This morning on May 19--Armed Forces Day (2012), I marshaled forces for some serious wood cutting. I wore an old camouflage jacket with parachute wings and drill sergeant patch over my ripped up coveralls with Sprint embroidered over the breast pocket. No, I am not a poser. Tom drove his diesel Bug all the way from Eugene to participate in the physical abuse of wood cutting. He views wood cutting as alternate exercise. We hooked Bruce's (the neighbor from across the road) utility trailer to Linda's little grey Tundra and drove the mile and a half to the unit on Carpenter's Bypass where we met Quint and his friend Sean. They were driving Quint's big grey Tundra with a flatbed trailer behind it.
Bruce and I had hacked on this doug fir OG log before. It is on BLM land but a guy named Joe thinks it is on McKenzie River Trust land. The last time Bruce and I were cutting our way up the hill from the road, Joe, the local caretaker for McK Riv Trust came out and told us we were trespassing. Then he gave us permission to carry on. Since then, I have studied the map and I am positive we are on BLM land. I bought a BLM permit for the log. Still, it doesn't cost anything to call Joe and tell him we are gunna cut on his log. I left Joe a phone message last night telling him we were going to cut this morning.
Quint and I trudged up the steep hill packing chainsaws, a shovel, a couple wedges and a splitting maul along with jugs of saw gas and oil. Tom started up the slope but it was too steep for his acrophobia. Where Bruce and I had left off from last time, the log was over 24 inches and getting bigger each round. I toted a big old falling saw with a long bar. It is ungainly and awkward but is very powerful. When I cranked it up, it sounded like a dirt bike at idle. Blum, blum, blum.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the paved forest road below. Bruce wore an orange vest and hardhat, providing traffic control on the paved main logging road. There is a very popular mountain bike trailhead up the road so a lot of people were coming and going in automobiles this fine morning. Didn't see any bicycles. They mostly ride uphill from the staging area. I was surprised to see that at least half of the Disciples of Dirt drove massive 3/4 ton 4WD PUs with all the options, freighting their mountain bikes in the back.
Quint's big saw balked and didn't want to start after running out of gas. My antique Husky roared and its sharp chain ate through the big log. We were working on at least a 60 percent slope. This means that for every measured 100 horizontal feet, you ascend 60 vertical feet. My corks didn't buy me anything in the loose soil and woody debris. I probably should have worn my Go Devils.
Quint went down the hill and swapped out his dead big saw for his running little saw. I cut the log as close as I could to the dirt without rocking the chain of the old falling saw. Quint would then" eat dirt" with his little saw to complete the cut. If we ruined the big saw, we were out of business. We used the shovel to dig out the dirt from alongside the bole of the tree where it had embedded itself in a rise of the slope when it fell with tons of snow in its dying branches. Quint used his little saw to sever the bitter end of each round down to ground level and below. He was forced to sharpen the chain on the little saw several times while I did not, by avoiding sawchain contact with the ground. I had spent a good hour sharpening the old saw before we commenced cutting this morning and it was throwing chips.
Where we resumed cutting this time, was the impact area when the big fir snag crashed downhill in the wet snow of late winter. The last time we were cutting, we enjoyed cutting fully suspended log. The top of the tree had broken off in in the road and the first 40 feet were from five to one foot off the ground. I sliced off forty feet of rounds with a small to medium saw before the log quit being suspended and the rounds disappeared into the dirt. Chainsaws do not like dirt. A perfectly cutting chainsaw, like a perfectly running antique British motorcycle, is a joy to operate--and a pain in the ass when it decides to resist--even a little bit. Dirt and rock dull a razor sharp chain and you have the option of stopping to sharpen the saw or trying to force the dull saw through the wood. One side of the chain will be duller than the other and the saw will grind its way through the boll with a shallow (from the side) "C" shaped cut instead of a perfectly 90 degree slice across the stick.
The three men on the road stood around and BSed as Quint and I carved big, moon faced "pumpkins" off the receding log. We had to kneel on our uphill leg and keep the downhill one fully extended, We were developing quite a "chute" where we were rolling our rounds to the road below. Every cut we made increased the size and weight of the round and the pping dead.
The cutters on the hill were getting tired. We burned up a whole gallon of saw gas. I was starting to cramp up and could barely swing the splitting maul on the 60 percent slope.
We endeavored to persevere and finally got within 25 feet of the massive rootwad of the snow thrown giant. Quint and I agreed to quit. We rolled the last two chunks to the road and then gathered our gear to pack out. The road party started splitting the rounds and half rounds While we descended the slope. Quint was unable to find his big shorthandled Thor hammer and finally came down the hill without it.
I changed my cork boots for romeos and we started loading wood into vehicles. We blocked the road and had to move a few times as bi-cyclists came or went in their automobiles, bicycles in the back of the rig.
The office where I work owes Quint's National Guard motor section for extricating a pickup truck and the road dept backhoe that tried to rescue it. It is only right that we help out when we can. We were all amazed to discover that we had cut exactly the right amount of wood to fill both truck and trailer outfits. I was all cramped up for hours after this fun. Clearly, I am not gepping dead.
