My Grandfather's
Log Drives and River Dogs
Updated April 30, 2002
From an article in Sugar Hill's Homestead Herald - May 15, 1964
At the turn of the century, in northern New Hampshire, trees were cut in winter and hauled "to the banks of the rivers, where the logs were tumbled onto the ice in mountainous piles."
Then came spring. The ice cracked and split early under the strain, letting millions of tons of logs down into the sudsing torrents. There they bounced and jacked into the air on their first move down river, a writhing monster controlled and directed only by the river crews, those men with muscles of steel, and the courage of cougars who faced death with only iron-collared poles and cant dogs.
Strangely enough, many of the drivers couldn't swim, although that ability was of little benefit once logs jammed and piled up. In any attempt to ease the key log loose, a loss of balance pitched the driver into the maelstrom where flesh and bones were quickly mashed to a pulp.
Van Dyke, as well as most lumber kings, cared little for the welfare of these men. He flogged team after team of horse to death as he tore up and down the river banks to be sure that his "river dogs" were doing more than a human job.
George Mitton, now in his late eighties, a native of New Brunswick, Canada and a great friend of The Homestead family, started driving the Miramachee when he was nine years old. With age and experience he grew adept in the ways of the rivers and learned of the drives in the States. At 21 he came to New Hampshire with a crew and was hired by Van Dyke. Mr. Mitton has entertained us many times with accounts of his experiences.
From dawn till dark the dauntless crews kept ceaselessly active as logs spun and heaved under their treading feet. After a while, the soles of their heavy, caulked boots wore thin and out, and sharp, knotted bark cut deep into their feet. As soon as they could, they gained the river bank to wrap their swollen, bleeding feet in burlap, and as quickly returned to continue the drive until they reached the lower Cohos camp. Laying in to recover, the expected happened...an infuriated Van Dyke burst into the camp frothing and cursing, "You River Dogs---you S-- o- B------, get to the river." But he had met his match for he had forgotten that in George Mitton, he had hired an iron man to boss his crew, a man whose body was hardened by nature at her rawest, but a good man with a decent heart.
Mitton stalked toward Van Dyke, fists clenched in wrath, and bellowed, "You, YOU S-- o- B----, you get out ... GET OUT. My men will go back to work, but not until they are able." He muckled onto the shoulder of the despot, wheeled him about and shoved him to the door. Van Dyke hulked away cursing, knowing that there was no compromise.
When Mr. Mitton and his men got well they returned to the river to unlock the monstrous log pile jammed from no attention, and in the process putting more dollars into Van Dyke's pocket."
..."Mr. Mitton recalls that a toll bridge across the Connecticut had a sign posting its fees for traffic. "Horses and Carriages 10c; On Foot 5c; Pigs and Sheep 2c each; RIVER DOGS GO FREE". "
© 1997 rmito@adelphia.net
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