A Chainsaw and a Roadblock
Life on the ridge changes with the season. At times it feels more like a burden. A Sisyphean task, fixing things I’ve fixed many times before. Is the effort still worth it?, I ask myself often. A week of heavy rain created new issues that needed addressed. Saturday, we were walking down the driveway for a trip into town and found a downed chestnut oak. After eleven years up here, you’d think it’d be impossible to be surprised, but that’s far from the truth. While trees have fallen across the driveway before, there’s never been one of this size. For the rest of the day off the ridge I was distracted, consumed with mentally preparing a plan of action for yet another roadblock.
We had a rain-free window on Monday morning. I’ve never pretended to be a chainsaw-slinging lumberjack whose skills are an act of divinity. In fact, I generally dislike using the chainsaw and only do so out of necessity. Anything that could, potentially, remove a limb (mine) within seconds gives me hesitation. But Kinz and I carried it, along with a hatchet, a tape measure, and a standard toolkit down the driveway.
As with most obstacles, it seemed larger once I was facing it, chainsaw warming up on the ground. A failing root system gave way in the waterlogged soil, dropping the tree from a shelf about twelve feet up the hillside. The force buried the tree ¾ of the way into the ground on the opposite side of driveway. 53” in circumference where I planned to cut it, about fifteen feet from its uprooted base. Under compression, I began cutting the tree from underneath. The hope was that one side would drop into the ditch, and the other would remain off the ground from its point of contact. What I didn’t take into consideration was how wet the hillside still was. I felt the cut closing about halfway through, and even stopped to talk to Kinz about a solution. She’s been talking me off of ledges for over twenty years. Ultimately, I committed the greatest sin while working in the woods – ignoring a problem I clearly saw because I was in a hurry.
As the last fibers were cut, the fifteen-foot lower section of the tree didn’t drop, but simply slid forward, pinching the bar of my chainsaw in the process. After a few minutes of verbally lacerating myself, we hiked back up to the house and for a wedge and a sledgehammer. I started the wedge into the cut above the bar. Kinz held the chainsaw while I gave the tree a few heavy hits on the backside of the cut. The lower section broke loose and fell into the drainage ditch as Kinz moved the freed chainsaw out of harm’s way. Three minutes was all it took to prevent a nightmare of a problem. I cut the part of the tree still over the driveway into rounds, each a foot in length. It took nine before I was confident our Subaru would be able to pass safely. I rolled the nine rounds into the ditch, where they’d stay until the driveway was dry enough to drive on.
It’s Tuesday and it’s raining again. The sound is like soft static. Midday, I walk down to check the mail. I’m expecting an important package. It hasn’t arrived but another book has. Sesshu Foster’s Atomik Aztex, which I purchased solely off of Rick Harsch’s praises. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Last week, after completely giving up, I mean realizing that I could finally let go, a shift happened. I heard back about a new job. A favorite writer’s lost manuscript I’ve spent a decade searching for found me instead. Walking back up and the rain is heavier. It strengthens the scents of home: spicebush, petrichor, and oak. With ease, I pass the section the tree had blocked only yesterday. I make a mental note about navigating roadblocks, laughing and soaked through, realizing I don’t belong anywhere else.
