On a chilly morning on the edge of the redwoods at the back of Humboldt Bay, Eric Hollenbeck sat on a worn wooden bench with a cup of coffee in his hands and an adopted calico cat curled up at his feet. A scavenged potbelly stove radiated warmth into the rustic reception room. In his lumberjack red plaid flannel shirt, the woodworking wizard drew solace from puffing his billiard pipe, billowing tobacco smoke.
In 2022, 2,000 visitors came to the mill for guided tours and hands-on workshops. Mr. Hollenbeck oversees their tutelage on the intricately designed and highly decorative woodwork of Victorian architecture, from spandrels to sunbursts to doll balusters.
A Passionate Perfectionist
The 76-year-old artisan shared his insight and passion for his pursuit. “If you work with these,” he said, holding up his hands, “you’re a tradesman. If you work with your hands and your head, you’re a craftsman. If you work with your hands, your head, and your heart, you’re a master craftsman. When you put all of them together, you’re putting your soul into what you’re doing.”Mr. Hollenbeck’s mastery is a testament to his spiritual communion with the forest in his backyard. “The tree is perfection in the woods,” he said, exhaling a plume of sweet tobacco smoke. “And the challenge for a woodworker is to make a product as close to that perfection as possible, thereby treating the wood with the reverence it deserves.”
Gently caressing a spiral specimen, he continued, “I enjoy the feel of finely crafted wood, the redwood smell of the workshop, the pleasure of cutting, shaping, and joining wood with hand tools and human-powered equipment.” In a matter of minutes, shavings from a new project masked his workbench and the floor.
Mr. Hollenbeck accomplishes his 19th-century restoration methods with tools dating from 1866 to 1948. He pulled most of the antiquated machinery out of blackberry bushes and abandoned sawmills. He built a foundry and blacksmith shop to fix and maintain them and to produce ornamental ironwork. Such self-sufficiency was born out of necessity. “Nothing was too good for us,” he said with a husky laugh about him and his wife of 46 years, Viviana, “and that is exactly what we had to work with—nothing.”
It was in 1976 that Hollenbeck turned his salvage logging company into a custom millworks. “I was always good with my hands,” he said, “so manufacturing wood products was a natural evolution. I was still working with saws and tape measures, just on a smaller scale.”
Healing Through Craft
Mr. Hollenbeck is philosophical, humorous, and a natural storyteller. There’s more to the makeup of the man than woodworking—he’s also dedicated to helping combat veterans and troubled youth.In 1969, returning to civilian life after fierce firefights in the jungles of Vietnam, the anguished former Army Airborne corporal had a meltdown. “We didn’t know anything about shell shock back then,” Mr. Hollenbeck said. “I always thought it was just me.”
Mr. Hollenbeck started a program at Blue Ox a decade ago to help fellow veterans redefine themselves in the wake of coming home from war. He maintains they have one job: to find a new identity. He encourages them to make something they can hold up and say, “That’s me. I did that.”
He proudly pointed to one project in particular: Relying on the single known photograph, 23 combat veterans created a genuine replica of Abraham Lincoln’s horse-drawn hearse, which had been destroyed in a fire. The replica was the centerpiece of the 150th anniversary commemoration of Lincoln’s funeral in Springfield, Illinois, in 2015.
The Next Generation
One reason Mr. Hollenbeck does the television show is to raise young people’s consciousness about craftsmanship: “To tell them being a craftsman is an honorable and profitable way to make a living,” he said. He insists that the schools and media are not telling them that. “The trades are screaming at the top of their lungs: ‘We need people. We’re paying big money.’ And nobody’s hearing it.”He has established a vocational charter school at Blue Ox for at-risk teens. As part of their high school curriculum, they take five-week courses to develop marketable skills and a sense of accomplishment. “I’ve got empathy for these students,” the headmaster said. “I couldn’t read. That’s why I left school.”