Logging | Go Sayward

You Can’t Return to the Past – A Logger’s Reflection From The Old Beavertails Bulletin

There’s something quietly powerful about old bulletin clippings—those small, grainy windows into everyday lives that rarely make it into history books. This one, pulled from an old Beavertails Bulletin, captures exactly that kind of moment: a man, a place, and a way of life mid-transition.

The photo shows Vern Skogan, seated outdoors, wearing a cap and dark glasses, framed by what looks like a rugged, working landscape. The image itself feels weathered, almost as if it absorbed the same elements Vern likely did—wind, dust, long days. It’s not posed in any modern sense. It’s practical. Functional. Honest.

The caption does most of the storytelling.

Vern is identified as a “Charge Hand at the dryland sort,” which already situates him firmly within the logging industry. This isn’t just a job—it’s part of a generational thread. His father, who lived to 99, was among the original settlers in the Sawmill Valley and worked as a logger too. That detail alone stretches the story back decades, hinting at a time when the valley was being carved—both literally and figuratively—out of wilderness.

But what stands out most is not the past—it’s the change.

Vern reflects on how the townsite has shifted in recent years. Farming, once a cornerstone of the valley, has largely disappeared. Logging has taken over as the primary livelihood, supplemented slightly by commercial fishing. It’s a familiar story in many rural regions: industries evolve, economies pivot, and communities reshape themselves around what remains viable.

Yet Vern doesn’t sound bitter. There’s no romanticizing of the “good old days,” at least not in the way we might expect when looking back from the present. In fact, he says something strikingly pragmatic: “We live a lot better these days than we used to do years ago, despite people’s memories.”

That line cuts through nostalgia.

It challenges the idea that the past was inherently better. Vern acknowledges progress—material improvement, perhaps stability—even as he recognizes that people tend to remember things differently. Memory, after all, edits out the hardship and keeps the sentiment.

And then comes the final line, simple but firm: “You can’t return to the past.”

There’s no drama in it. No regret. Just acceptance.

This small clipping becomes more than a record of one man’s life. It’s a snapshot of a community in transition and a reminder of how people adapt. Vern stands at the intersection of generations—his father’s pioneering era behind him, his son working alongside him, and a changing economy unfolding in real time.

In a way, the most modern thing about this decades-old clipping is its message. We still wrestle with the same tension today: holding onto what was, while navigating what is.

And like Vern, whether we admit it or not, we’re all living somewhere in between.

Building Across the Wild – The Adam River Crossing Logging Bridge

In the rugged backcountry, where rivers cut through dense forest and the terrain resists easy passage, necessity has always driven ingenuity. This striking photograph captures one such moment—an early-stage logging bridge under construction at the Adam River crossing, where raw materials and human effort come together in a careful balance of practicality and risk.

At first glance, the scene looks deceptively simple: a series of long, stripped logs laid side by side across a narrow span. But a closer look reveals the complexity behind this structure. Each log has been placed with intention, aligned to distribute weight evenly and anchored with crosspieces and cables. Beneath them, a foundation of stacked timber supports the approach, elevating the roadway above uneven ground and guiding loads safely onto the bridge.

This type of bridge wasn’t built for elegance—it was built for survival. Logging operations depended on reliable crossings to move heavy timber out of remote areas. Steel and concrete were often unavailable or too costly to transport, so crews relied on what the forest provided. Trees became beams, braces, and decking, shaped with hand tools and muscle power. Every decision—spacing, anchoring, reinforcement—had immediate consequences for safety.

Notice the cables and rigging suspended near the center. These likely played a role in positioning the logs, acting as both lifting aids and stabilizers during construction. The workers, though difficult to make out clearly, would have operated in close quarters with heavy materials, often above rushing water. It was dangerous, exacting work that demanded both coordination and trust.

The surrounding environment tells its own story. Fallen branches, uneven banks, and dense vegetation frame the crossing, emphasizing how isolated these projects often were. There were no roads leading in—this bridge was the road. Before its completion, everything had to be carried or dragged into place.

What stands out most is the resourcefulness. Without modern machinery, crews engineered durable solutions using simple principles: load distribution, redundancy, and friction. The logs act like parallel beams, spreading the weight of wagons or early trucks. Cross-bracing prevents shifting, while the stacked base absorbs impact and stabilizes the structure against erosion.

Bridges like this were temporary by design, yet many lasted far longer than expected. They bore the weight of countless loads, endured seasonal floods, and stood as quiet testaments to the craftsmanship of the people who built them.

Today, images like this remind us that infrastructure doesn’t always begin with blueprints and cranes. Sometimes, it begins with an axe, a rope, and a clear understanding of how to make the land work with you—not against you.