The cutters on the hill were getting tired. We burned up a whole gallon of saw gas. I was starting to cramp up and could barely swing the splitting maul on the 60 percent slope.
We endeavored to persevere and finally got within 25 feet of the massive rootwad of the snow thrown giant. Quint and I agreed to quit. We rolled the last two chunks to the road and then gathered our gear to pack out. The road party started splitting the rounds and half rounds While we descended the slope. Quint was unable to find his big shorthandled Thor hammer and finally came down the hill without it.
I changed my cork boots for romeos and we started loading wood into vehicles. We blocked the road and had to move a few times as bi-cyclists came or went in their automobiles, bicycles in the back of the rig.
The office where I work owes Quint's National Guard motor section for extricating a pickup truck and the road dept backhoe that tried to rescue it. It is only right that we help out when we can. We were all amazed to discover that we had cut exactly the right amount of wood to fill both truck and trailer outfits. I was all cramped up for hours after this fun. Clearly, I am not getting enough exercise.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
AA is for Anti Aircraft
Lots of farms around here have old equipment lying around, sinking into the ground. Old farming implements--mowers, seeders, combines, balers. Old logging arches, trucks, water tenders, crummies, even steam donkeys. One local farm has a Second World War Japanese anti aircraft gun mixed in with all the other machinery.
Oral history has it that local Sea Bees souvenired the three inch piece at the close of the war and brought it home along with enemy flags, pistols and samurai swords. After the Japanese saw the light (the blinding light over Hiroshima and Nagasaki) and surrendered, there were a lot of bored American servicemen scattered around the Pacific, waiting to go home. There was some incredible mechanical talent with multi million dollar machine shops at its disposal. Many "genuine" samurai swords gathering dust in Grampa's attic, started their lives as pranged airplane propellers.
The rusty old gun was most likely mounted on a ship and fired 75 millimeter shells at American dive bombers and torpedo planes that sought to sink the entire Japanese Navy. No telling how the Sea Bees got the thing home, but get it home they did. The gun spent four decades in front of the VFW hall in Junction City. Children liked to climb on the piece and fall off of it until it became viewed as a liability and was banished to a farm west of JC where it was forgotten along with tons upon tons of other rusty steel orphans, sinking a little deeper into the mud each year.
The price of scrap went way up and the current owner of the farm reduced his inventory and made mortgage payments until the old gun stood alone, muzzle pointing skyward out of a blackberry bramble. If you know where to look, you can make out Japanese characters and maybe even chrysanthemums stamped on the breech block.
The organization where I work shares a roof with 2nd Battalion of the 162 Regiment of the 41st Combat Brigade. The 41st spent almost four years in the Pacific combatting the Japanese in New Guinea and points west. We are cramped for room but it seems logical that we need to make space for the old relic as a war trophy. A little steel brush work, a coat of battleship grey, and we have a fine gate guard. Failing that, perhaps we can find a home for it at the Camp Withycombe Museum near Portland. N
Oral history has it that local Sea Bees souvenired the three inch piece at the close of the war and brought it home along with enemy flags, pistols and samurai swords. After the Japanese saw the light (the blinding light over Hiroshima and Nagasaki) and surrendered, there were a lot of bored American servicemen scattered around the Pacific, waiting to go home. There was some incredible mechanical talent with multi million dollar machine shops at its disposal. Many "genuine" samurai swords gathering dust in Grampa's attic, started their lives as pranged airplane propellers.
The rusty old gun was most likely mounted on a ship and fired 75 millimeter shells at American dive bombers and torpedo planes that sought to sink the entire Japanese Navy. No telling how the Sea Bees got the thing home, but get it home they did. The gun spent four decades in front of the VFW hall in Junction City. Children liked to climb on the piece and fall off of it until it became viewed as a liability and was banished to a farm west of JC where it was forgotten along with tons upon tons of other rusty steel orphans, sinking a little deeper into the mud each year.
The price of scrap went way up and the current owner of the farm reduced his inventory and made mortgage payments until the old gun stood alone, muzzle pointing skyward out of a blackberry bramble. If you know where to look, you can make out Japanese characters and maybe even chrysanthemums stamped on the breech block.
The organization where I work shares a roof with 2nd Battalion of the 162 Regiment of the 41st Combat Brigade. The 41st spent almost four years in the Pacific combatting the Japanese in New Guinea and points west. We are cramped for room but it seems logical that we need to make space for the old relic as a war trophy. A little steel brush work, a coat of battleship grey, and we have a fine gate guard. Failing that, perhaps we can find a home for it at the Camp Withycombe Museum near Portland. N
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Armed Forces Day Woodcutting
This morning on May 19--Armed Forces Day (2012), I marshaled forces for some serious wood cutting. I wore an old camouflage jacket with parachute wings and drill sergeant patch over my ripped up coveralls with Sprint embroidered over the breast pocket. No, I am not a poser. Tom drove his diesel Bug all the way from Eugene to participate in the physical abuse of wood cutting. He views wood cutting as alternate exercise. We hooked Bruce's (the neighbor from across the road) utility trailer to Linda's little grey Tundra and drove the mile and a half to the unit on Carpenter's Bypass where we met Quint and his friend Sean. They were driving Quint's big grey Tundra with a flatbed trailer behind it.
