I grew up near the Middle Fork of the Kentucky River during the 1920s. At the time, the first spring flooding of the river, usually during the month of March, was an exciting time for us boys. It was a time when log rafts passed by, continually, during the tide.

We boys enjoyed standing on the river bank and watching the rafts go by. Some rafts were long and were manned by four to six men. Short rafts were operated by two or three men. Each raft was steered or guided by two long oars, one in front, and one was attached to the rear. On all rafts, the steersman manned or helped man the rear oar. He also shouted orders to the operators of the front oar. They pulled the oar in whichever direction he told them to pull. The safety of the raft often depended upon the skill and judgment of the steersman.

One place in the river was an "L" or "elbow" curve. We often stationed ourselves where we could watch the rafts maneuver through the curve. The current through the curve was very tricky. It rushed against a cliff, then turned abruptly back to the center of the river. The raft could easily be slammed against the cliff.

But it seemed that most steersmen knew the curve and the current. They always did a lot of direction shouting to the oarsmen, who did a lot of pulling on the oars. Though some rafts seemed to have had close calls, they always shot around the curve.

During all our watching, only one raft bumped into the cliff. It was a short raft and manned by only two men. The men desperately fought the current, but it was too strong for them. I expected to see the logs tear loose from the long poles that held them together, but only two or three front logs were loosened, and the front oar was dislodged from the large wooden peg it turned on. The raft was shorter than the river was wide, at that point.

The raft changed ends and continued on down the river, while the two crew members desperately worked the (then) front oar, trying to keep the raft straight and in the center of the river. They were doing a good job of it, as far as we could see them. Later, I learned the men were able to tie the raft to a tree a few miles farther down the river. They repaired the raft and continued the trip.

At the time, I believe, most rafted timber was sold at Beattyville. I believe Heidelberg was just about as far as any rafted logs were taken. But old-timers, at the time, told how, in their younger days, rafted logs were taken all the way to Frankfort, before the logs could be sold. According to them, a trip to Frankfort and back required about two weeks.

Also the old-time loggers didn't think much of the non-mountain people. After leaving the mountains, raft crews were forced to camp out after tying the raft up for the night. None of the private homes would take them in.

The old-timers also thought hotel owners in Frankfort were awful funny. They wanted a fellow to spit his tobacco juice into a big fancy brass vase. They called a fellow down if he spat on the grate or in the fireplace. And if he spat on the floor, they got hot under the collar.

One old man said, "Yeah, them city fellers were awful quare. They shore didn't think much of us country fellers. I guess we thought even less of them!"

But by the end of the 1920s, just about all the river rafts disappeared. The river tides still came early every spring. We would look for the log rafts that always came with such tides. But all we could see was the driftwood and the yellow water rushing by.