North of Boston

THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. This summer and fall we been getting out Navy oak down in Maine. Just before freeze-up I had to make a rush trip to the mill to unscramble the sawing schedule.

Phoned for a ship. We splash across the bay and heave into the bumpy air. Ten gallons of gas later we spot the mill, slide down into the pond and taxi right up to the board yard.

There was the usual shriek of the saw, yell of the planer and howl of blowers. I inspected and tallied the big keels and clear ribs as they come off the saw. Sawing ship oak separates the men from the boys. When that saw mill crew heaved on a keel log, turning it on the saw carriage, they would of give a crack football line lessons in timing and precision.

Then they load five thousand feet of dead green oak into a long ten wheeler, a sweat and grunt deal where one slip meant a busted leg or worse.

We fire up and reach for altitude. The wind has gone and the air is steady and solid under the wings. The 4,000 hour pilot kindergartening me dozes off.

The white villages and winding rivers stand out in the long rays of the setting sun. The leaves are gone and you look right down through the woods. Now and then we pass a fire look-out, etched black against the pale blue sky. A lone hunter sculls a white boat across a mountain locked pond.

Then our home lake is a thin silver line under the mountains. We come down out of the sun and into the shadow. The ship goes on in a power landing. The floats grate onto the beach sand, very loud in the silence.

Stretch our legs and sit on the beach and smoke and watch the moon come up over the mountains we had just cleared. We didn't say nothin. Just set and set and watched the moon rise. I wisht some of you fellers could of ben along, you might of liked it.