Bruce and I had hacked on this doug fir OG log before. It is on BLM land but a guy named Joe thinks it is on McKenzie River Trust land. The last time Bruce and I were cutting our way up the hill from the road, Joe, the local caretaker for McK Riv Trust came out and told us we were trespassing. Then he gave us permission to carry on. Since then, I have studied the map and I am positive we are on BLM land. I bought a BLM permit for the log. Still, it doesn't cost anything to call Joe and tell him we are gunna cut on his log. I left Joe a phone message last night telling him we were going to cut this morning.
Quint and I trudged up the steep hill packing chainsaws, a shovel, a couple wedges and a splitting maul along with jugs of saw gas and oil. Tom started up the slope but it was too steep for his acrophobia. Where Bruce and I had left off from last time, the log was over 24 inches and getting bigger each round. I toted a big old falling saw with a long bar. It is ungainly and awkward but is very powerful. When I cranked it up, it sounded like a dirt bike at idle. Blum, blum, blum.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the paved forest road below. Bruce wore an orange vest and hardhat, providing traffic control on the paved main logging road. There is a very popular mountain bike trailhead up the road so a lot of people were coming and going in automobiles this fine morning. Didn't see any bicycles. They mostly ride uphill from the staging area. I was surprised to see that at least half of the Disciples of Dirt drove massive 3/4 ton 4WD PUs with all the options, freighting their mountain bikes in the back.
Quint's big saw balked and didn't want to start after running out of gas. My antique Husky roared and its sharp chain ate through the big log. We were working on at least a 60 percent slope. This means that for every measured 100 horizontal feet, you ascend 60 vertical feet. My corks didn't buy me anything in the loose soil and woody debris. I probably should have worn my Go Devils.
Quint went down the hill and swapped out his dead big saw for his running little saw. I cut the log as close as I could to the dirt without rocking the chain of the old falling saw. Quint would then" eat dirt" with his little saw to complete the cut. If we ruined the big saw, we were out of business. We used the shovel to dig out the dirt from alongside the bole of the tree where it had embedded itself in a rise of the slope when it fell with tons of snow in its dying branches. Quint used his little saw to sever the bitter end of each round down to ground level and below. He was forced to sharpen the chain on the little saw several times while I did not, by avoiding sawchain contact with the ground. I had spent a good hour sharpening the old saw before we commenced cutting this morning and it was throwing chips.
Where we resumed cutting this time, was the impact area when the big fir snag crashed downhill in the wet snow of late winter. The last time we were cutting, we enjoyed cutting fully suspended log. The top of the tree had broken off in in the road and the first 40 feet were from five to one foot off the ground. I sliced off forty feet of rounds with a small to medium saw before the log quit being suspended and the rounds disappeared into the dirt. Chainsaws do not like dirt. A perfectly cutting chainsaw, like a perfectly running antique British motorcycle, is a joy to operate--and a pain in the ass when it decides to resist--even a little bit. Dirt and rock dull a razor sharp chain and you have the option of stopping to sharpen the saw or trying to force the dull saw through the wood. One side of the chain will be duller than the other and the saw will grind its way through the boll with a shallow (from the side) "C" shaped cut instead of a perfectly 90 degree slice across the stick.
The three men on the road stood around and BSed as Quint and I carved big, moon faced "pumpkins" off the receding log. We had to kneel on our uphill leg and keep the downhill one fully extended, We were developing quite a "chute" where we were rolling our rounds to the road below. Every cut we made increased the size and weight of the round and the longer the distance it had to achieve maximum velocity.
"Ground control" flagged cars and built a barricade of rounds and chunks to keep the next round from hitting the ditch and bouncing over the road. We finally resorted to splitting the rounds in half in situ so that the half rounds would crash against the growing wall of rounds and chunks at the beginning of the pavement and stop. One of us would hold an old axe head to the end of the still attached rounds while the other beat the wedge home with an underhand motion while the uphill leg was kneeling and the downhill was fully extended and locked uphill.
Quint and I got better and better at splitting rounds in half while still attached to the log. More and more of our chunks fetched up against the wall of wood on the shoulder of the pavement. We worked ourselves out of the trench where the trunk of the tree embedded itself and found some big trunk completely above the ground. We had to drive plastic wedges into the top of the cuts to keep the kerf from "pinching" from the tons of weight uphill bearing down on the downhill end of the the log. We spilt off half chunks before finishing the job severing the stem. The half rounds were hitting the wood piles at the edge of the road and were more often than not, stopping dead.
The cutters on the hill were getting tired. We burned up a whole gallon of saw gas. I was starting to cramp up and could barely swing the splitting maul on the 60 percent slope.
We endeavored to persevere and finally got within 25 feet of the massive rootwad of the snow thrown giant. Quint and I agreed to quit. We rolled the last two chunks to the road and then gathered our gear to pack out. The road party started splitting the rounds and half rounds While we descended the slope. Quint was unable to find his big shorthandled Thor hammer and finally came down the hill without it.
I changed my cork boots for romeos and we started loading wood into vehicles. We blocked the road and had to move a few times as bi-cyclists came or went in their automobiles, bicycles in the back of the rig.
