Chainsaw therapy

By Ben Olson
Reader Staff

“Ugh,” I sighed, slamming shut my laptop. It’s a common way to end a period of scanning national news stories. Between attempts to bypass our First Amendment rights, the president making a buffoon of himself in front of the U.N. General Assembly, and more irrational idiots being irrational and idiotic on social media, it’s all we can do to find something apolitical to remind us that life used to be a lot more fun before we all grew to hate one another.

I reached into the closet for my Miller High Life T-shirt and cargo pants — both covered in pitch stains. I laced up my boots and headed out to the garage where salvation is always waiting for me. 

Throwing my firewood cutting materials into the back of the truck, along with a jug of water and a hastily made sandwich, I blasted out of town heading for the forest to gather some wood.

Harvesting firewood has always been one of my favorite activities, but lately it has become a salve. 

“When the world is on fire, cut wood,” I said to no one in particular as I turned off the highway onto a road leading to national forest land. 

Soon, the wrinkles in my brow begin to smooth away, replaced by the wonder I always feel when entering the wilderness. I make my way to a honey hole with good stands of red fir and tamarack — two of my favorite woods to split, stack and burn.

Because firewood gathering permits are free from the U.S. Forest Service this year, I can gather up to 12 cords — about 10 cords more than I need, but I’ll pile on as much as I can. Firewood gathering is the best therapy I’ve ever known, second only to riding a fresh line through a foot of powder on Schweitzer.

I park the truck and wander the woods, saw in hand, scanning for deadwood. The ideal candidates are dead standing, not lying on the forest floor beginning to rot. But I’ll take anything that burns.

Before long, I’m yanking the saw to life and feeling that familiar buzz in my hands as a new chain tears through a fallen red fir. The sawdust flies back onto my pant leg and gathers in the tongue of my boot before the first round falls to the ground, soon to be joined by many others.

Working without a plan or a care in the world, I amble from tree to tree, making small piles of rounds. Hours pass like this and I couldn’t be happier to watch them go. I’ll occasionally see a truck drive by on the dirt road, but no other people are visible on this perfect day in North Idaho. That’s just fine with me. It’s just me, my saw and these glorious trees towering overhead, surrounding me with their fragrant embrace. 

Birds flit by, chirping their calls into the still air. I watch them as I sit munching a salami and cheese sandwich, not a single thought in my head.

I load the rounds I’ve already cut into my truck and stack them neatly, realizing with a smile that I still have room for more.

Filling my tank from the oil-gas mix can and topping off the bar oil tank, I meander back into the woods in search of more chainsaw therapy. By the time thoughts of the outside world begin sneaking back into my head, I yank the saw again and scare them away with my useful noise.

The light grows lower to the horizon, sending rays through the tree trunks. It’s time to start making my way back.

With a deep, weary sigh I stack the remaining rounds into the truck, pack away my chainsaw and implements, and climb into the driver’s seat. My shirt is soaked with sweat and, upon taking off my gloves, I smile as they stand up by themselves when I toss them onto the floorboard.

Soon, I’m driving down the mountain, my rig riding heavy with the day’s haul. A Hank Williams song is playing on the radio and I hook my elbow out of the open window crooning along with him. Sawdust particles catch flight as the wind sweeps them off my hair and shirt.

My muscles are aching, my fingers electric with the buzz of running a saw all day. For a moment, I consider off-loading my haul at home and driving back into the woods for another session. Alas, there is no more light left in the day, so I reluctantly return to the world of angry faces behind steering wheels, honking at one another and searching for another reason to be pissed off.

None of this stuff matters when you’re cutting into a beautifully felled tamarack. None of it. All that matters on a firewood gathering day is keeping your saw full and sharp for the work ahead and providing heat for you and yours through the winter. 

It’s easy to get lost in loathsome politics. I prefer to get lost in the North Idaho wilderness and forget, just for a few hours, that the world is burning and apparently nobody cares to put it out. Right here, right now, it’s bliss. And that’s OK with me.

“When the world is on fire, cut wood.” Damn right.