LOCALadk Magazine

Fall is the season of campfires on cool, crisp evenings. The best campfire nights require three things: good S'mores fixings, good company, and a good campfire story. Gather around as Tim Hoppey shares the tale of "The Lumberjack of Tupper Lake." If you love this tale as much as we do, we invite you to perform this tale at your next campfire gathering. (Voices are, of course, encouraged!) Grandpa: The tent is staked, the food is stashed, The morning hike is planned. "It's time we get some sleep," I say. "We're hiking Ampersand." Grandchild: I haven't yawned, not even once; This isn't what I'd planned. "Who needs a lot of sleep," I ask, "To climb a hill called…And?" She wants a scary story first Like campers often tell. It's just a ploy to stall for time; I know her all too well. I've tricked him into staying up; How late is hard to tell. He claims to know the darkest tale Drawn from the deepest well. The lantern's dimmed and I begin, "Prepare your bones to shake. This true and bloody tale is bound To keep you wide awake." A blanket's nuzzled to my chin; It helps against the shakes. I hope he really tells a tale That keeps my bones awake. "It happened on a chilly night About this time of year. The killings you should know occurred Just down the road from here." It happens that I don't believe The place or time of year. But how the killings did occur, I'm curious to hear. "A lumberjack named Rusty Cleaves Once lived in Tupper Lake. He'd leave his wife and child for months; Two bucks a day he'd make. He dressed in wool from head to toe And worked from dark to dark. Amid the winter's frigid cold, His wife and child were sparks. The trees he felled got stacked on sleds A team of horses drew. The frozen ground was paramount For hauling sleds and crew. They'd pile the logs on river ice To wait the thaw's return. Come spring the logs were sent to mills Upon Moose River's churn—" "A history lesson? Really, Gramps? To Rusty please return. This tale's supposed to frighten me And make my stomach churn." "To Rusty, right, I did digress; I'll now resume the tale. It's dark when Rusty rests his axe And searches for the trail. The path he finds is less than worn As snow begins to fall. Departing for the lumber camp, He's blinded by a squall. It's colder than his sharpened steel, And Rusty gets the shakes. Not even thoughts of wife and child Can warm his icy aches. Molasses, pork, and beans await Within an iron pot. Or, better still, he wants a bowl Of soup that's piping hot." "What's next? A recipe for soup? This story's gone to pot. It needs at least a spooky voice And yours is not too hot." I add a quiver to my voice, Begin again and say, "Well, goosebumps grow and Rusty knows For sure he's lost his way. The snow beclouds and blackens night Until his eyes won't see. Alarmed and chilled, he blindly roams And calls to nobody. Perhaps a fox or owl heard His cold and anguished calls. But no one's there to give a hoot When Rusty trips and falls. The chasm's narrow walls are steep, And Rusty's wedged in good. His axe is held above his head Like chopping firewood." "Yes, that's the spirit, Gramps!" I say. "At last it's getting good. I nearly shivered once or twice And never thought I would." "Before the morn he'd frozen stiff And still the snow came down. Unknown is how a frozen corpse Could gnash its teeth and frown. The Lumberjack of Tupper Lake By Tim Hoppey Photos by Eric Adsit

• Cover