Page 1 of The Uncut Wood

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Gunner and I stood on the snowy field brandishing our axes overhead.

Drunken hoots, wolf whistles, and scattered applause erupted from the crowd of men gathered to watch the log-splitting competition. Even though it was only one in the afternoon, most of the spectators were already hammered on hot toddies.

Interspersed among the enthusiastic cries of “Gunner!” and “Hank!” were the inevitable wood puns.

“That’s a lot of fucking uncut wood, boys!” someone shouted.

There was no telling how many more times we’d hear that line today.

Smoke floated through the air across the campground from the lodge at the top of the mountain, the cabins studding the surrounding low hills, and the firepits on some of the elaborate decks around the trailers in the RV park. It mingled with steam clouds escaping the bathhouses around the resort, especially the one near the pool where men kept running in and out to warm up after being outside in the chilly January breeze, watching the festivities. “Warming up” in the sauna—not to mention trudging a half mile back uphill to the lodge after a day spent drinking—was as much a sport as any of the Jackolympics events. During the busy summer months, the level field between the pool complex and the RV park was the site of impromptu touch football games and Saturday night bonfires, but during the off-season it was the perfect open area for the Jackolympics.

Calling it the Jackolympics made it sound pretty grand—and maybe it would one day grow into something bigger—but this wasn’t anything close to the annual Lumberjack World Championships that were held up north in the summer. The property around Bear Mountain Lodge didn’t boast a body of water large enough for boom running or logrolling. As for speed climbing a pole… Well, around here that conjured up an entirely different physical activity.

There were four of us regularly hired on to do lumberjack duty: me, Gunner, Albie, and Kevin. Behind the scenes, we all did a little bit of everything from collecting fallen timber—the owner didn’t allow any active logging in any of the old-growth wooded areas on the property—to sawing, splitting, hauling, and stacking firewood.

Only a few of these activities were compelling enough to qualify as timber sports. The Jackolympics was a glorified excuse to turn our work into a party and a draw for guests during the off-season. A large group of locals, regulars, and RV tenants usually came for New Year’s Eve, but after that… a naked campground in the North Georgia mountains wasn’t much of a winter vacation destination.

It had started as a friendly competition between the four of us to make the work a little more fun. Our general manager, Jim, had started making videos of us on his phone with pun-laced sports commentary and uploading them to the campground’s social media accounts. Jim, who looked like he could be a lumberjack model in a catalogue, talked like a diner waitress and sounded more like an emcee calling a drag ball than a sportscaster, but that had only added to the charm. The videos had gotten so many views and likes and shares, Jim had convinced Sawyer, the gorgeous and grumpy campground owner, to put it on the events calendar. For the past few years, the Jackolympics had pulled in about a hundred guests.

There were three competition events. A few hours ago, Albie and Kevin had sliced up trees with chainsaws, then Gunner and I would split the foot-high chunks into firewood, and later in the afternoon guests would participate in gratuitous axe throwing—assuming they’d signed Sawyer’s extensive liability release waiver.

Gunner and I wore matching smiles and quintessential red-and-black-checked jackets, but that’s where the similarity in our appearances ended. I’d stuck to a traditional lumberjack look: a white T-shirt, work boots, and jeans with red suspenders. Gunner had subverted the archetype: a standard long-sleeved thermal undershirt, black steel-toe boots, and one of his trademark kilts. His rust-red mohawk was plaited tight along his skull woven with a pastel-blue ribbon that terminated in a bow that floated between his massive shoulders.

He also wore a shit ton of eyeliner.

Since Gunner had the body of Thor people always said he looked like a Viking.

“Vikings didn’t wear kilts,” he’d correct them. “And my great-great-grandparents came from Scotland.”

While Highlander might’ve been a more accurate association, most men found Gunner to be surprisingly queer. I’d learned, from him, to use that word as a compliment. Not only could the guy rock a kilt, he always added a little unexpectedly campy and fabulous element to his otherwise “masculine” uniforms: farmer’s overalls with a bright pink T-shirt stretched over his wide shoulders, a Carhartt workman’s jacket with a jaunty silk scarf tied at his throat, muddy boots and jeans with a vintage rhinestone collar.

I’d met Gunner at the Cubby Hole, the campground bar, on my first night. He’d been wearing a black jockstrap, black leather cuffs on both wrists, a solid stripe of black eye shadow from one temple to the other, and really high black patent leather heels.

“How the hell does a guy your size find stripper heels?” I’d yelled over the dance music.

“Drag queen shoe store. Online.” His lips had been so close against my ear that his facial hair had sent a tickling vibration down my body and straight to my dick. There’d been no denying he was the hottest ginger I’d ever seen in my life.

I’d been simultaneously fascinated and confused.

My body had responded to his alpha-male physique, but my brain hadn’t known how to categorize his... fashion. “So is this”—I’d motioned up and down his muscular body—“drag, then?” I hadn’t known what to call it.

“Oh, Hank.” He’d shaken his head at me. “It’s all drag. Your Abercrombie look, which I assume is meant to reinforce your whole aw-shucks-preppy-country-boy thing, is still drag.” He’d leaned over, fluttering his mascara-thickened eyelashes. “In the good old days, they’d have just called my style gender-fuck.”

We’d gone out onto the deck to get some air and talk some more without having to shout over the music.

“I dress this way to say fuck you to homophobes,” Gunner had said. Then he’d gone off on a bit of a sociopolitical rant about internalized homophobia.

At first, I’d felt a little attacked. I’d been afraid I was the kind of person he was preaching about... preaching to. I’d grown up on a farm, and although I’d come to terms with being gay, I was way too hung up on being perceived as straight-looking. Even my dad had told me he was okay with me being gay as long as I was a manly gay. So I’d always driven a truck, spoken in the low end of my baritone, and tried to carry myself like a butch country motherfucker.

That first night, I’d hung on Gunner’s every word, drunk on the sight of the golden fur on his veiny, muscled arms, the smell of sandalwood on his skin, and the cinnamon whiskey on his breath. Mostly I’d swooned over the glint of passion in his brown eyes as he lectured me, even though I’d only understood roughly half of what he’d been talking about.

When the bar shut down, we’d walked back to the employee bunkhouse together. He’d chosen the bed above mine. I’d wanted to kiss him more than anything in the world, but he’d pulled me into a platonic bro hug complete with thumps on the back.

“You’re cool, Hank Hollister,” he’d said. “I like your energy.”

The next morning, on our first day of work, we’d bonded over growing up on farms and our shared opinion that splitting wood was the best workout in the world. We’d been best friends ever since.

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