Dad's Old Saw Mill

At my mother's funeral, my cousin, and oldest surviving male member of our family, asked if I remembered that portable sawmill my father
had built when we lived on the farm, along the Montreal River, in Gillies Depot just south of Cobalt, Ontario.

I told him I did, and as a matter of fact, recalled helping my father cut up the slabs that came off the logs and load them in our Ford half ton to deliver as firewood to folks in the Cobalt area. I was about 9 years old then. This was around 1955.

My father had a deal with the Silver Miller Mine in Cobalt (where he also worked as an underground miner) to supply track ties. A lot of the saw logs he used were hauled out of the Montreal River. I recall that he had a boom stretched clear across the river behind the farm.

In the beginning my father was pushing the log carriage into the saw by hand. Fearing the possible loss of a limb, he called his brother Art, a stationary engineer and asked if there was any way that he could rig up some way to power the carriage. Art came down from Kirkland Lake and had a look at it and together they worked some system out.

Anyways, after the funeral my brother Ted and myself took a drive to see if there was an evidence left of our family farm on what was called the Marsh Bay Road.

There was no sign of the old family farm house and barn – I suppose it was cleaned up 9 years or so ago when a new owner built a home on the land.
I hadn't been down in that area in 40 years and things had changed. My brother Ted was especially disappointed since he was born at the farm – a born at home baby.

Anyways, much to my surprise in one corner of the property, against a fence covered with vines and overgrown with tag alders, we spotted the old saw mill and the buzz saw. For some reason it was left. I suppose because it was in an area that was not being used.

I was overwhelmed. I couldn't believe it. It was weird - especially after having that talk with cousin just a few hours before. Every spot of red paint and my father’s ‘bubble gum’ welding brought back so any memories.

An Old Friend And A Haunted House

I was reading the local newspaper the other day and as I turned to the obituary page, my eyes fell on a notice announcing the passing of Bill. William C. Brown had been a lawyer in our community for almost 50 years. He was also a friend of mine and a real character.

He always had a story. One in particular stands out in my mind.

Being a lawyer, of course, Brown had his hand in a lot of things including real estate. For a time, while he was administering the estate he lived in the old McFadden mansion on the eastern outskirt of Blind River. It's on the edge of the North Channel and is really quite nice.

Anyways, Bill told me that the place was haunted by the spirit of McFadden who was a lumber baron during the glory days of Blind River. According to Bill, old man McFadden had been an accomplished piano player and would often entertain visitors with his playing. Bill said that while he lived there, he would hear the sounds of piano music and that, on occasion, he would see some sort of apparition, that he said looked like McFadden himself. The place is now the Anishnabie Naadmaagi Treatment Center.

I was writing for a newspaper at the time and Bill was so adamant about the voracity of his story that I took the risk of making a real ass of myself and called the treatment center. The manager told me that indeed, there were occasions when he and other members of the staff had heard piano music. He pointed out that the place did not have a piano. Unlike Brown, he had never seen an apparition, but told me that some people have claimed to have.

He knew that I worked for the newspaper, but was not reluctant to talk about it.

Anyways, a few days after the story appeared I received a call from the director of Elliot Lake Detox. He said that he had enjoyed my story on the McFadden 'haunting' and wanted me know that there were odd occurrences at his facility also. He told me that years ago, when the place was a bar they discovered the original owner in his home dead. It was never determined whether it was accidental or a suicide. I checked it out and sure enough that information was true. Anyways, He claimed that sometimes at night the staff would hear strange sounds coming through the ceiling. The sounds of heavy steps and thumping noises. He suspected that it might have been the spirit of the former owner unhappy with the present day function of the place. That story also appeared in the newspaper.

Later, the director told me that he had received a phone call from the Sister who was at the time the CEO of both the Elliot Lake St. Joseph's Hospital and the Oaks Treatment Center, directing him not to have any more conversations with, “that fellow from the newspaper”.

I will miss Bill. I was blessed to have known him.

I am not too sure where I got hold of this recipe. But it's proven to be the best batter recipe that I have ever used. It's virtually foolproof (should I say Tom proof?). Anyways I wanted to share it with anyone who may be interested. Incidentally, this goes well with any fish. I use it when deep frying mudpout, trout and pike.

3/8 c. Flour
1/8 c. Corn Starch
¼ tsp. Baking Powder
1/8 tsp. Baking Soda
1 Egg
½ tsp. Salt
½ c. Water
¼ tsp. Garlic powder
1 tsp. Parsley
½ tsp. Paprika.
Roll fillets in flour. Dip in batter mixture. Deep fry till brown.

