The Day Guy Montreaux Died Poem by David Welch

The Day Guy Montreaux Died



Back in nineteen hundred and three
I working with a logging crew,
cutting and limbing mighty trees,
be they hemlock, pine, or spruce.

We worked for the Nowell Paper firm,
in the shades of the Adirondacks,
spent all winter in Camp Seven,
sending full sleds down icy tracks.

One morning in late December
we got up before the dawn,
that was just par for the course,
our work days were rather long.

We made it to the cook-house,
where waited the salt pork,
with flapjacks and potatoes fried,
we ate until enrgorged.

Then with a nod to the bull cook,
to let him know he'd done good,
we grabbed our axes, our crosscut saws,
and headed out into the woods.

By noon we worked a stump garden
we'd cleared back in the fall,
when we'd cut down the spruces
though a few still stood tall.

Those ones are the seed trees,
to make sure it grows again,
but the ones we felled we had cut
into fourteen-foot lengths.

Now in that deep chill of winter
we worked with our pike-poles,
hauling the logs to big sleds
drawn by horses, rather cold.

We stacked them for the ice road,
in air that made all shiver,
the teamster waited to haul it
all the way down to the river.

Now lumberjacks always work in pairs,
and my partner was Guy Montreaux,
a Quebecois better with an axe
than any farmer with a hoe.

He was quite an entertaining man,
lifted spirits in our shanties,
and knew the words to every bawdy song
ever sang in the north country.

On that grim day he huffed loudly,
having been put through his paces,
as he loaded up the last big log
a horse jolted back in its traces.

The equine kicked, the pile shook,
the teamster cried, 'Get clear! "
Me and the boys all dove away,
filled with a familiar fear.

A big log bounced from way up top,
and before Guy could react
It struck his square across the chest,
up rose a sickening crack.

We sprinted quickly to our friend,
who lay helpless in the snow,
he struggled to draw a ragged breath,
ribs crushed from the blow.

I bent low besides my friend,
saw the haze come to his eyes,
the last words that he said, in French:
"Please…don't let me die…"

But there was nothing to be done,
the damage was far too vast,
so we gathered round, stayed with Guy,
and in a few minutes he passed.

We stood there in stunned silence
then up came a painful yell,
the teamster dropped down to his knees,
clearly blaming himself.

But he was not at fault for it,
and a horse cannot be blamed,
so we picked Guy up and headed back
amidst a drizzly, freezing rain.

Back at camp we hacked away
at the hard and frozen ground,
we dug a pit just big enough
and laid our poor friend down.

A sky-pilot came out with a bible,
and he spoke his holy words,
we buried Guy and set up a cross,
into it his name we burned.

There was no more logging that day,
most just tried to hold back tears,
the company had not lost a man
going on back thirteen years.

And I stayed up too late that night,
troubled, unable to sleep,
wondering if I should even bother to
ask the Lord my soul to keep.

But sorrow will not turn back time,
nor will angry, vengeful moods,
so I had a drink and passed right out,
it would do no good to brood.

And the next morning we ate breakfast,
told the bull-cook he'd done good,
then grabbed our axes, our crosscut saws,
and headed back into the woods.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: forest,history,narrative,nature,rhyme,story,tragic
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