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The Gypo Generator
THE GYPO GENERATOR
Memories from Blind Channel Logging Camp.
The July morning was shimmering with the promise of a rising heat. The ocean a rich deep green.
This day is going to be another hot one! Damn that gypo straw boss and his penny pinching with the fuel. Running the generator for a few hours a night was not enough. The meat in the freezer would spoil if it continued the daily semi-thawing. He hadn't listened to me when I complained about it. I looked up towards the shack which housed the generator. I had seen cougar tracks near the shack the day before. Raccoons had perched on the freezer's lid clawing to open it. They could smell the meat. I tossed the tea towel onto the counter and put on my shoes. While Kevin was sleeping, I decided to go start up that generator. I grabbed a fuel can off the porch and headed towards the fuel tanks on the beach.
I filled the jerry can from one of the tanks and hiked up to the generator shack. When I arrived, I gave the generator the once over. It seemed simple enough. There was a square nut on the generator that the hand crank fitted onto. I filled the tank and looked around for the crank which I found hanging on the wall by the freezer.
Sliding the crank onto the nut, I threw my weight into it and heaved. It shuddered and stalled. I try again. A measly sputter and it died. This was going to be harder than I thought. Again with the crank and another failed attempt. Determination sets in as I continue with the process. I lose track of the number of times I rotated that crank. Then the motor caught. I lost my grip on the crank as it's wrenched from my hand. It's spinning wildly as blue smoke is belching from the motor. I hightail it out of the shack just as the crank flies off the nut and sailed through the air. It hit the shake wall with enough velocity to punch a hole through it. The generator is coughing and sputtering. Then it died. Eyeing the scene with dismay, I fetched the crank from the bushes and hung it back up.
I walked back to the cookhouse and awaited the tractor which was operated by the gypo boss. He made regular trips skidding logs from the forest to the boom on the beach. An hour later, I heard the tractor coming down the hill. I go down to the beach and tell him what happened. He looks at me. Which fuel did you use? Diesel, I said, with conviction. It's a gas motor, he yelled at me. Oh hell, I thought.
He lost his temper and began cursing. I yelled back at him that if he had listened to me about the freezer, I would not have bothered with it. An all out argument ensues and he threatened to fire me. I tell him that I would rather be fired than feed the crew tainted meat. I return to the cookhouse and the rising bread dough. He leaves the beach for another trip up the hill.
That evening, the gypo boss cleaned out the generator motor while the loggers tell me it was a wonder I ever got it started. The next day, the gypo owner flew in on a routine visit. His son was the gypo boss and the father came ambling into the cookhouse to have a word with me. He sat down at the table and asked me for a coffee. I pour while contemplating my employment. The father told me he had a few words with his son about the health of the crew and the importance of listening to the camp cook.
After dinner the gypo boss stays at the table when the men leave. He offers an apology and I accept. I needed that job.
*Note
A Gypo logging camp is a small operation. Many such outfits dotted the coast hiring a small crew of loggers.
I was 20 years old and got the job as camp cook which enabled me to bring my infant son with me. In May of 1971, I traveled by speed boat to my new place of employment. There were no roads to the camp and traveling in and out was done by sea or air. Vancouver Island's unemployment rate was and still is high.
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