The story of Billy Vincent

On Feb. 7, 1940, Skokomish Valley neighbors of 70-year-old Billy Vincent feared the worst when they discovered that the cable on which he would have propelled his "basketlike contrivance" across the north fork of the rain-swollen Skokomish River was broken and Vincent could not be located.

He had crossed the river in the morning, picked up a sack of feed at the John Garrison place, then started back home. Early in the afternoon, Garrison discovered the broken cable, and finding no trace of Vincent or the sack of feed, immediately notified Sheriff Gene Martin. The sheriff and a deputy went to Vincent's small farm and conducted an unsuccessful search for the missing man.

On Feb. 24, two fishermen found Billy Vincent's body caught in a log jam in the river. On Feb. 29, the Journal carried a story about Vincent's life, written by Jean Todd Fredson, that began, "The hermit of the Skokomish has gone to his reward, if reward there be for breaking with a society that has one on the skids. The question is whether - caught in a whirlpool of bad habits - one should attempt to stick with a society and steer a right course, or get away from it all. Billy chose the latter way and some years ago took up his abode in the woods near the confluence of the north and south forks of the Skokomish River. Although not so many miles from other settlers, he had to cross one fork or the other of the Skokomish to reach them, walking across log jams or using his contrivance of a pulley-pulled basket."

Billy Vincent had not always been a hermit; in fact, he had once been the No. 1 logging camp cook in Mason County. A man who had worked as his flunky at a camp at Lake Nahwatzel in 1887 described him as a rather tall, good-looking man, interested in maintaining a tidy appearance.

"Once, when Lady Luck failed him in the bunkhouse games, he faced a holiday without the new clothes he felt he needed. The old suit must be worn, but in preparation for the wearing, the trousers were laboriously and expertly pressed by use of a large vanilla bottle filled with hot water."

Even though the work was hard - a camp cook and his flunky did all the cooking and housework for a crew of around 55 men, working from 4:30 a.m. to 7 p.m. - the flunky liked working for Billy. "He was a good cook, and a clean cook." When a man from another camp tried to hire away two expert "barkers" (men who removed the bark from logs), offering 5 cents more a day, the barkers took the matter under consideration but finally decided to stay where they were, explaining "We don't want to leave here. The grub's too good."

It was gambling that was Billy's downfall. Just before a camp payday, he would prepare great batches of cookies and doughnuts and, having the pastry cared for and being in the money, would join in the poker games that ran all day in the bunkhouses in rainy weather. He allowed the smallest possible time for the preparation of meals, but "as soon as he was broke, he gave his entire attention to it and the men lived high."

Finally, a time came when Billy decided against further earning and losing and declared he would never again work for wages. He found a piece of logged-off land no one was using on the banks of the Skokomish and made himself a habitation. He had a small hoard of gold, which he was always ready to protect with the gun he carried in a holster under his arm. To supplement the gold, he did some trapping, raised bees and cultivated a small garden.

"He raised grand strawberries and loved to take them to the Garrisons across the north fork, and the Jacobsons across the south fork."

By the 1920s, with his gold depleted, Billy would occasionally work a few days for wages. His former cookhouse flunky, hearing Billy was working on a grading job in the Valley, went to see him. "Twenty years had intervened, and there was no resemblance to "Dude" Billy. His hair reached his shoulders, he had a wild growth of beard, and his feet were bare, but he was glad to see his old friend."

In cutting his needs down to the bare minimum, Billy had eliminated shoes from his wardrobe, "and many are the tales told of those tough bare feet, which year in and year out, summer and winter alike, withstood the elements. One lady told of him sitting on the edge of her porch, sharpening his pocketknife on the soles of his feet." But the extreme cold of the winter of 1933 forced Billy to once again put on a pair of shoes. He blamed those shoes for the broken leg he suffered late that winter. While crossing over a north fork log jam he slipped and broke two bones in one leg, just above the ankle. On hands and knees he crawled about a quarter mile through several inches of snow to the Garrison home. The Garrisons heard his cries for help, took him in for the night, and drove him to the hospital in Shelton in the morning. Billy bore without complaint the pain of the broken leg and snow-swollen hands and enjoyed a hearty breakfast before leaving for the hospital.

When he was released from the hospital, Billy was taken to the County Farm in Isabella Valley. He liked it there, began cooking again, repaired farm machinery and enjoyed the company of other residents. He was disappointed when the farm was closed, but by then he was qualified to receive an old-age pension that enabled him to return to his Skokomish Valley shack. The pension was small, but provided for what little he had trained himself to need. He kept a flock of 25 to 30 bantam chickens and they, along with the wildlife of the woods, were his company. He wouldn't have a dog or cat because they would drive away the wild things.

It was his concern for his chickens that led to his death. He was taking feed for them back to his cabin when the cable on his river crossing carrier broke and plunged him into the river. He had been warned that the old cable was unsafe, "but undoubtedly the need to take care of his pets influenced him to take a gambler's last chance."

Billy was survived by his 92-year-old mother and two brothers, all living in Thurston County. He was buried in Tumwater.

■ Jan Parker is a researcher for the Mason County Historical Museum. She can be reached at [email protected]. Membership in the Mason County Historical Society is $25 per year. For a limited time, new members will receive a free copy of the book "Shelton, the First Century Plus Ten."