12 Finally a Logger, and Not Just a Logger's Son

The summer I turned nine was a memorable point in my life because this was the year my sister and I had just come home from the year of school spent with my grandparents at Mission. This was the first time my dad gave me the opportunity to work in the woods. My dad had struck out on his own, inviting my uncle Irwin and a friend of theirs Jim Lambert, to become his partners in a company that was to eventually be called “Bird Cove Logging”. This was driven from necessity as Forest Lambert the son-in-law of the Tanaka's, the family that had rescued our family from the brink of poverty, had forced the company into bankruptcy.  Forest had to take over the running of the camp when his in-laws were hauled off to a concentration camp in central BC, because they were of Japanese decent. Forest was a good man but not good at managing a logging company, and now Dad was without work.

Dad and his partners were able to locate an old steam donkey, which even then was obsolete. The old steam pot was still in running condition, and could it really haul, logs that is. The one major drawback this machine had was that it had a voracious appetite for wood. This kept one man busy with a power saw cutting firewood.

To say my dad made me cut wood for a steam donkey at eight years of age would not be telling the truth, but I do remember him giving me the handles of an old Mall power saw, and a monster it was, with a cutting blade about 5 feet long. I remember him starting the cut and them giving me the saw to hold. It just about rattled my teeth out, but it was enough to infect me with the wood virus and eventually I became one of the logger’s elite brigade, known as fallers.

Not only was I given a chance at running a power saw when I was only eight, but also my first job in the woods.  I was an eight year-old whistle-punk. The whistle-punk was the guy who relayed the signal from the chocker-man to the man running the steam donkey.  This was a very important job because if the signals were not given correctly, the “chocker-man” could get killed.  If the “chocker-man” hollered one “Hey” the whistle punk would jerk the wire once and if the “but-rigging” was stopped it would go but if going, it would stop.  The wire indirectly activated a horn that the “donkey-puncher” could hear. The pay was theoretically $1 per hour, but being the boss’s son was not always a good thing because getting paid was dependent on the availability of funds after all of the bills were paid. I do remember, however, of getting paid at least once as a kid and of buying myself a winter parka and presents for the rest of the family as it was Christmas time.

Steam donkey that Joy Lambert operated