One hundred seven years ago this spring, my oldest uncle, Jack Macdonald (then 18), woke in the house he’d grown up in here at the family ranch. He ate his breakfast hours before dawn, packed lunch in a gunny sack, and set off afoot on the railroad tracks with a kerosene lantern. He walked west past the family dog cemetery then beyond the Albion Lumber Company’s Guest House where sea captains spent the night waiting for their schooners to be loaded with lumber in the treacherous Albion harbor. Another quarter mile along the tracks, he turned south, paralleling the river, headed toward Duck Pond Gulch. There a wooden flume carried water from that gulch above the railroad to the lumber company’s slaughterhouse. Jack’s 16-year-old brother, Charlie, would be rousing himself shortly, first to milk the cows at home, then for his job at the slaughterhouse where he assisted Matt Piper.
For login info, please check your email after signing up. If it's not there, check your spam folder. If it's still not there, e-mail us.
Rather pay with a check? No problem— e-mail and let us know.
Or, sign in here if you're already a subscriber.