RandyMac
Stiff Member
Originally Posted by slowp. Edited from "Huge Trees"
I started out here when the big stuff was still being logged. It was scary and I usually just stayed out of the way during falling operations. I'd check their work after they went home. They took a while to get those trees on the ground, and around here often had another guy along to pack gear and pound in wedges.
There was a lot of breakage. The tops exploded when they hit the ground.
To cruise those big punkins (estimate the volume before cutting) you'd stand back and try to figure out where the tree was going to bust up and put that top diameter on the data card. There was a lot of other defect in them too.
The mills were not as efficient so a lot of "cull" logs were left either in the unit or on the landings and burned. The landing wood might get sold again for pulp, but was left for the firewood cutters and then burned. I only had an 032 with a 20 inch bar so had a hard time finding small enough wood to cut.
The slash in the clearcuts was deep. I was following a 6 foot guy through it and he let out an "oops" and disappeared. That was how deep that bit of slash left after yarding was. That's why those units were burned. You had to be able to get to the soil for planting.
The spiders didn't quit, whiskey slowed them down, but they are a crawlin'.
Old Growth, brings to most minds, parks or groves, treasured remnants of what was. Dark, peaceful, a place to reflect on one's place in the World.
Now, welcome to my Old Growth World. My past is littered with stumps and shattered debris, evidence of my passage is marked by a swath of devastation. OG logging was by nature a destructive process, slowp caught some of that, actually well enough to wake up my spiders. I tend to avoid the subject, that is, my own thoughts on what my falling of OG timber means to me now. I tend to consider much of what I did, to be a series of violent acts. Now, I ain't goin' hippie here, nope. Just reflecting on my motives, God help me, I loved it, the more noise and stuff flyin' in the air, the harder I pushed it. To walk up to a huge, silent being, with intent to tear into it's flesh with a ravening machine, a machine that has a mindless hunger, that gnaws with endless teeth, all the while gleefully howling it's bloodlust, I was all too often one with that beast. That is why I ran McCullochs, most other makes were too tame, McCullochs dared you to master them, a half hearted attempt to do so, gave them the chance to whip your ass.
I don't think even film can capture how it was, I won't do it the justice it deserves. The level of destruction has to be seen first hand, better yet, watch it happen, even better is making it happen. I have seen a dozen or so, very tall trees come apart on the way down down, we aren't talkin' tops, limbs, that was an everyday thing, these kinda folded in half, scattering crap everywhere. Oh yeah. Another noisy event was dropping a big tree into other big trees, best to be avoided, it happened on a fairly regular basis. Pitching a big tree down a steep slope was always made a good mess. Before you greenies, if you read this, get all bent (well, further bent) there was often no alternative. It was what it was, you dumped it's ass on the ground the best way you could, the balance between saving every inch and the pressure to produce, plus the gawd-dammed trees were contrary and fought your best efforts. We did leave some, there was no point in trying, they would be a total loss. I got in on the last of the old style bustass logging, I worked with men who had been at it from the begining of that era, I saw and did things that few others have. Does that make me better than anyone else, no, it makes me a worn out relic. I am rusting away like an old left behind arch. Those days are past and for many good reasons, mostly because sobs like me cut without much thought to what we were leaving behind.
Do I regret any of it, yes. There are several trees that come to mind, they might still be standing and they were left where they were laid. It rarely occured to me, at those times, that maybe I shoulda walked away, left them standing. In those days, I would have walked into Hell to fall timber. I remember looking back at what was left, a sea of broken wood, hulking stumps, the only dirt showing were skidroads. I felt satisfaction, I would never have to go back there, and there was more Old Growth just ahead.
The Dead of Night, that is when stuff catches up with me and flows out my slow, worn fingers. Sitting in the near dark, chewing asprin, chain smoking, swatting spiders and doing a poor job at putting thoughts into words.
Time for a xanax to keep the bugs at bay
I started out here when the big stuff was still being logged. It was scary and I usually just stayed out of the way during falling operations. I'd check their work after they went home. They took a while to get those trees on the ground, and around here often had another guy along to pack gear and pound in wedges.
There was a lot of breakage. The tops exploded when they hit the ground.
To cruise those big punkins (estimate the volume before cutting) you'd stand back and try to figure out where the tree was going to bust up and put that top diameter on the data card. There was a lot of other defect in them too.
The mills were not as efficient so a lot of "cull" logs were left either in the unit or on the landings and burned. The landing wood might get sold again for pulp, but was left for the firewood cutters and then burned. I only had an 032 with a 20 inch bar so had a hard time finding small enough wood to cut.
The slash in the clearcuts was deep. I was following a 6 foot guy through it and he let out an "oops" and disappeared. That was how deep that bit of slash left after yarding was. That's why those units were burned. You had to be able to get to the soil for planting.
The spiders didn't quit, whiskey slowed them down, but they are a crawlin'.
Old Growth, brings to most minds, parks or groves, treasured remnants of what was. Dark, peaceful, a place to reflect on one's place in the World.
Now, welcome to my Old Growth World. My past is littered with stumps and shattered debris, evidence of my passage is marked by a swath of devastation. OG logging was by nature a destructive process, slowp caught some of that, actually well enough to wake up my spiders. I tend to avoid the subject, that is, my own thoughts on what my falling of OG timber means to me now. I tend to consider much of what I did, to be a series of violent acts. Now, I ain't goin' hippie here, nope. Just reflecting on my motives, God help me, I loved it, the more noise and stuff flyin' in the air, the harder I pushed it. To walk up to a huge, silent being, with intent to tear into it's flesh with a ravening machine, a machine that has a mindless hunger, that gnaws with endless teeth, all the while gleefully howling it's bloodlust, I was all too often one with that beast. That is why I ran McCullochs, most other makes were too tame, McCullochs dared you to master them, a half hearted attempt to do so, gave them the chance to whip your ass.
I don't think even film can capture how it was, I won't do it the justice it deserves. The level of destruction has to be seen first hand, better yet, watch it happen, even better is making it happen. I have seen a dozen or so, very tall trees come apart on the way down down, we aren't talkin' tops, limbs, that was an everyday thing, these kinda folded in half, scattering crap everywhere. Oh yeah. Another noisy event was dropping a big tree into other big trees, best to be avoided, it happened on a fairly regular basis. Pitching a big tree down a steep slope was always made a good mess. Before you greenies, if you read this, get all bent (well, further bent) there was often no alternative. It was what it was, you dumped it's ass on the ground the best way you could, the balance between saving every inch and the pressure to produce, plus the gawd-dammed trees were contrary and fought your best efforts. We did leave some, there was no point in trying, they would be a total loss. I got in on the last of the old style bustass logging, I worked with men who had been at it from the begining of that era, I saw and did things that few others have. Does that make me better than anyone else, no, it makes me a worn out relic. I am rusting away like an old left behind arch. Those days are past and for many good reasons, mostly because sobs like me cut without much thought to what we were leaving behind.
Do I regret any of it, yes. There are several trees that come to mind, they might still be standing and they were left where they were laid. It rarely occured to me, at those times, that maybe I shoulda walked away, left them standing. In those days, I would have walked into Hell to fall timber. I remember looking back at what was left, a sea of broken wood, hulking stumps, the only dirt showing were skidroads. I felt satisfaction, I would never have to go back there, and there was more Old Growth just ahead.
The Dead of Night, that is when stuff catches up with me and flows out my slow, worn fingers. Sitting in the near dark, chewing asprin, chain smoking, swatting spiders and doing a poor job at putting thoughts into words.
Time for a xanax to keep the bugs at bay