The office where I work owes Quint's National Guard motor section for extricating a pickup truck and the road dept backhoe that tried to rescue it. It is only right that we help out when we can. We were all amazed to discover that we had cut exactly the right amount of wood to fill both truck and trailer outfits. I was all cramped up for hours after this fun. Clearly, I am not getting enough exercise.
Bruce and I had hacked on this doug fir OG log before. It is on BLM land but a guy named Joe thinks it is on McKenzie River Trust land. The last time Bruce and I were cutting our way up the hill from the road, Joe, the local caretaker for McK Riv Trust came out and told us we were trespassing. Then he gave us permission to carry on. Since then, I have studied the map and I am positive we are on BLM land. I bought a BLM permit for the log. Still, it doesn't cost anything to call Joe and tell him we are gunna cut on his log. I left Joe a phone message last night telling him we were going to cut this morning.
Quint and I trudged up the steep hill packing chainsaws, a shovel, a couple wedges and a splitting maul along with jugs of saw gas and oil. Tom started up the slope but it was too steep for his acrophobia. Where Bruce and I had left off from last time, the log was over 24 inches and getting bigger each round. I toted a big old falling saw with a long bar. It is ungainly and awkward but is very powerful. When I cranked it up, it sounded like a dirt bike at idle. Blum, blum, blum.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the paved forest road below. Bruce wore an orange vest and hardhat, providing traffic control on the paved main logging road. There is a very popular mountain bike trailhead up the road so a lot of people were coming and going in automobiles this fine morning. Didn't see any bicycles. They mostly ride uphill from the staging area. I was surprised to see that at least half of the Disciples of Dirt drove massive 3/4 ton 4WD PUs with all the options, freighting their mountain bikes in the back.
Quint's big saw balked and didn't want to start after running out of gas. My antique Husky roared and its sharp chain ate through the big log. We were working on at least a 60 percent slope. This means that for every measured 100 horizontal feet, you ascend 60 vertical feet. My corks didn't buy me anything in the loose soil and woody debris. I probably should have worn my Go Devils.
Quint went down the hill and swapped out his dead big saw for his running little saw. I cut the log as close as I could to the dirt without rocking the chain of the old falling saw. Quint would then" eat dirt" with his little saw to complete the cut. If we ruined the big saw, we were out of business. We used the shovel to dig out the dirt from alongside the bole of the tree where it had embedded itself in a rise of the slope when it fell with tons of snow in its dying branches. Quint used his little saw to sever the bitter end of each round down to ground level and below. He was forced to sharpen the chain on the little saw several times while I did not, by avoiding sawchain contact with the ground. I had spent a good hour sharpening the old saw before we commenced cutting this morning and it was throwing chips.
Where we resumed cutting this time, was the impact area when the big fir snag crashed downhill in the wet snow of late winter. The last time we were cutting, we enjoyed cutting fully suspended log. The top of the tree had broken off in in the road and the first 40 feet were from five to one foot off the ground. I sliced off forty feet of rounds with a small to medium saw before the log quit being suspended and the rounds disappeared into the dirt. Chainsaws do not like dirt. A perfectly cutting chainsaw, like a perfectly running antique British motorcycle, is a joy to operate--and a pain in the ass when it decides to resist--even a little bit. Dirt and rock dull a razor sharp chain and you have the option of stopping to sharpen the saw or trying to force the dull saw through the wood. One side of the chain will be duller than the other and the saw will grind its way through the boll with a shallow (from the side) "C" shaped cut instead of a perfectly 90 degree slice across the stick.
The three men on the road stood around and BSed as Quint and I carved big, moon faced "pumpkins" off the receding log. We had to kneel on our uphill leg and keep the downhill one fully extended, We were developing quite a "chute" where we were rolling our rounds to the road below. Every cut we made increased the size and weight of the round and the longer the distance it had to achieve maximum velocity.
"Ground control" flagged cars and built a barricade of rounds and chunks to keep the next round from hitting the ditch and bouncing over the road. We finally resorted to splitting the rounds in half in situ so that the half rounds would crash against the growing wall of rounds and chunks at the beginning of the pavement and stop. One of us would hold an old axe head to the end of the still attached rounds while the other beat the wedge home with an underhand motion while the uphill leg was kneeling and the downhill was fully extended and locked uphill.
Quint and I got better and better at splitting rounds in half while still attached to the log. More and more of our chunks fetched up against the wall of wood on the shoulder of the pavement. We worked ourselves out of the trench where the trunk of the tree embedded itself and found some big trunk completely above the ground. We had to drive plastic wedges into the top of the cuts to keep the kerf from "pinching" from the tons of weight uphill bearing down on the downhill end of the the log. We spilt off half chunks before finishing the job severing the stem. The half rounds were hitting the wood piles at the edge of the road and were more often than not, stopping dead.
The cutters on the hill were getting tired. We burned up a whole gallon of saw gas. I was starting to cramp up and could barely swing the splitting maul on the 60 percent slope.
We endeavored to persevere and finally got within 25 feet of the massive rootwad of the snow thrown giant. Quint and I agreed to quit. We rolled the last two chunks to the road and then gathered our gear to pack out. The road party started splitting the rounds and half rounds While we descended the slope. Quint was unable to find his big shorthandled Thor hammer and finally came down the hill without it.
