Page 68 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
First, warm the engine for ten minutes so the oil flows more easily, then shut it down and wait a couple more minutes for the oil to settle. After that, down into the pit, container in place, drain plug out. Clean, quick, simple.
I use SAE 5W-30. It’s thicker than 5W-20—less fuel efficient, technically, but with the way we thrash those trucks, who cares? Better to preserve the engines.
An hour and a half later, job done. Good. On to the next one.
Luke’s been thinning the western red cedar stand for a couple of days. He’s up there again this morning. I gave him a head start, but now it’s time to haul the timber he’s already cut. Juvenile growth, sure, so not a massive yield—but solid stuff. Naturally resistant to decay and bugs, and good-looking timber too. Decking, fencing—stuff people pay decent money for.
Luke’s already taken the loader up. I hitch one of the low-loader trailers to the John Deere tractor I serviced the other day, and get ready to join him. He and I will delimb what’s been felled, load it up, and bring it back down.
It should be a fun-filled day.
It’s late afternoon, and it’s been hard work, but Luke and I have had a productive day. He’s felled a hundred and twenty trees, opening the stand up so the rest can get more light and nutrients. Meanwhile, we’ve delimbed the whole lot, and half of them are stacked on the trailer, ready to haul back.
Tomorrow, we’ll come back up to deal with the brush and limb piles, chip them into FIBCs—big woven polypropylene bags the biomass plant buys for pellet production. Nothing goes to waste if we can help it. We like to leave the stand tidy, like no one was ever here—except for the missing trees, obviously. Then we’ll load the other sixty stems and call it a wrap. Even Jack will be pleased.
My stomach’s been complaining for the last two hours—we skipped lunch. Luke’s running on fumes, too. We call it a day and head for the lodge. When we left this morning, Luna had been threatening to cook us a vegan dinner. None of us was exactly enthusiastic, though we all faked polite noises. Luke and I even made a secret pact: if dinner turned out to be a disaster, we’d raid the freezer for sausages and rolls and make hot dogs in the dark like fugitives. I’m a mustard man. Luke likes his with tomato relish. We’ve got both—no problem there.
But when we step inside the lodge, the smells hitting us aren’t the watery kale-and-lentil nightmares we’d been dreading. They’re… good. Really good. Garlic, warm spices, smoky tomato.
Luke sniffs twice, his brows drawing together. “Is that… chili?”
“Smells better than the yogurt muesli I was expecting,” I say.
“Yogurt’s dairy. She wouldn’t touch it.”
“Dry muesli, then.”
We pull our boots off and head for the kitchen, tired, hungry, but suddenly… hopeful.
Jack’s already at the table, ladle in hand like a commander about to issue rations. Eric—predictably—is at Luna’s side, wearing an apron covered in cartoon mushrooms, for Christ’s sake, handing her bowls like he’s auditioning for sous chef of the year.
“You two gonna stand there gawking, or come eat?” Jack rumbles.
“Depends,” I hedge, peering into the big steaming pot. “Are we still strictly in the plant kingdom, or did Luna finally cave and add something that once had a face?”
Luna spins, spoon in hand, like she’s ready to clock me with it. “Fuck you, Toby. And no—zero faces. Nothing had to die for your fat ass tonight. But I promise you won’t miss it. It’s smoky three-bean chili. Black beans, kidneys, pintos. Tomatoes, onions, garlic, paprika, cumin, chili powder?—”
“Hold up,” I cut in. “Where’d all this come from? Last time I checked the cupboards, I found beef ramen and a dog biscuit. Which is weird, since we don’t even have a dog.”
“What’d you do with it?”
“I ate it.”
“No—the dog biscuit, moron.”
“Oh. Gave it to Southpaw.”
“And?”
“He stared at me like I’d insulted his ancestors, stepped over it, and left. Can’t say I blame him. Didn’t look that appetizing.”
Luna shakes her head. “Most of it was shoved to the back. ‘Use by’ dates are suggestions, not orders.”
Jack, Luke, and I trade looks. Eric beams and keeps ferrying bowls. He’s completely under her command, like a happy little academic soldier.
Still… the smell is damn good.
“There’s a secret ingredient, too.”
