North of Boston

They aint much happened sence the last riting. One Saddy morning our woods jobber come beagling into the yard and yelled that three ice jams had put a foot of water over the bridge he was hauling across. If we wanted any more lumber offen that lot this winter I better come quick.

Loaded half a case of dynamite, caps, crow bar and a few other instruments into the jeep and departed,

They was three ice jams below the bridge, just like a step of stairs. Oil a deal like that you blow the jam furthest down stream first. Otherwise you just double trouble.

While I was taping six stick shots to long poles, Perley and his boys crawled out onto the jam and power sawed the logs that was criss-crossed.

Pushed two six stick shots right down to the bottom of the river, wired up, lay down behind a big pine and come down on the stinger. Logs, ice and water went up.

It was just ten above. When the water hit the pines and hemlocks it made quite a few thousand diamonds sparkling in the sun.

Then we blowed the second jam. It didn't break up clean so we blowed it again.

There was one jam left. We cut holes in the ice, put a pair of six stick shots down, and pulled back the wire, a full hundred yards. Lay down behind the jeep and touched off.

Quarter-ton sections of solid water spun slow up over the pines, against the hard blue sky and come down very solid. The river let go. The bridge come clear, safe and solid.

Now it was three and we hadn't stopped for no dinner. Perley broke out a big thermos of coffee. We stood in the tote road, dragging on our cigarettes, wise cracking and letting the warm slide down. I do wisht a few of you fellers could of ben along. You might of liked it.