The Last of the Giants - Blog Tour Banner


Enjoy following The Last of the Giants on it’s blog tour (links to other blogger pages below).


About the Book

In its early years, Duluth was a gold mine for lumber barons. Men were employed as lumberjacks and worked like beasts, only to be tossed aside like used equipment when no longer needed. The grand forests were raped for their prime timber, the balance burned wastefully. The men were coarse and hard, but they had to be to survive. More than any other people that ever lived in our land, these old-time lumberjacks could truthfully say, “No man cared for my soul.”

That is, until God sent three men to the great Northwoods of our country ­– Frank Higgins, John Sornberger, and Al Channer. These men blazed new trails of the Spirit and founded an empire for God. They reached a sector of humanity for which no spiritual work had ever been done before, storming the Northwoods with a consuming passion for Christ. And with that passion, they also brought a heart as big as all outdoors, a love for men that burned like a flame, and a desperate desire to see these men saved.


About the Author

In 1934, Harry Rimmer became pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Duluth, Minnesota, on the understanding that he would spend six months of the year writing and lecturing. Rimmer simply loved to debate; he would debate anyone – atheists, religious scientists, college faculty, even fellow fundamentalists. In a famous instance, he debated another creationist, William Bell Riley, about the nature of the days in Genesis. He was apparently a colorful speaker and some called him the “noisiest evangelist in America.”


A Snippet from the Book

The almost endless stand of graceful, swaying pines offered a challenge and a bait to the avarice of greedy men, which was impossible to resist. The forests had remained undisturbed for many centuries when peopled by Indians, but they were doomed from the moment the eyes of money-hungry white men first saw them. The mouths of the looters watered at the sight of endless miles of tall pines, five and six feet in diameter, just waiting for the axe and the saw. Rivers and streams crossed and bisected the great forests, making it easy and cheap to transport the fallen giants to a mill and a market. The land was ripe to plunder.

The legionaries who swept to the fray were a hardy crew, as rough and wild as savages could be. While they were in the woods, they lived a life that was different from that in any other environment, and their code of ethics was peculiar to themselves. All through the bitter winter, they chopped and sawed, piled and loaded their landings. When the spring floods filled the streams to their banks, they dumped the accumulation of stacked timber into the flood and drove madly down to their markets. There they were paid off in hard money, and there they met the flock of sharpies who waited to fleece them of a year’s pay and send them back broke, sick with rotgut, and cursing the towns that had robbed them. But the next drive saw them back again, eager to be swindled of their pay by tavern keepers, lewd women, and crooked gamblers. Their happy-go-lucky philosophy was expressed by a Swede chopper, who came into town after seven months in the woods and collected his pay. He went into the nearest saloon, bought a drink of whiskey, and paid for it from the top of a roll of bills that made the bartender’s eyes gleam with avarice. With phony geniality, the bartender said, “Just in town, Ole?”

“Yah,” said the Swede, “ay bane going to have some fun, ay bat you!”

“Sure,” said the publican, “and I’ll bet you earned it. Have a drink on the house.”

Ole smiled his gratitude and took the free drink. A minute or two later he went out like a light. The drink was spiked with knockout drops. When Ole woke up early the next morning, he was lying in a back alley with his pockets inside out. He had a head that felt like a blacksmith was using it for an anvil, and a taste in his mouth that would have done credit to a sewer. He struggled to his feet, looked at his empty pockets, and said, “Val, easy come, easy go!” and headed back for the employment office and another half-year in the woods. His “easy come” meant fourteen hours of man-killing labor each day for seven months. His “easy go” meant one drink, which he enjoyed, and one which he did not!



Participating Bloggers



Interested in reading The Last of the Giants? It’s available on Amazon (, and through your local bookstore.