I realize there is not a chainsaw in this story, but it had a profound influence on my love of logging and wood cutting, so I think there is some relevance here. (BTW, I now use chainsaws for this type of work!)
This particular day at Boy Scout camp (Kia Kima, Hardy, AR, early ‘60’s) we were having an intermural competition, kind of a scouting skills Olympics. The group I was with was tasked with several jobs, one of which was building a bridge across a small ravine. Our group leader, a patrol leader, but not our own patrol leader, grabbed me, a raw Tenderfoot, to get us started on the bridge project. We walked to the ravine and he chose a tall, straight, relatively branchless tree about 10 inches in diameter and said, “We need this tree felled so it will land straight across that ravine. That will be the foundation we will work from. Do you think you can do it?” I had NO idea if I could, but I answered “Yes”. Pride kept me from saying anything else. He walked away to one of the other projects he was charged with and said, “I’ll be back in a while.” For a minute I just stood there looking at the tree, the ravine, and the Official Boy Scout ax in my hand. As best I could, I put those negative “what if” thoughts out of my head and began to work. I had read my manual and knew where and how deep to make that first cut. I began to make those chips fly, and before too long, that cut was looking pretty good. I was sweating as I started those fateful back cuts, and not just from the July Arkansas heat. This was it. Soon I began to hear those cracking sounds and the movement started. I watched as the top of the tree headed for the other bank and then heard the loud boom of timber hitting earth. I looked at the place I was aiming for and where the tree landed, and realized I could have driven a nail with that tree. While I was staring in amazement, the patrol leader was walking up the path from his other duties. “Great job! I’ll get the rest of the crew and we’ll get this thing built.” He turned to walk away, paused, turned his head around and said “And you’re just a Tenderfoot?” He kind of shook his head and walked off. All I could do for a minute or so was stand there, ax in hand, and feel a chest-filling dose of pure satisfaction. As long as I live, I will never forget the vividness of that experience.
This particular day at Boy Scout camp (Kia Kima, Hardy, AR, early ‘60’s) we were having an intermural competition, kind of a scouting skills Olympics. The group I was with was tasked with several jobs, one of which was building a bridge across a small ravine. Our group leader, a patrol leader, but not our own patrol leader, grabbed me, a raw Tenderfoot, to get us started on the bridge project. We walked to the ravine and he chose a tall, straight, relatively branchless tree about 10 inches in diameter and said, “We need this tree felled so it will land straight across that ravine. That will be the foundation we will work from. Do you think you can do it?” I had NO idea if I could, but I answered “Yes”. Pride kept me from saying anything else. He walked away to one of the other projects he was charged with and said, “I’ll be back in a while.” For a minute I just stood there looking at the tree, the ravine, and the Official Boy Scout ax in my hand. As best I could, I put those negative “what if” thoughts out of my head and began to work. I had read my manual and knew where and how deep to make that first cut. I began to make those chips fly, and before too long, that cut was looking pretty good. I was sweating as I started those fateful back cuts, and not just from the July Arkansas heat. This was it. Soon I began to hear those cracking sounds and the movement started. I watched as the top of the tree headed for the other bank and then heard the loud boom of timber hitting earth. I looked at the place I was aiming for and where the tree landed, and realized I could have driven a nail with that tree. While I was staring in amazement, the patrol leader was walking up the path from his other duties. “Great job! I’ll get the rest of the crew and we’ll get this thing built.” He turned to walk away, paused, turned his head around and said “And you’re just a Tenderfoot?” He kind of shook his head and walked off. All I could do for a minute or so was stand there, ax in hand, and feel a chest-filling dose of pure satisfaction. As long as I live, I will never forget the vividness of that experience.
