Where dense forests of Scotch pine trees clothe the steep mountains on both sides of the River Dee at Ballater, great snow-covered spaces are steadily widening over the slopes to show where the Newfoundland lumberjacks are working. There are piles of snow flung high on either side of the little bridge over the Dee where sledge wagons laden with timber are drawn by caterpillar tractors to the saw mills just outside the village.
The Newfoundland lumberjacks have been cutting down about 3,000 trees a week – roughly 10,000 cubic feet of timber – for the British war effort during the first year of their work in the Scottish Highlands.
They came from Newfoundland at the invitation of the British Government, when timber supplies from the Baltic countries were cut off and shipping space was needed for other and more urgent commodities.
From Newfoundland experienced lumberjacks answered the call – French Canadians, Indians, English, Irish and Scots – and came to Great Britain on the next ship that sailed from St. John’s.
  Mr. Edgar Baird, manager of the Newfoundland Overseas Forestry Unit, was asked to establish his men in camps scattered about the Scottish Mountains where the great pines grow. Ballater became his headquarters, and out in the surrounding pine forests ninety men prepared to make a road.
 Timber merchants from all parts of Great Britain came to see whether there was enough timber in Scotland to make the lumber business there a commercial proposition. What they saw impressed them, but the visitors were puzzled most by the Newfoundland methods of making a road up the mountainside to reach the tall timber. The lumberjacks began by cutting timber right away, and stacking it in piles along each side of the proposed road.
“When it comes the snow will make the road,” the lumberjacks said confidently, and went on building log huts and cutting trees in their own expert manner.
These piles of timber grew in number, and at first no attempt was made to move them. There was no road until the snow came, and then fourteen Garron ponies – especially suited to work in mountainous country – arrived at the camp and were installed in the comfortable stables the lumbermen had already prepared from Scotch pine logs. They harnessed the ponies to strong sleds, and after a few days the rough ground between the piles of timber became a firm, smooth road leading down to where the caterpillar tractors waited to take over the hauling operations.
And today, a traveler out of Ballater, rounding the wide curve of this road, will come suddenly upon a scene he might well mistake for a typical Canadian lumber camp.
There are log huts built by the Newfoundlanders, set in a forest clearing and exposed to the bitter weather on mountain sides, which for warmth and comfort surpass anything suburban builders have produced. Moss gathered from the forest is used to stuff between the rough hewn logs and keep the huts draught proof, and spending a few minutes inside them from the bitter weather one realizes that English and Scots alike have not yet learned how to keep themselves warm.
Food is of the best, and well cooked, but different from what the lumberjacks are accustomed to at home. The pickled beef and pork they get at home are preferred even to fresh Scotch beef. In the Newfoundland forests, too, the camp cooks make all the bread, pies, cakes and pastry needed, and lumberjacks are apt to suspect anything which comes from a baker’s shop. “The food’s good,” they say, “but we like it best when we cook it ourselves.”
“You can’t have everything,” one lumberjack pointed out, “and we’re happy here because look where we will around these forests we find scenes which remind us of home. It’s a bit warmish in these parts, but as far as scenery is concerned the place might be a little bit of Newfoundland itself. What we have really missed here in the last twelve months is our fishing season.”
“Most of us are fishermen as well as lumbermen. Logging at home doesn’t begin until October, when we get the snow to make easy roads, and it ends with the spring. We go out on the Grand Banks fishing all through spring and summer. Others among us are seal fishermen and trappers.”
“But we’re all glad to be here and doing something to beat the enemy,” the manager, Mr. Edgar Baird, said earnestly. “The men are working well, but we get soldiers, sailors and airmen on leave up here from the village – and uniforms look good to the boys. Several of them have waited until their contract expired, and then joined the Forces.”
“Every lumberjack here signs a six months’ contract, after which he is free to go back home, or stay here and do what he likes. The basic rate of pay for lumberjacks in Newfoundland is two dollars a day with free board, and they get the same here – which amounts to nine shillings a day. It is a great mistake for an experienced lumberjack to think he can do more for the Empire by joining the Forces.”
“They are needed here on work of national importance, and cannot be replaced. Moreover, it is not easy to train a man, however strong and fit he may be, to become a good lumberjack.”
The felling of trees is only a very small part of the work in producing logs. Trimming a tree quickly, for example, is a much more difficult operation. But the biggest problem is the transportation of trees from the spot where they are felled to where they are needed, and this applies especially in steep mountain districts.”
“How do you manage to make a tree fall exactly where you want it?” I asked. “That’s easy enough,” Mr. Baird said, and led the way to where a tall tree was marked for felling. A grizzled lumberjack swung an axe in two quick strokes, and a deep notch appeared near the base of the tree. Then he used a bow-saw on the opposite side of the trunk – cutting swiftly toward the notch. “The tree will begin to fall from the notch,” Mr. Baird explained. And where the notch was cut the tall pine bent sharply and fell. I looked about me then, and saw that every fallen tree in the vicinity lay in the same direction ready for transport.
“We try to be as good at felling trees as the Scotsman,” Mr. Baird said wistfully, “but we can’t beat him for economy in timber.”
“What becomes of all the timber?” I wondered. “It goes to the mines for pit props,” he answered, “but enough is kept to make obstruction poles in fields and on beaches all over the country to prevent enemy airplanes landing. The big logs go to the sawmills. The best trees, tallest and straightest, are saved for telegraph poles along the big trunk roads. At one Scottish camp alone they fell about five hundred trees a year for poles.”
“And what about re-forestation?” I said. “Your men will eventually chop down every tree in Scotland.” Mr. Baird grinned, shook his head. “Replanting takes place about three to four years after felling,” he said. “Don’t worry about the future. In thirty years time there will be more timber in Scotland than there is now.”
There are many other lumbermen from Northern Europe who also see a great future in Scottish timber – men who were in the vast Baltic trade before war stopped all exports to Great Britain.
Latvians, Finns and Russians who foresaw the war and the ruin of their business, came to England while there remained an opportunity to do so. Thus have lumbermen from Europe and the New World met in Scotland.
In fact, the sawmills on the opposite bank of the River Dee, which deals with timber felled by the Newfoundland Overseas Forestry Unit at Ballater, is managed and directed by Latvian lumbermen.

W.J. Passingham