American society. Williams (1988) looks at a neighborhood of the most unlikely neighbors, a place in which African Americans from the Carolines and young upwardly mobile professionals inhabit the same space. In looking at the transformation of one neighborhood it provides a framework for seeing change that occurs as urban areas gentrify.

24. I have not been able to this point to move forward as Mills proposes, but I would hope that this would be possible as more people read this ethnography of logging.

If you write only in context of discovery you will be understood by very few people; moreover, you will tend to be quite subjective in your statements. To make

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whatever you think more objective, you must work in the context of presentation. At first you present your thought to yourself, which is often called thinking clearly. Then when you feel that you have it straight, you present it to others and often find that you have not made it clear. You will get new ideas as you work in the context of presentation. In short, it will become a new context of discovery, different from the original one, on a higher level I think because more socially objective. (Sanjek 1959:222)

I welcome the possibility of continuing through these levels in my work.

25. Paul Stoller made reference to the role Jean Rouch played in this community during his presentation in the "Representations: Visual Anthropology" conference. The American University, Washington, D.C. 27 January 1990. He noted also that Rouch practiced "participatory anthropolo^" staying in the field for many years, acknowledging his own ignorance and their wisdom and trying to make ethnography sensual, make it a shared anthropology that gave life to experience.

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