Thursday, November 2, 1970, was a beautiful day in Florence, Oregon. One reporter wrote, “The sun was shining and there was a gentle breeze.” A crowd of onlookers gathered about a mile south of the Siuslaw River to watch the Oregon State Highway Department’s planned demolition. By the time Walter Umenhofer arrived, the crowd had grown so large that he had to park his year-old car about a quarter of a mile down the highway from the demolition site. Walter and the other onlookers, along with a host of reporters watched for two hours as the highway department’s six-man crew led by George Thornton prepared for the explosion.
Walter and the spectators took turns taking photographs in front of the object that would soon cease to exist. Some onlookers tried to convince the workers to wait until the following Monday to set off the dynamite so more people could take one last look, but George refused. His team had done too much work to turn back. George was unsure how much dynamite he needed so he overcompensated. He explained, “I wanted to make sure we did the job the first time because I wouldn’t want to go back in there after it had been partially blown up.” Rather than placing the dynamite into the object, George and his team dug holes underneath it to place the explosives. When George’s men brought out the explosives, a green-helmeted sheriff’s deputy moved people back to what he thought was a safe distance. Then, George and his team carefully placed twenty 50-pound cases of dynamite. Many of the onlookers watched through binoculars and telescopic camera lenses as George gave the signal to push the plunger.
BOOOM!!! Within milliseconds of the explosion, everyone present realized that they were in danger. George and his team had used too much dynamite and the placement of the dynamite under the object sent sand and chunks of debris in every direction. A column of sand and fragments reached approximately 100 feet into the sky. Some newspapers reported the column reached “hundreds of feet into the sky.” The onlookers screamed, ran, and ducked for cover as the large chunks, some of which weighed up to a ton, flew over them. The blast was so powerful that it left a crater five feet deep and 50 feet across. Somehow, none of the onlookers were injured though they were all covered with sand and rubble. After the shock wore off, the onlookers began to make their way back to their vehicles. As Walter walked the quarter mile back to his year-old car, he saw that a crowd had gathered around it. Walter’s heart sank when he saw that a three-foot chunk of debris had struck the roof of his car with such force that it had crushed it flat to the top of the seats and had broken all the windows in the car. He told a reporter, “My insurance company’s never going to believe this.” With the huge number of photos and videos from the explosion as evidence, the Oregon State Highway Division’s insurance company had no choice and paid Walter for his car. For the rest of his life, Walter Umenhofer had a whale of tale that I would bet my meager life savings that only he, in the whole history of mankind, can claim. The object that destroyed Walter’s car in the explosion was part of a dead, beached sperm whale.
Source:
1. Eugene Register-Guard, November 13, 1970, p.1.
2. The Observer (La Grande, Oregon), November 13, 1970, p.9.
3. Victoria Advocate, November 26, 1970, p.1.
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