On the northeast edge of our property, a 40-foot Lodgepole pine slouches half-hazardly. Supported by the outstretched boughs of a neighboring pine, it’s not yet uprooted but certainly progressing that way. S and I agree it must come down before we can build the studio, but — despite all the work we’ve already done on the property — this tree will be our first to fell. We’re apprehensive with good reason.
We have a lot of experience clearing and sawing – not felling. Since we’ve owned the land, we’ve cut a half-dozen cords of firewood and chipped and burned a great deal of brush and limb from dozens of trees downed long before we owned it. We’ve cleaned several sections through hard work— first reducing trunks to manageable pieces, then hauling the logs and debris out of the woods and up to a centralized work site.
Except for a long, winding drive and one cleared building site, our remaining landscape is heavily forested with more than 200 pines and firs of varying sizes and ages. Some of these trees are hundreds of years old and still bear the scars of past fires, lightning strikes or both.
Lodgepole pines can grow to 115 feet, Douglas firs to 150. Fortunately – though still regrettably — we don’t have Western Red cedar, which reach more than 200 feet in height with 10-foot trunks. Cedars grow throughout the island and are prevalent in Moran State Park just a few miles from the property. They are magnificent to look at, highly prized and often older than Jesus. But a downed red cedar would be beastly to manage by ourselves; firs are challenging enough.
During a weekend trip to our property three years ago, we were surprised to find a downed fir; it straddled the upper drive, part of the building site and our turnaround – not to mention 60 feet of forest. That year, winter storms damaged or downed hundreds of trees across Orcas, including this one. The weight of snow and ice on its boughs uprooted the fir, whose trunk easily measured 4 feet. For spite, it brought down a few other mature pines with it. The scene looked like a tornado had ripped through.
S and I are not very strong, but we’re resourceful. Using only a lopper, bow saw and chainsaw, we methodically trimmed and removed the branches one-by-one until only the trunks remained. We cut those into lengths of five to six feet, then using two fulcrums — fashioned from 6-foot lengths of green limb — rolled them to the edges of the drive. We’ve used this method many times since to reposition sizable trunks into neat stacks.
Until today, however, we have not brought down a standing tree.
WE STUDY THE LAZY PINE SUPPORTED BY ITS FRIEND, DISCUSS ANGLES AND UNDERCUTS and which way we need it to fall — and which way it could fall regardless. It could ricochet off other tree limbs and bounce back; it could jump its stump and smash a foot. At the very least, this tree will most likely wedge its base into the ground first; it will take a cut or two to free it from the outstretched arms of the other pine.
S revs the chainsaw, undercuts a notch and begins a downward cut. I stand back — way back. Soon the weight of the trunk collapses, pinching the bar. I go over, lift some pressure off the bar, shove a piece of wood into the wedge and step back again — way back. S continues cutting until this time the chain exits, the tree lunges forward and — as anticipated — wedges its base into the ground, still supported by the adjacent pine.
We start again; after a third cut, the tree falls with a crash — louder than expected — but precisely where we planned. “Don’t get cocky,” I say to S, who is now smiling.
I walk down the hill, slide a large log 10 feet from the trunk base and pantomime, “Cut here, here, here.” As she cuts, I reposition the log over and over again until there is nothing left of the leaning pine but 25 pieces of firewood and brush for burning.
I sit on a folding chair 20-feet from the fire, which S now pokes with a shovel. Her face is covered with sweat, my pants with sawdust; I undoubtedly stink and my fingernails are caked with dirt, which seems to find its way into the best of work gloves.
I hold up a bottle of beer and a tuna sandwich. “Come on,” I say. “Rest a minute.” She sits on an upside-down water bucket; we eat lunch and compare boo-boos.
There are days of exhausting work — times when I believe even my bruises have bruises — but there is something incredibly fulfilling about working on your own island property. Tree by tree I’m shaping its character — as much as it is shaping mine.
© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Photos © Orcas Island Photos.
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