Off OT kinda. Yea, I know - you don't want to wade thru some codger's trip down memory lane but here you go anyway. My Great Grandfather moved to Marysville in about 1892, bought some farm land on Ebey Slough and dug out a log pond. The logs were brought in by rail or later by truck, boomed up into a raft and floated down the slough to be picked up by a tug and taken to the booming grounds in the Snohomish River and the other sloughs in the delta prior to going to the mill.
My Dad had a qypo log outfit with his Uncle. The truck was a WW2 rig with log bunks and a trailer. They had a cat with an arch and a donkey that was rigged to a spar tree on the landing. A gypo is an independent logging outfit.
I worked in the woods with him for a few weeks for a couple of summers at the age of about 9 or 10 as a whistle punk. If the logs were in a ravine, the donkey operator could not see if the logs were ready to highlined to the landing to be loaded on a truck. A whistle punk was used to signal the donkey operator when the log is hooked up to the high line. I was the signal guy.
He did selective logging for property owners or bought the trees to fall and sell to the mill. He logged around Arlington, Granite Falls, Tulalip Rez, among others. He worked from sunup to sundown and in the winter, hand split shakes after dinner.
After Dad decided he was ready to try something different, he bought the land, selectively logged it, subdivided and sold it.
Logging, like commercial fishing, was a whole way of life that most younger people now days, especially new comers, aren't even aware of.There's a street in Marysville named after my Great Grandpa. Dad cut down the town Christmas tree for several years for Mayrsville. Thanks for letting me lay this out. I haven't thought very much about this for a long time. Guess I just miss my Dad. He was 84 when died last December.