“Six years ago,” said he, “I was logging upon the head waters of the Penobscot. “We cut eight thousand logs; and about the last of April we started them downstream. It took two or three days to roll them all in, and by that time, some of those we started first were perhaps more than fifty miles down stream, while others had lodged within a hundred rods of us. So we divided into three gangs, one to descend by boats, and the others by land each side of the stream. Each man was provided with a pole, having a stout hook in the end, and with these we pushed off the logs, where ever we found they had lodged on the banks or rocks. The first few days, we made pretty good progress, having little to do but to roll in the logs, and set them afloat merrily down the river.”
“Did you camp at nights, as you do here?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, we camped out, but we had nothing but little huts made of spruce boughs, where we ate and slept;—as I was saying,—all went on pretty easy at first, and some days we got over fifteen or twenty miles of ground. But by-and-by we came to a jam. Do you know what a jam is?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, when the river gets choked up with logs which have met with some obstruction, we call it a jam. Sometimes, a thousand logs will accumulate in this way, forming a sort of dam across the river, and interrupting the flow of the water. And, oftentimes, all this is occasioned by a single log catching upon a projecting rock; and if that single log could be started, the whole mass would go down stream with a tremendous rush.”
“I should think that would be fine sport,” said Clinton.
“It’s all very fine to look at,” continued the logger; “but you wouldn’t think there was much sport about it, if you had to go out upon this immense raft, and loosen the logs, at the risk of being ground to atoms by them when they start.”
“Are people ever killed in that way?” inquired Clinton.
“Not very often; for none but the most experienced drivers are allowed to undertake such a delicate job; and they are always very cautious how they proceed. But let me go on with my story: the jam I was telling you about, happened to be in a rapid, rocky place, where the river passed through a narrow gorge. On each side were steep cliffs, more than sixty feet high, which almost hung over the water. The only way to reach the jam was to descend by a rope from one of these cliffs. This was so hazardous an undertaking, that we concluded to wait a day or two, to see if the choked up mass wouldn’t clear itself, by its own pressure, and thus save us all trouble and danger. But after waiting nearly two days, there were no signs of the jam’s breaking. We can generally tell when this is going to happen, by the swaying of the logs; but the mass was as firm and compact as ever; and it was evident that we must do something to start it. There was an old and very expert driver in our gang, who offered to descend to the jam, and see what could be done. So we rigged a sort of crane, and lowered him down from the cliff by means of a rope fastened around his body, under his arms. After he had looked around a little, he sung out to us that he had discovered the cause of the trouble. A few strokes of the axe in a certain place, he said, would start the jam; and he cautioned us to pull him up, gently, as soon as he should cry, ‘Pull!’ and also to be careful, and not jerk him against the precipice. He then began to hew into the log which was the cause of the jam. After he had worked a few minutes, the mass began to heave and sway, and he cried out, ‘Pull!’ As the spot where he had been chopping was near the centre of the stream, he started instantly towards the cliff, so that his rope should be perpendicular. But before he could put himself in the right position for being drawn up, the huge mass of logs rose up in a body, and then, with a crash, rolled away in every direction from under his feet. The scene was awful. Some of the logs plunged headlong down the rapids, with tremendous force; others leaped entirely out of the water, turning complete somersets, end over end; others were hurled crosswise upon each other, or dashed madly together by hundreds, or were twisted and twirled about, in a most fearful manner. At the first movement of the jam, our man was plunged into the water. For a moment, we were horror-struck, but we pulled away at the rope, expecting to draw up only a mangled and lifeless body. And we should have done so, had we been half a second later; for we had just raised the man out of the water, when a mass of seventy-foot logs swept by, directly under him, with force enough to have broken every bone in his body, had he been in their way. He suffered no harm but his ducking and fright. But I don’t believe he will ever forget that day’s adventure. So, my boy, you see it isn’t all sport, driving logs,—though some think this is the pleasantest part of a logger’s life.”
“How do you stop the logs, when they have gone as far as you want them to go?” inquired Clinton.