Timber Harvest

Winter has settled in on the farm. Days are lengthening and the chickens are laying more eggs. Sugaring time is just around the bend. The snow pack isn’t particularly deep (we’re just a tad short of 2 feet on our front yard measuring stick), but it’s cold enough to be ideal for skidding logs. These days chainsaws are often buzzing in the woods, and though we rarely see the results of the winter timber harvest, over the past two weekends, holy cow!!!!

• 

Our neighbors have had some towering white pines on their property that have been the subject of playful ribbing ever since our move from Denver when we became year-round residents. The trees could be seen as “framing” our view of the mountain in a pleasing way, but trees grow, and eventually they could block our view. Not so pleasing. “We’re going to take those trees down soon” has been the tongue-in-cheek promise for many years. (I try not to whine, really I do!)

We always understood, though, that the pines would come down when the neighbor’s children were ready to build their own houses. Fortunately the children are grown, and low and behold, in a flurry of logging activity, the trees came down over the past two weekends.

What happened to all that timber? It was bucked, of course. Here we enter into a confusion zone of lumbering terminology. Previously I referred to skidding logs and now we’re bucking? Is that slipping on ice in a rodeo? Ha, ha. I do amuse myself. Skidding logs is dragging them out of the woods with a skidder (think a tractor on steroids), or with horses back in the day. (See my “Horse Days” post if that interests you.) Bucking is the process of cutting limbed trees into logs. Below is our neighbor’s wood lot.

• 

• 

• 

• 

These logs are destined for milling into lumber for home building, and some have been split for firewood. I included my gloved hand in one photo to give some perspective on how big these trees were. (I assure you that I do not have small hands!)

And how did we express our gratitude to our neighbors for the clearing of our spectacular view? We baked them cookies, of course….

…which brings to mind a Billy Collins poem, “The Lanyard,” in which he recalls repaying his mother for giving him life by weaving a lanyard for her in summer camp with the utter conviction that the gift makes them “even.” (Click on the title above to read the poem. You’ll be glad you did!)

Anyway, our neighbors asked for the recipe, so maybe we are even!