I changed my cork boots for romeos and we started loading wood into vehicles. We blocked the road and had to move a few times as bi-cyclists came or went in their automobiles, bicycles in the back of the rig.
The office where I work owes Quint's National Guard motor section for extricating a pickup truck and the road dept backhoe that tried to rescue it. It is only right that we help out when we can. We were all amazed to discover that we had cut exactly the right amount of wood to fill both truck and trailer outfits. I was all cramped up for hours after this fun. Clearly, I am not getting enough exercise.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Play Date with the Guard
The Bureau of Land Management's Eugene District is composed of thousands of acres of steep terrain, navigated by zig zag gravel roads. For the 20 years I've been working here, some people entertain themselves with recreational dumping on public land. One aspect of this fun consists of rolling derelict and/or stolen automobiles off high places so that they land hundreds of feet downslope. I think the yahoos doing this must be re enacting their favorite scenes from Dukes of Hazzard, or maybe Rebel Without a Cause. Then, too, there is the recreational dumping sport of "Bridgestone Bowling" where Bubba and Billy Bob roll unwanted tires over the side of forest roads.
I have always stayed on top of the abandoned vehicles left on landings in the woods and have utilized the Forest Work Camp crews to tote hundreds of tires up the hill to be hauled to town. I am approaching 700 junk cars, trucks, motorhomes, pickup campers, camp trailers, boats and loads of tires removed from the land since I assumed this duty.
A year or two ago, I got a call from the warrant officer in charge of the the local National Guard's Echo Company Motor Section. Mr Barnaby wanted to know if there were any dead cars in need of retrieval from over the side on BLM land so his people could practice using the five ton wrecker in recovering vehicles. We did a field trip south of Cottage Grove and looked at a half dozen heaps that had been Evel Knievaled off a 200 foot bluff but decided that was beyond our capability. Eventually I remembered where somebody had pushed three junkers over the side of a clear cut and the reprod had grown up so that you couldn't see them any more.
Since then, Echo Company has yarded up at least half a dozen "problem children" out of canyons for me. Their monster wrecker is very powerful and has a rear facing PTO winch with a three quarter inch cable. Staff Sergeant Scott and the gang can be very creative using blocks (big pulleys) chained to trees to pull a Suburban carcass up a dogleg chute created by dirt bikes.
Friday's target was a Ford Explorer somebody had stolen in Sheridan and tired of, so over the side it went. Australia Road is a happening place when it comes to dumping. It is less than fifteen miles from the new multi agency office. The National Guard and the Forest Service have already moved in. The Bureau is going to move in this summer as soon as a add on building goes up to house our overflow since the original design. I volunteered to take an early out.
I was sitting in my Expedition in front of the boarded up Camp Creek beer store. The gang was supposed to meet me at 0900. At five minutes til, the light green GSA six pack came around the corner closely followed by the big green wrecker. I started up and led the mighty convoy the four miles to Australia Road. There is a logging show up the left fork of the road but we make a right. A truck driver was cinching his load of logs on the pavement and ten foured everybody that we were coming up the hill.
The wrecker slowed to a crawl going up the steep gravel road. I pulled over at the site and five guardsmen piled out of the six pack in new mechanics' shop uniforms. I pointed out the front of the junk Explorer a hundred and twenty feet down, behind a hazel bush, lying on its side. The crew is oriented and has a plan by the time the wrecker comes around the last corner.
The road is wide enough for the green machine to turn broadside with its boom hanging over the slope. One man grabs the bull hook and walks the cable down the hill. The winch pays out very, very slowly. It doesn't free spool. It is designed to move deuce anna halfs and even armored vehicles on the flat. The hillside is littered with animal bones.
The men in the hole run a chain around the frame of the heap. Somebody has helped themselves to the rear axle and transfer case so it is that much lighter. Sergeant Scott put the winch in forward gear and the massive cable comes taught. The Explorer budges and then creeps up the hill on its side. It flops over on a boulder and rolls along like a circus seal on a ball for while.
Doug, our PR guy, shows up and photographs the heap coming onto the road. The crew leaves it on its side so I can remove the gas tank. A man starts back down with the cable. Two more guys have made a necklace of tires on a chain to pull up. The bushes downslope are taking a beating.
The crew loads up and flees the scene. I try to start my rig but the emergency flashers have drained the battery. Oops. At least the radio works so I raise Doug who comes back and jump starts my Expedition. I should get a new one shortly so I refrain from buying new tires or a battery for this (04) one.
I pull the Explorer on its belly and winch it on the dead car trailer. I manage to cram and stack the 14 large tires in the junk car and strap them on the deck of the trailer. Call it a load and head for the barn. The Explorer weighed 3,200 pounds at the steel yard. N
I have always stayed on top of the abandoned vehicles left on landings in the woods and have utilized the Forest Work Camp crews to tote hundreds of tires up the hill to be hauled to town. I am approaching 700 junk cars, trucks, motorhomes, pickup campers, camp trailers, boats and loads of tires removed from the land since I assumed this duty.