Gord, a fishing buddy, has a somewhat strange sense of humor. He's a pretty good angler and was getting tired of folks asking him what kind of 'spoon' he used. He decided that he would take an ordinary kitchen variety teaspoon, drill a couple of holes in the appropriate places, attach a treble hook and pull it out when the next person asked that tired old question. Anyways, he threw it in his tackle box and one day while ice fishing, perhaps out of boredom, he attached it to his line and dropped it down the hole. Well, you can guess what happened. Gord started catching all sorts of Northern Pike. Well, one day while I was in the midst of a terrible fishing slump, he showed it to me. We had a good laugh and I shook my head and mentioned something about the vicissitudes of life and immediately after getting home began rummaging through my junk drawer looking for an old teaspoon. And that's the story behind how the 'Gordie Spoon'. It has a place in my tackle box and still manages to haul in some nice fish.

MY CAREER AS AN UNDERGROUND MINER

Denison Mines, Elliot Lake

I was employed at Denison Mines in Elliot Lake from 1978 to 1991. For most of those 13 years I worked at #1 shaft. When I first hired on I was a Dux truck driver on the service crew and one of only maybe a dozen guys who worked at 1 shaft who were company guys. The rest were contractors; CM , Powertel and Beaumier Construction. They were building the new conveyor system and my job was to haul rockbolts , screening and conveyor roller assemblies from the station to the job. I also hauled powder to the various magazines in the 1 shaft area.At that time my shift bosses were George Foy (now passed away) and Daryl and Brad Rogers. Later I worked for Jack McWilliams and others when I was the pipeman/pumpman. I was injured in a fall in the spill drive and spent a few months off. I then came back to work for Mike Murphy on the construction crew. Later I put in for, and got, a job as forklift operator at #2 shaft underground garage. after a while I decided that I’d try surface for a while and worked in the crusher for a while and then as dispatch clerk for Jake Seidel.

I took the voluntary layoff in 1991.



Rock Bolter

For the better part of the time that I worked at Denison I also worked part-time for the Elliot Lake Standard. I took the layoff and went to work for the paper fulltime. I was pretty active with the Steelworkers and was steward and then chief steward. I certainly wasn’t a pushover for the company – but I must say that during my career at Denison I was never ever given a hard time. I did get a warning slip (the only one I was to ever receive) when I told a shift boss to F**k **f. I thing that the biggest thing that strikes me when I think back to those days, was the incredible variety of people that worked there.



Artists rendition of Number 2 shaft Denison Mines

I knew men who worked on the jack leg and in their off time collected butterflies and moths and would have been considered as experts. I knew men who were former school teachers and I knew a defrocked priest who worked on one of the rockbreakers. One man I knew who worked underground as a diamond driller had been in his former life, a fairly well known poet in his native Hungary before the Russians invaded.

Underground Mechanics Garage

I used to love to hunt and fish, and I wasn’t alone. Just before moose hunting season there was a big rush of guys trying to get a week off. A lot of the guys waited and dreamed of the time when they would qualify for three weeks holidays, so that they could take the family on a vacation in the summer, and head to the bush for a week with the buddies in the fall.

But mining is a serious business. During the mining history of the Elliot Lake camp (1955 to 1996) better than 130 men, company men, and contractor’s surface and underground were fatally injured. Pretty well anyone who has ever worked there would have the memory of some friend or acquaintance that lost their life or were badly injured.

Not that the Elliot Lake mines were any more hazardous than any other underground operation in other parts of the country, it’s just that mining is by its very nature a rough business – and one that demands very special people.

MONSTER IN LAKE HURON?

The old man turned quite serious as he continued with his story.

“…And so suddenly, about half mile from shore, the boat started to rock. We held onto the sides. The water beside the boat began to boil just like something was trying to get to the surface.”

“The Serpent”, I ask?

The 65-year old resident of Serpent River, Ontario shrugged his shoulders. It was clear that he had asked himself the same question many times in the years that have followed his experience. One thing was for certain. For him it was no laughing matter.

Although stories of large serpents in Canadian Lakes don’t seem to be that uncommon – several years ago there were reports of a serpent in Lake Temiskaming — few creatures are as colorful as the Serpent of Lake Huron’s North Channel.




For more than 250 years the local Ojibway have claimed that the mouth of the Serpent River is the home of some giant reptile. Mrs. Louis Day, a delightful storyteller and resident of Cutler and former resident of the old village of Spragge, recalls one of the legends.It was a young boys 13th summer and according to the custom of the Ojibway people, he would now journey from his father’s home, in the old Indian Village of Spragge, to the Sacred Spot, known today as Herman’s Point on the shores of the big lake. Here the boy would fast and if the spirits were pleased a vision would come. Perhaps it would be revealed that he would someday become a medicine man or a great hunter.

His mother accompanied him to the sacred place and left him with a small three-cornered blanket that would serve as his only protection against any winds or rain.

The mother returned the following day and became very upset when the boy announced that he was ready to go home. She demanded that he stay. It was too soon, she said. Surely, she told him, the spirits wouldn’t visit after only one day.