The Adam River crossing is more than a bridge—it’s a snapshot of resilience, adaptation, and the relentless push to connect even the most remote corners of the landscape.

Steam, Steel, And Timber – Rail Logging On The Salmon River

In this striking historical photograph from the Salmon River, a small steam locomotive carefully crosses a rugged wooden trestle, its crew perched on the engine as it inches forward over the river below. The image captures more than just a moment—it tells the story of an industry that helped shape coastal communities and the landscape of northern Vancouver Island.

Rail logging was once the backbone of the forest economy in this region. Before modern highways and logging trucks, companies relied on narrow-gauge railways to penetrate deep into dense forests. These temporary rail lines were often built quickly and economically, using locally sourced timber to construct trestles like the one shown here. The zig-zagging bracing beneath the tracks reveals the ingenuity—and urgency—of early logging operations, where speed often took priority over permanence.

The locomotive itself is a compact but powerful steam engine, designed for tight turns and rough terrain. Crews worked long hours in challenging conditions, navigating steep grades, unstable tracks, and unpredictable weather. Safety standards were minimal by today’s measures, and crossings like this one required both skill and nerve.

At the Salmon River, rail logging opened access to vast stands of old-growth timber. Logs were hauled from the cutblocks to booming grounds or mills, feeding a growing demand for lumber across British Columbia and beyond. These operations were often temporary—once an area was logged, the rails would be pulled up and moved deeper into the forest, leaving little behind but stumps and stories.

Yet, despite their transient nature, these railways played a lasting role in the development of communities like Sayward. They brought jobs, infrastructure, and a connection to the wider world. The echoes of steam whistles and clattering rails may be gone, but their impact remains embedded in the region’s history.

Today, images like this offer a window into that era—one of grit, innovation, and transformation. The Salmon River crossing stands as a reminder of how far logging practices have come, and how deeply they are woven into the identity of coastal British Columbia.

B&S&W Logging In The 1950s And The Early Days of Larry McKinlay

In the rugged coastal forests of northern Vancouver Island, the 1950s marked a defining era for industrial logging—and few names were as central to that story as Bloedel, Stewart and Welch. Operating extensively in and around the Sayward region, B&S&W helped transform a remote landscape into a hub of resource extraction, innovation, and tight-knit community life.

Amid the roar of chainsaws and the thunder of falling timber, a generation of young men came of age in the bush. Among them was a young Larry McKinlay—one of many who would be shaped by the grit, danger, and camaraderie of coastal logging camps.

The Rise of Industrial Logging in Sayward

By the early 1950s, Bloedel, Stewart and Welch had established itself as a dominant force in British Columbia’s forestry sector. With vast timber licenses and access to old-growth forests, the company set up operations throughout the Sayward Valley and surrounding inlets.

Logging in this era was not for the faint of heart. Crews worked in steep, rain-soaked terrain, felling massive Douglas fir and cedar trees that had stood for centuries. Equipment was evolving—steam donkeys were giving way to diesel-powered yarders—but the work remained intensely physical and often dangerous.

Logs were hauled to booming grounds in coastal inlets like Kelsey Bay, then sorted and transported to mills. The scale of operations was immense, and B&S&W played a key role in feeding both domestic and international demand for lumber during the postwar boom.

Life in the Camps

For workers, logging camps were more than just job sites—they were entire communities. Isolated from towns, these camps provided bunkhouses, cookhouses, and a structured daily rhythm built around long shifts and hard labor.

Meals were hearty, the coffee was strong, and the bonds between workers ran deep. In an environment where every man relied on the others for safety, trust was everything.

It was into this world that young Larry McKinlay stepped.

A Young Logger’s Beginning

Like many local boys, Larry McKinlay was drawn into the logging industry at a young age. Opportunities in Sayward during the 1950s were closely tied to the forest, and logging offered both a livelihood and a rite of passage.

Starting out in entry-level roles—perhaps as a chokerman or swamper—Larry would have quickly learned the realities of bush work: the unpredictability of falling timber, the precision required to rig cables, and the constant awareness needed to stay alive.

But beyond the danger, there was also pride. Logging wasn’t just a job; it was a craft. Young workers like Larry were mentored by seasoned hands, absorbing knowledge that couldn’t be taught in classrooms.

Innovation Meets Tradition

The 1950s were also a time of transition in the logging industry. Companies like B&S&W were beginning to adopt new technologies that would eventually reshape forestry work—chainsaws replacing crosscut saws, improved transportation networks, and early mechanization.