A year or two ago, I got a call from the warrant officer in charge of the the local National Guard's Echo Company Motor Section. Mr Barnaby wanted to know if there were any dead cars in need of retrieval from over the side on BLM land so his people could practice using the five ton wrecker in recovering vehicles. We did a field trip south of Cottage Grove and looked at a half dozen heaps that had been Evel Knievaled off a 200 foot bluff but decided that was beyond our capability. Eventually I remembered where somebody had pushed three junkers over the side of a clear cut and the reprod had grown up so that you couldn't see them any more.
Since then, Echo Company has yarded up at least half a dozen "problem children" out of canyons for me. Their monster wrecker is very powerful and has a rear facing PTO winch with a three quarter inch cable. Staff Sergeant Scott and the gang can be very creative using blocks (big pulleys) chained to trees to pull a Suburban carcass up a dogleg chute created by dirt bikes.
Friday's target was a Ford Explorer somebody had stolen in Sheridan and tired of, so over the side it went. Australia Road is a happening place when it comes to dumping. It is less than fifteen miles from the new multi agency office. The National Guard and the Forest Service have already moved in. The Bureau is going to move in this summer as soon as a add on building goes up to house our overflow since the original design. I volunteered to take an early out.
I was sitting in my Expedition in front of the boarded up Camp Creek beer store. The gang was supposed to meet me at 0900. At five minutes til, the light green GSA six pack came around the corner closely followed by the big green wrecker. I started up and led the mighty convoy the four miles to Australia Road. There is a logging show up the left fork of the road but we make a right. A truck driver was cinching his load of logs on the pavement and ten foured everybody that we were coming up the hill.
The wrecker slowed to a crawl going up the steep gravel road. I pulled over at the site and five guardsmen piled out of the six pack in new mechanics' shop uniforms. I pointed out the front of the junk Explorer a hundred and twenty feet down, behind a hazel bush, lying on its side. The crew is oriented and has a plan by the time the wrecker comes around the last corner.
The road is wide enough for the green machine to turn broadside with its boom hanging over the slope. One man grabs the bull hook and walks the cable down the hill. The winch pays out very, very slowly. It doesn't free spool. It is designed to move deuce anna halfs and even armored vehicles on the flat. The hillside is littered with animal bones.
The men in the hole run a chain around the frame of the heap. Somebody has helped themselves to the rear axle and transfer case so it is that much lighter. Sergeant Scott put the winch in forward gear and the massive cable comes taught. The Explorer budges and then creeps up the hill on its side. It flops over on a boulder and rolls along like a circus seal on a ball for while.
Doug, our PR guy, shows up and photographs the heap coming onto the road. The crew leaves it on its side so I can remove the gas tank. A man starts back down with the cable. Two more guys have made a necklace of tires on a chain to pull up. The bushes downslope are taking a beating.
The crew loads up and flees the scene. I try to start my rig but the emergency flashers have drained the battery. Oops. At least the radio works so I raise Doug who comes back and jump starts my Expedition. I should get a new one shortly so I refrain from buying new tires or a battery for this (04) one.
I pull the Explorer on its belly and winch it on the dead car trailer. I manage to cram and stack the 14 large tires in the junk car and strap them on the deck of the trailer. Call it a load and head for the barn. The Explorer weighed 3,200 pounds at the steel yard. N
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Whatever Floats Your Boat
My father died without a will on Mother's Day 2009. He told his last wife, my sister and I that he wanted his wife to have his money (such as it was) and his two children to have his personal property.
Upon his death, his widow's attitude rapidly changed. Instead of being happy to have Sis and I around to change diapers and so forth, she was convinced that we were out to rip her off. I took Dear Old Dad at his word and liberated his firearms and fishing poles. After the funeral, I was happy to see the last of the "bunt" (two words for the price of one) and ride off into the sunset.
Bunt tried to file a police report on the theft. She spiced up the take with the addition of 50 towels taken. The cop lost interest when she finally admitted the thief was the deceased son. The cop closed his notebook and labled it a "family dispute."
The only big ticket item that Bunt was unable to appropriate without probate was Dad's boat. Its title was in his name only. I called the Oregon Marine Board from time to time and eventually, discovered that Bunt had convinced somebody that she was the sole surviving heir and someone had changed the title in her name.
I swiftly set the record straight and the OMB sent somebody to her door to reclaim the newly issued title to the boat. I went on the offensive and contacted Bunt through her niece, communicating that I would be willing to have Sis and I sign off on the boat title for Dad's personal property as his request.
Bunt's lawyer emailed me and poo pooed the idea and tried to sell me the boat for $2,500. That assumed the value of the boat to be $5K and Bunt receiving half the value. The lawyer further said to accept the offer or not bother him any more. I ceased communications.
Yesterday, close to two years later, the lawyer's understrapper contacted Sis and I and offered us the princely sum of $250 apiece to sign off the title of the boat. We will counter with receiving Dad's personal stuff or the boat can rot. It would have been nice if Dear Old Dad had done a will but there is no reason to assume that he would do something as responsible as that. We shall see how this plays out.