A few days later she returned to the sacred spot. There was no sign of the boy. The blanket she had given him was hanging on a tree limb. The villagers searched the area without success. Several weeks later a group of hunters noticed a great commotion in the waters. To their amazement a great serpent rose above the waves, a giant creature with large horns. Clinging to the monster’s back was the young Indian Boy.

After that, many terrible things occurred around the settlement. Swimmers began to disappear and strange sounds were heard during the night. People began to move from Spragge village. Mrs. Day recalls that she would be awakened in the middle of the night by weird noises. Strange objects were found on her rooftop. She became concerned for the safety of her young children and in 1934 she convinced her husband that their family should move.

When asked if she could explain why these things would be happening she replied: “It’s that serpent. That place is really haunted.

Even today, there are people living near the mouth of the Serpent River who claim that somewhere along the banks of the Serpent River Harbour there is a large cave where the serpent lives.

Just another colorful legend? Perhaps. But when you manage to get some of the older people to talk about it you can see by their face that they’re not entirely sure.

SOME THOUGHTS AFTER HEARING THAT MY SISTER IS A STEPHEN LEACOCK FAN

Dear sister

I heard that your a bit of a Stephen Leacock fan. If this is true, this note may be of some interest to you.

In 1965 I worked for the Globe and Mail in Toronto . One of my jobs as editorial department factotum was to trot down Front Street to Union Station (just a few blocks south of the Globe) every evening to pick up packages of photographs and film sent in by correspondents in different parts of Southern Ontario. This was before the days of instantaneous electronic transmission of images. Things were a lot more 'manual' then.

I enjoyed the task because it gave me an excuse to get away from the hustle of the office and gave me the opportunity to visit the grand building that was the largest rail station in Canada . It was actually a piece of art with its high cathedral ceilings and marble walls and floors. Along the walls were carved the names of all the big cities that the CPR and CNR serviced.

I would go there early so that I’d have an excuse to sit on one of the marble benches and watch all the activity. On both sides of the “Great Hall” were doorways leading to the different platforms. Over the doors were signs that had the number of the train that it lead to. One doorway was different. It’s sign announced in big letters, ‘Northlander’. I use to think that this train was far too special to be identified by a mere numeral.

Now at the time I was a big fan of Stephen Leacock and carried in my pocket a small copy of ‘Sunshine Sketches”. I picked it up at a used book store on Adelaide Street . I believe I paid fifteen cents for it.

The story that I enjoyed the most was the story of the Train to Mariposa.

I must say that the story – about people always promising themselves that one day they would return to their hometown – and never quite making it, made me homesick.

I knew that the Ontario Northlander traveled the 600 miles from Toronto to Hearst. I also knew the 300 or so miles up the track it would stop for a few minutes in Cobalt to unload passengers and freight. I use to watch the people going through that portal and try to guess which ones were getting off at the little Cobalt Station, and if they would be looking out their window when the big silver train streaked through Gillies Depot.

I would read Leacock’s tale over and over again as I sat on that marble bench.

Now, at the time Leacock had gone out of fashion. Particularly after that pompous fart Robertson Davies announced to any one who cared to listen to him that Leacock’s writing was “childish”. I believe that it was this type of attitude that has kept Leacock from being accepted as Canada ’s Mark Twain.

I could picture myself years earlier walking past the station with my friend Freddie on our way to the Saturday afternoon show. Mom would only let me go to the show if Freddie was also going. He was my guardian, as far as Mother was concerned. Unfortunately poor Freddie was a bit scrambled after he had been struck by a train near the station when he was much younger. I would often have to make sure that my ‘guardian’ didn’t forget his coat and hat when we were leaving the theatre.

Years later I would wonder if was the Northlander that struck down our step-grandfather 'Roddie' when he took that fatal walk along the tracks in one of his alcoholic hazes after a night out with the boys. Is my life haunted by trains?

I would recall those days when we lived in Gillies Depot and Dad would drive Mother and I into Cobalt. Mother was working at the Haileyburian Newspaper at the time and she would catch a taxi from Cobalt to the newspaper office. I would stay at the taxi stall until it was time for me to hightail it to the Coleman Township Public School . On the way I would stop for as long as I dare to watch the workmen pulling those heavy noisy freight wagons along the station platform.

I also remember the times that Dad and I passed the old station when I went along with him to deliver slab firewood to some of the homes in Cobalt.

In the mid 1970’s when I worked on a construction project at the Silver Miller Mine in Cobalt, Ontario, I would sometimes be able to look across the small lake and see the Northlander offloading passengers. And then –in a strange reverse – I would catch myself daydreaming of those evenings when I sat on one of the benches in that long marble lobby in downtown Toronto , reading about the Mariposa train. The track did indeed go both ways.

Anyways, Linda, for what it was worth, just a few thought that I wanted to share with you on this cold Blind River afternoon.

Your brother
Tom