Civil Engineering Reference
In-Depth Information
borrowed chain saw (last time we felled these by hand
with a crosscut). Brad starts to collect stone, mossy
and aged, from the woods.
There's no hill or steep bank to load from, so we
bunch the logs alongside the log road, then rig a cross-
haul. That's one or two chains hooked to the truck bed,
run under and around each log, and up across the
truck to the tractor, which pulls the log up skids. A
slow process. Some of these logs are 25 feet long, and
some are 24 inches in diameter.
We have barely started loading when the tractor
overheats, so we shut down for lunch. Linda has sent
barbecued ribs (not a typical logger's lunch), which we
devour. It is already afternoon, and heavy clouds are
piling in the southwest. The tractor radiator is filled
from a pond, and we cross-haul some more. It takes
all three of us, two to shift each log on the way up as
the big end gets ahead. Danny stops the tractor at a
roared signal and holds while Brad and I strain with
cant hooks to straighten the log.
Drops of rain start to spatter. We get the first eight
logs on, less than half a load, as the shower stops. Now
the skid trail is slick and the tractor spins its one bald
tire. Danny brakes that wheel with jabbing motions,
and the tractor does a series of uncontrolled lurches
forward and sideways. It's uphill, and the nose lifts.
That scares the hell out of me, because it can flip over
on your body before you get your foot on the clutch.
We clear a longer skid trail that's not as steep.
I go to drop more trees, tight business in this dense
growth, when my brother John materializes. He'd
thought the trip would be rained out, but later rea-
soned that we might be fool enough to go ahead any-
way. John's an artist with timber, so I give him the saw
and go spell Danny on the tractor.
Now the woods come alive. I use second gear and
full throttle on the skid trails, with Danny clearing and
hitching at the trees and Brad unhitching and bunch-
ing with the cant hook at the truck. John moves along
the fallen trunks and limbs drop away; log sections roll
apart. Everything is steamy and wet with sweat.
The next cross-haul takes us nearly to dark. We
need more long logs to span over windows and doors
of the house. John has them cut, and I head the trac-
tor into the gloom as the other two finish the load of
stone. Of course no one thought to bring a flashlight.
The last logs are skidded in darkness, John walking
ahead, a dim shape guiding me around trees, stumps.
The tractor has never run so well. The others wanted
to stop an hour ago, but I suppose this is my macho
trip. The long logs bend and grind and snap around
behind my machine like alligators, but by damn they
come out of the woods. Branches slap me; a long
greenbrier gets around my leg and rasps its welts.
John hurries ahead; I ride down a brush pile by mis-
take; the tractor sings.
We load by the pickup's headlights. It's a heavy load,
dangerously long off the back, but we chain it down
tight. Now we scrounge every drop of gasoline from
reserve cans and even drain the tractor, which we will
leave in the woods; no gas stations are open. It's a long,
deserted stretch; we'll have five hours of grinding
ahead. We check and add oil. We eat the last of lunch
and some granola that John brought.
We plan to drive the truck in shifts — I'm first, then
Danny. John follows me in his Volkswagen and the
boys go ahead to wait and perhaps catch a nap at the
Buffalo River bridge, less than a third of the way to our
destination.
The truck is all dead weight on the two miles to the
pavement, a half hour of slow churning. From there
on, the long tail hangs out on curves too much and the
front wheels want to paw the air. I stop and we tighten
chain bindings. Gradually, I get to know the load, and
the truck, ancient and massive, settles into its harness
and pulls its rusted heart out.
We're on Highway 21 now, dropping down to the
Buffalo River. This hill is 45 minutes of first gear, with
the engine at a high singing moan, and a little braking
on the steep places. It's like letting a weight down a
cliff, this climbing out of the sky. I know the deep
canyon below me; in daylight you catch your breath at
its bluffs and distant waterfalls. Now it's all black
emptiness, with maybe one isolated farmyard light
way off.
At the last switchback I shift from first gear directly
to top, rushing to full speed as I straighten out. I'm
carrying nearly 20,000 pounds on a 16-foot bob truck.
I must be crazy.
At the river we discover it's midnight, so we make
some decisions. John heads for home and the cows
he'll milk in a few hours. Danny, the shortest of us,