Upon his death, his widow's attitude rapidly changed. Instead of being happy to have Sis and I around to change diapers and so forth, she was convinced that we were out to rip her off. I took Dear Old Dad at his word and liberated his firearms and fishing poles. After the funeral, I was happy to see the last of the "bunt" (two words for the price of one) and ride off into the sunset.
Bunt tried to file a police report on the theft. She spiced up the take with the addition of 50 towels taken. The cop lost interest when she finally admitted the thief was the deceased son. The cop closed his notebook and labled it a "family dispute."
The only big ticket item that Bunt was unable to appropriate without probate was Dad's boat. Its title was in his name only. I called the Oregon Marine Board from time to time and eventually, discovered that Bunt had convinced somebody that she was the sole surviving heir and someone had changed the title in her name.
I swiftly set the record straight and the OMB sent somebody to her door to reclaim the newly issued title to the boat. I went on the offensive and contacted Bunt through her niece, communicating that I would be willing to have Sis and I sign off on the boat title for Dad's personal property as his request.
Bunt's lawyer emailed me and poo pooed the idea and tried to sell me the boat for $2,500. That assumed the value of the boat to be $5K and Bunt receiving half the value. The lawyer further said to accept the offer or not bother him any more. I ceased communications.
Yesterday, close to two years later, the lawyer's understrapper contacted Sis and I and offered us the princely sum of $250 apiece to sign off the title of the boat. We will counter with receiving Dad's personal stuff or the boat can rot. It would have been nice if Dear Old Dad had done a will but there is no reason to assume that he would do something as responsible as that. We shall see how this plays out.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Sanford & Son--Moving Day
The agency where I work moved in with the Forest Service and the National Guard along with the MCR and the Navy Reserves a couple years back. Space is limited and we no longer had an acre of graveled lot behind the warehouse like we used to on Chad Drive.
Our Recreation Department rented space from the Lame County Dept of Public Works on Delta Highway. Recently the county raised the rent to the point where it was decided that the three rec techs would return to Gorky Park. I was sent packing across the parking lot to Gilligan's Island to make room for the three. The head of the Rec Dept opted to retire rather than return to Gorky Park. He liked his little fiefdom off away from the main office and didn't wish to have supervisors drop in whenever they felt like it.
Our Rec people have a temporary shed built on three 4 X 4 skids that was inside a big garage. The 8' X 16' shed was full of tools and signs and just plain junk. Somebody called the outfit that built the shed and was quoted a price of three grand to move the building to its new home in the cramped space behind the warehouse. I poo pooed the idea and declared that we could move the building utilizing organic resources with our dead car trailer. I connected the battered trailer to Papa (Papa Oscar Sierra), the giant four door diesel power pickup and Dan and I headed for the Lame County Dept of Public Works.
We were able to borrow two forklifts and helped Ken, John, Paul and Rob unload all the crap out of the dusty building. We had four pickup including Papa and we pretty much filled them all with tons of tools and other stuff. Then we skidded the building outside with the two forklifts. Dan backed the trailer to the end of the brown building with the door and we messed around trying to throw a piece of parachute cord tied to a trailer ball the 16 feet under the shed. We finally resorted to lifting the shed from the side with a forklift and successfully rigged a chain around behind the middle skid.
I pulled tight with the rear facing electric winch and the two ton shed skidded along to the loading ramps of the 18 foot tiltbed trailer. With some assist with forklifts, I put a 2 inch metal pipe under the front of the skids and this made the building move a little easier. It was still necessary to hook a pulley to the chain at the front of the building and bring the main line back to the front of the trailer for mechanical advantage. The shed was wider than the fenders on the trailer but the three skids fit between them. I brought a round post that we placed against the industrial strength fenders and lifted the skids on top of.
I had miscalculated and the floor of the shed was going to drag on the fender tops. John found a couple pieces of scrap 2 X 6, which when placed under the pole, gave it enough height so that the floor cleared the diamond steel fenders that covered the trailer's four wheels. Eventually the trailer tilted level and we pinned the deck with an old tire iron and retaining pin. The top of the shed was close to 13 feet above the pavement. Nobody was sure of the height of traffic signals and power lines but it seemed that since the pros had moved the thing here, we would be able to move it across town to its new home.
We set out with two pilot trucks and a chase truck--all filled with rec equipment. Papa pulled the load easily with its mighty turbo diesel. A sheriff waved as he passed us so apparently we weren't going to be hassled by the police. Dan made the turns very slowly so we didn't lose the building in the middle of a busy intersection. We dawdled along at between 15 and 20 mph. John in the chase rig reported on the radio that the top of the building was missing wires and traffic signals by at least a meter.
Our mighty convoy plodded east, crossing Coburg road. Inconvenienced raced past us yelling at us enthusiastically and rendering the one finger salute. Apparently they were telling us that they still thought BLM was number one! We crossed under I-5 into Springfield and idled past River Bend Hospital. Dan elected to travel a busier stretch of road to the office. There were back ways with little traffic but the power lines might have been lower. We cruised around the parking lot seeking the best way to back the rig to where we would drop the shed. I left the unloading to the rest of the herd and went back to Gilligan's Island to finish my retirement paperwork. N
Our Recreation Department rented space from the Lame County Dept of Public Works on Delta Highway. Recently the county raised the rent to the point where it was decided that the three rec techs would return to Gorky Park. I was sent packing across the parking lot to Gilligan's Island to make room for the three. The head of the Rec Dept opted to retire rather than return to Gorky Park. He liked his little fiefdom off away from the main office and didn't wish to have supervisors drop in whenever they felt like it.
