One of the many jobs my grampy worked was that of a ‘log driver’. He would hitch rides to various logging camps, and when they were ready to ‘drive’ the logs down the river to the paper mill, his skills were in great demand.
In his stories, he told of many a man who lost his life on the logs, either by tragic accidents, or by carelessness.
Sometimes, when the logs tangled, the log drivers had to walk out on the slippery logs and free them. This was both dangerous and challenging. Only the best survived.
This is my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers.