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.
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