Our Rec people have a temporary shed built on three 4 X 4 skids that was inside a big garage. The 8' X 16' shed was full of tools and signs and just plain junk. Somebody called the outfit that built the shed and was quoted a price of three grand to move the building to its new home in the cramped space behind the warehouse. I poo pooed the idea and declared that we could move the building utilizing organic resources with our dead car trailer. I connected the battered trailer to Papa (Papa Oscar Sierra), the giant four door diesel power pickup and Dan and I headed for the Lame County Dept of Public Works.
We were able to borrow two forklifts and helped Ken, John, Paul and Rob unload all the crap out of the dusty building. We had four pickup including Papa and we pretty much filled them all with tons of tools and other stuff. Then we skidded the building outside with the two forklifts. Dan backed the trailer to the end of the brown building with the door and we messed around trying to throw a piece of parachute cord tied to a trailer ball the 16 feet under the shed. We finally resorted to lifting the shed from the side with a forklift and successfully rigged a chain around behind the middle skid.
I pulled tight with the rear facing electric winch and the two ton shed skidded along to the loading ramps of the 18 foot tiltbed trailer. With some assist with forklifts, I put a 2 inch metal pipe under the front of the skids and this made the building move a little easier. It was still necessary to hook a pulley to the chain at the front of the building and bring the main line back to the front of the trailer for mechanical advantage. The shed was wider than the fenders on the trailer but the three skids fit between them. I brought a round post that we placed against the industrial strength fenders and lifted the skids on top of.
I had miscalculated and the floor of the shed was going to drag on the fender tops. John found a couple pieces of scrap 2 X 6, which when placed under the pole, gave it enough height so that the floor cleared the diamond steel fenders that covered the trailer's four wheels. Eventually the trailer tilted level and we pinned the deck with an old tire iron and retaining pin. The top of the shed was close to 13 feet above the pavement. Nobody was sure of the height of traffic signals and power lines but it seemed that since the pros had moved the thing here, we would be able to move it across town to its new home.
We set out with two pilot trucks and a chase truck--all filled with rec equipment. Papa pulled the load easily with its mighty turbo diesel. A sheriff waved as he passed us so apparently we weren't going to be hassled by the police. Dan made the turns very slowly so we didn't lose the building in the middle of a busy intersection. We dawdled along at between 15 and 20 mph. John in the chase rig reported on the radio that the top of the building was missing wires and traffic signals by at least a meter.
Our mighty convoy plodded east, crossing Coburg road. Inconvenienced raced past us yelling at us enthusiastically and rendering the one finger salute. Apparently they were telling us that they still thought BLM was number one! We crossed under I-5 into Springfield and idled past River Bend Hospital. Dan elected to travel a busier stretch of road to the office. There were back ways with little traffic but the power lines might have been lower. We cruised around the parking lot seeking the best way to back the rig to where we would drop the shed. I left the unloading to the rest of the herd and went back to Gilligan's Island to finish my retirement paperwork. N
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
A Horse in the Race
It's election time again and our local news paper is busy beating the drum for a new conservative North Eugene county commissioner. This is well and good, but the Guard needs to come out of the closet and admit to owning considerable real estate on Old Coburg Road--which is inside the North Eugene district.
In 2008, the Guard advocated voting for both Bobby Greene (for N Eugene CC) and Jim Torrey for Mayor. Both of these individuals are much more user friendly to developers than the current incumbents. I wrote a nice letter to the editor pointing out these inconsistencies and calling for the Guard to come out of the closet and admit to having a horse in the race. For some reason, the letter hasn't been printed.
Developing around here has always been a way for the few to make a lot of money and then run away and allow the little people pay for the infrastructure. A classic example of this would be the town of Veneta.
Veneta is a small town using wells for its water needs. Developers threw down a bunch of houses over the protests of local land use watchdog groups and now the town needs a pipeline from Eugene to transport water out to the little town. The initial estimate was 17 million dollars but it will undoubtedly double or triple by the time the rubber meets the road.
The developers won't be footing the bill. The chump taxpayers will.
In 2008, the Guard advocated voting for both Bobby Greene (for N Eugene CC) and Jim Torrey for Mayor. Both of these individuals are much more user friendly to developers than the current incumbents. I wrote a nice letter to the editor pointing out these inconsistencies and calling for the Guard to come out of the closet and admit to having a horse in the race. For some reason, the letter hasn't been printed.
Developing around here has always been a way for the few to make a lot of money and then run away and allow the little people pay for the infrastructure. A classic example of this would be the town of Veneta.
Veneta is a small town using wells for its water needs. Developers threw down a bunch of houses over the protests of local land use watchdog groups and now the town needs a pipeline from Eugene to transport water out to the little town. The initial estimate was 17 million dollars but it will undoubtedly double or triple by the time the rubber meets the road.
The developers won't be footing the bill. The chump taxpayers will.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)