Page 55 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
“Protection.” He taps the side of my leg. “Anywhere a saw might hit, the fabric’s packed with special fibers. If the chain touches it, those fibers unravel into the chain and jam it instantly. Stops it cold. Saves your arm, your leg—hell, maybe your life. You just replace the chain and the PPE. Boots and gloves have it too.”
I blink, impressed. “That’s… actually brilliant. I had no idea that existed.”
He nods once. “Saves lives every damn day. Prevents tens of thousands of injuries. You ready?”
I nod, heart thumping, though whether it’s nerves or excitement, I can’t tell.
“Come on, then.”
We head for the truck. Luke hefts a ten-gallon can of fuel like it weighs nothing and sets it in the bed with the rest of the gear. I climb into the passenger seat, cradling my helmet, while Luke slides into the driver’s side. He turns the ignition, the engine rumbling to life beneath us.
And just like that, I’m trading spreadsheets for chainsaws.
Arriving at our destination—an eighty-acre stand of younger-looking evergreens planted high in the mountains, maybe an hour’s drive from the lodge—we hop out of the truck.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, craning my neck at the rows of slender trees.
Luke sweeps a hand toward the stand. “These are Western red cedar and Sitka spruce. We planted them fifteen years ago. Now it’s time for the first thinning.”
“Got it. And that’s for yield?”
“Yeah. We take out every other row, giving the rest more light and nutrients. In the long run, it means higher timber yield. But that’s not the only reason. Less density helps prevent disease from spreading, keeps the soil healthier, and supports stronger growth all around.”
“Okay, that makes sense. So… this is what a fifteen-year-old tree looks like?”
“Yep. Teenagers.” He pats a nearby trunk. “Jack and I already marked what stays and what goes. All that’s left is the cutting and clearing.”
I nod, still trying to wrap my head around the scale of it. “How do you make sure the trees you cut don’t crash into the ones you’re leaving?”
Luke chuckles, a deep rumble that makes it clear he’s been asked this before. “Oh, they do. Even when you do everything right.”
“So what do you do when that happens?”
“We send the smallest, lightest guy up top to give it a shake.” He keeps a straight face. “Then the tree usually comes down, and we catch him when he falls. Mostly.” He pauses. “That’d be you today.”
I stare at him. “Luke, even I don’t believe that horseshit.”
Now he does grin, clapping me on the back hard enough to nearly knock me over. “You’re learning. Grab this—and this—and this.” He hands me an armload of gear. “We’ll set up over there.”
Once everything’s laid out, he gestures to a cedar. “Alright. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
I look at the tree he’s picked. It towers above us, reddish-brown bark, fanlike green foliage, small woody cones. Beautiful. And I’m about to watch it fall.
“The classic felling technique’s the simplest, so that’s what I’ll show you,” Luke says. “First, decide what direction you want the tree to fall.” He points out into an open clearing. “That way. Clear space, no obstacles.”
I nod.
“Next, check for hazards, clear debris if needed. We’re good here.” Another nod from me.
“Then we note escape routes. If the tree does something unexpected, you need a way out. Here.” He points left, then right. “Either path works.”
“Got it.”
“Okay. I’ll walk you through verbally before we start the saw—once it’s running, you won’t hear a damn thing.”
“Right.”
“We get as low as possible to avoid wasting timber. Then we cut a notch—a wedge shape—on the side facing the direction of fall. Diagonal cut first, then horizontal, meeting to form a notch a little less than halfway in. That wedge gives the tree somewhere to go, so it tips the right way. With me so far?”
