Page 3 of The Uncut Wood

Before I’d had a chance to process that he’d fucking said yes, Jim was suddenly there with his smartphone in my face. He’d overheard my exchange with Gunner. He gave me an exaggerated wink that no one else could see. I’d confided in him about my feelings for Gunner and the wager. He and Bailey, one of the camp cooks, had helped me set up the date.

“All right, Hank,” Jim said. “Lay out the challenge for us.”

Even though Gunner was more comfortable on camera, he’d veered off into a long-winded public service announcement about forest conservation last year, and Jim had declared that this time it would be my turn to explain the rules for the audience.

Trying not to think about the camera, I projected my voice so the live crowd could hear me. I pointed to our parallel rows of wood chunks roughly the size of an average sixteen-inch fireplace log. “We’re each gonna split fifteen pieces. The rules are you gotta take down your line, whack these fuckers until they split not only in half but into four pieces, and once you get to the end you have to stack all of it where you began.” I pointed to the badly painted plywood signs that read Gunner’s Wood and Hank’s Wood.

“I can’t help but notice mine’s a little longer,” Gunner interrupted. “My wood’s a little thicker too.”

That got him some easy laughs.

Ignoring him, I continued, “These are monster pieces of wood we’re dealing with. It was growing near a pond, so it’s saturated with water. It’s got a lot of pitch on it. This wood is hard.”

Gunner draped his arm over my shoulder and leaned in toward the camera. “Some wood is harder than others.”

I rolled my eyes at that one; it wasn’t even dad-joke funny. “This isn’t like the log pole pine you’re used to splitting. This is some knotty-ass stuff. It requires a really good tool.”

“I’ve got a tool for you,” Gunner piped up.

Jim swung around to capture him with his tongue out licking the air.

God, I know you do, I thought privately. Out loud I tried to give him back a little sass this time. “That’s a boy’s tool.”

It got me some ooo’s and cackles from the audience.

I waited for them to quiet down before I continued. “But there’s a second way to win this thing. The God Log.” I walked over to kick the massive stump at the end of our lines. It was three feet in diameter—the base of a tree with the knees of its roots still intact, spreading wide on the ground in a ragged sunflower shape. “If you can get to the end and split this bad boy into four pieces before the other guy finishes his line, you automatically win.”

“Nice.” Jim gave me a thumbs-up. “Are you ready to beat him?”

I didn’t want to beat him; I wanted to win him.

“Oh, Hank’s ready to beat me all right.” Gunner smirked. “Look what he’s done. He’s faced all the main cracks toward him where his first chop will land. They’ll automatically bust in two, then he can just turn them around and split them into quarters.” He pointed two fingers at me. “I see what you’re doing.”

“It’s called tactics, kilt boy,” I said in my best shit-talking voice. “I’m in it to win it.” To win you. I’d never wanted to win anything so badly in my life.

A screech of heavy metal guitar—the opening riff of some Metallica song—served as a warning.

“On your mark!” Jim shouted.

I hurried to get out of my jacket and shrug off my suspenders, leaving them to dangle. I didn’t know why they were considered lumberjack attire; they hindered the upswing of my axe.

“Set!” the crowd shouted along with Jim.

I got into starting position, axe head on the ground in front of my line, eyes focused on the first piece.

The cheering suddenly turned into baying sounds, and when I looked up to find out the reason for the commotion, I discovered Gunner peeling off his thermal shirt and flexing through a variety of bodybuilder poses. The stylized black shapes of his impressive back tattoo suggested the stripes of a tiger.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” I shook my head at him as if I were somewhere between annoyed and amused instead of inwardly drooling over him like everybody else. The gilded hair on his bare chest looked like it had permanently captured the sunshine.

“It’s called intimidation, farm boy,” Gunner said with a straight face.

It wasn’t intimidation; it was a distraction. And it worked.

I was still fumbling around trying to refocus when Jim yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”

I went after those first few pieces hard, using my full body. Splitting each log didn’t only require accuracy, it required power. Speed plus strength equals power.

After a few minutes of initially rabid cheering, the applause died down right as the first song on the playlist came to an end. There was a gap of silence between the tracks, and for a few surreal moments all anybody could hear were blades chopping, wood tearing, and Gunner and me grunting wordless curses into the chilly air.

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