Windfall
We don't know what killed our ash trees suddenly this spring. It bodes ill for a forest already beleaguered by not a few other forms of pestilence. But if the unknown pathogen had to pick on a species, ash, for a wood-burning family, was a good choice. It is a dense wood, high in BTU's and one of few hardwoods that can be burned within a short time of being cut and split. And these particular ashes of ours are full of twiggy tops just right for making the small, quick-burning fires one wants early on in September and October-- just enough fire to make the stove tick and pop as it warms and expands; just enough flame to cast friendly flickers on the wall next to my desk in the dark early morning; just enough heat to waft the smell of cast iron, stove polish and the ashes of the last fire in April into the downstairs--a potpourri of the season of shorter days.
It's no small production dropping a standing tree, and not without risk. I've been contemplating how and where and when to do this job now for several months, waiting mostly for the pasture cutting so there would be less ground clutter to work in after felling the trees along the margins of the field. Most of the job is preparation: I'll need the chainsaw of course, and the fuel/tool bucket; the limbing axe, peavey, come-along, a couple of wedges and a sledge hammer; two fifty-foot lengths of 3/4 inch nylon rope; and 25 ft of heavy chain with a three-inch hook on either end: all goes in the back of the truck. Ear-plugs and a bandana (for soaking with creek water when it gets hot) go in my pocket.
By 2:00 yesterday, even though it was a mite too warm to do the actual work, I was headed off to prepare for task. Ann would come later, to be there if I met with problems when I actually made the felling cut. She insisted I should take the dog with me, so I kept an eye on him in the rear-view mirror as I drove away from the barn toward the end of the field where the dead ashes waited for me. His tongue waggled happily; he was involved in family activity--an important part of the job description for a Labrador retriever.
This first tree--much the smaller of the two (larger pictured above ready for cutting later this week) had more of its center of gravity off toward the creek than I wanted. It might tend to drop more toward the pasture after all, but still fall across four or five spicebush that would tend to spring up when cut and slap a fella silly. So to encourage it to end up on the ground in a more convenient spot, I threw a 2 foot stick tied to the nylon rope through a low crotch. The nearest anchor tree was far enough away I had to use a zeppelin knot to tie together my two hanks of rope. A hauler's hitch let me put a good bit of pull on the tree in the hopeful direction of its fall.
The moment of truth came at last after Ann arrived between batches of cookies. I cut the notch horizontal, about 25% of the way through on the side of the fall. It's always a reward when that triangular water-melon-slice wedge pops out of the cut, leaving a clean gap in the wet wood of the trunk. Now, I move behind the tree, mark the felling cut first with a rock or something so it's clear exactly where it should go: too high, there'll be too much wood above the notch and the tree won't fall; too low, you'll lose your "hinge" and the tree could spin like a ballerina and fall the opposite way the woodsman intended.
I begin the felling cut; take up some tension on the rope; cut a little more and the tree moves ever so slightly away. Take up more tension, pulling the bitter end of the smooth rope using all my body weight. Getting close. If this has been done right, one more cut, another quarter inch of wood gone, and we'll see if I've calculated correctly. That did it! I cut off the saw, move easily north as the tree begins to do what gravity demands, now that its base of support has been reduced to that 1-inch hinge of wood. It hits the soft earth of the pasture with a dull crash. And as usual, it looked bigger up close and horizontal that it did standing on its trunk.
The tops and sections up to big-as-your-arm are now in a pick-up-sticks pile behind the house, waiting to be cut into stove lengths. Maybe I can do that before Ivan gets here. I'll throw a tarp over the little pile, and maybe, on the weekend of cold rain, we'll have our First Fire of the season. We'll reap the harvest of our efforts--a warm, cheery hearth stoked with the fruits of our labors. I'm sorry about the ash trees, but their death has not gone unnoticed. Their lives were not lost in vain. The energy of thirty summers will have one more life. And we are thankful to be a part of that grand scheme of things.