Yet much of the work still relied on human strength and skill. This blend of old and new defined the era, and those who worked through it—like Larry McKinlay—experienced firsthand the shift from traditional to modern logging practices.

A Lasting Legacy

The impact of Bloedel, Stewart and Welch on Sayward cannot be overstated. The company’s operations brought jobs, infrastructure, and a sense of purpose to the region. Roads carved through dense forest would later open access for residents and tourists alike.

For individuals like Larry McKinlay, the experience of working in the bush during this formative period likely left a lasting imprint—one of resilience, resourcefulness, and connection to the land.

Remembering the Era

Today, it’s easy to forget just how demanding and foundational this work was. The forests around Sayward still stand as a testament to both nature’s scale and the human effort required to harvest it.

Looking back at the 1950s, we see more than just an industry—we see a way of life. One where companies like B&S&W drove economic growth, and where young men like Larry McKinlay found their footing in a world defined by towering trees and the relentless rhythm of the saw.

It’s a story of hard work, community, and the enduring legacy of logging on Vancouver Island.

The Link & Pin Logging & Pioneer Museum of Sayward, BC – A Lost Window into Coastal Logging History

For many years, the small community of Sayward was home to a unique local heritage attraction known as the Link & Pin Logging & Pioneer Museum. Though it is now closed, the museum played an important role in preserving the memory of coastal logging life on northern Vancouver Island.

Tucked into a region long shaped by forestry, the museum offered visitors a rare chance to step into the world of early logging camps, pioneer settlement, and the machines that built the local economy.

A Museum Born from Logging Country

The museum was established by local logger and collector Glen Duncan, who brought together a wide range of logging artifacts and pioneer-era objects from the surrounding region. Its origins were deeply rooted in the working history of the area—this was not a museum built from abstract curation, but from lived experience.

According to historical records, the museum initially focused heavily on logging equipment due to Duncan’s own background in the industry, later expanding into broader local history and pioneer life.

This evolution reflected a common pattern in small community museums across British Columbia: starting with industry, then growing into a wider preservation of everyday life.

Why “Link & Pin”?

The name “Link & Pin” refers to one of the earliest coupling systems used in rail transportation—particularly in logging railways.

Before modern automatic couplers, railcars were connected manually using:

A heavy iron link
A vertical pin dropped into place

It was dangerous work, requiring workers to step between moving railcars. In logging regions like Sayward, where rail systems once threaded through forested valleys, the term became symbolic of the early industrial era.

The museum’s name therefore captured something essential: the connection between rail, logging, and the people who risked their safety to move timber out of the forest.

What the Museum Contained

Though modest in size, the Link & Pin Museum held an impressive collection for a rural heritage site. Visitors could find:

Early logging tools and hand equipment
Steam-era machinery, including a steam donkey engine
Pioneer household artifacts
Lamps, photographs, and personal collections tied to local families

Some artifacts were rare examples of coastal logging technology, helping illustrate how timber was once harvested and moved before modern mechanization fully took over.

One description of similar collections in the region notes items such as steam donkeys and specialized logging tools that were essential to early coastal operations.

Reflecting Sayward’s Logging Identity

The museum was closely tied to the identity of Sayward itself. Logging has long been the economic backbone of the region, from early rail logging operations to later truck-based hauling systems and booming grounds at nearby Kelsey Bay.

In that sense, the museum functioned as more than a tourist stop—it was a local archive of working life.

It helped preserve the memory of:

Logging camps scattered through the valley
Rail and road-based timber transport
The transition from steam to diesel power
Pioneer settlement history alongside industrial growth

A Broader Shift in Small Museums

Like many small heritage museums in British Columbia, the Link & Pin Museum eventually became less active over time. This reflects a broader trend:

Aging volunteer base
Changing tourism patterns
Centralization of regional museums
Preservation challenges for artifact-heavy collections

As a result, many locally important collections have been absorbed into archives, moved, or quietly stored away.

Legacy in the Landscape

Even though the museum itself is no longer operating, its purpose still lives on in Sayward’s surrounding landscape.

Today, the region still holds:

Old logging road networks carved into the forest
Abandoned industrial sites and cutblock remnants
Historical signage and artifacts preserved by local historians
Ongoing storytelling by groups like the Sayward Historical Society

These fragments continue to tell the story the museum once housed under one roof.

Remembering the Link Between Past and Present

The Link & Pin Logging & Pioneer Museum may no longer be open, but its importance remains clear. It represented a time when local history was preserved by the very people who lived it—loggers, pioneers, and families tied directly to the land and industry.

In a place like Sayward, where the forest has always shaped human life, the museum served as a bridge between generations—linking past and present, much like the railway couplings it was named after.