It was a fine summer morning on Castle Mountain just west of Mount Shasta City. I lived in the forest by my lonesome next to a nice mountain stream and the base of the mountain. The crew picked me up nice an early a half hour before dawn. We made our way up the mountain in the old ford crummy smelling of variety of things including: stale sweat and rotting feet; unwashed filthy-rotten drunkards who had spent much of the night vomiting whisky and liver particles; and a banana peel crammed in some hole that no one had the energy to search out and dispose of. Shoot, it made everything smell better anyhow.
Not much was ever said, when I was around at least. I was acting hook tender and therefore a sort-of authority. Many were older than I and knew more than I but a hook tender had to be in good shape. Enough said. I sat in front, in between the Yarder Operator and his brother the skidder operator, Frank and Tom. They liked to drink and had a good percentage of Indian in them though the two characteristics are not necessarily related. Lewis was another large factor of this day and, to give you a little insight to his kind, he drove his own vehicle 80 miles a day, at his own expense, so he could be away from the crew that extra 2 hours of travel. Lewis was my only friend besides Sam. We saw Sam ahead parked at the side of the road in his red and grey 72 dodge and he flagged us down. I looked across the front of Tom and saw Sam holding a large, wood handled pistol. “Hey boys, morning to ya! Hah!” Sam was always in a fairly good mood it seemed; an understanding man, of loggers and truck drivers alike. “Yeah, here, give this to Lewis; its his and tell him I don’t want to buy it.”
Tom took the gun, threw it in the glove box and we continued up the mountain to the job site. Upon arrival we saw Jerry, the loader operator, early as usual, and tweeking over his machine as if he were a young child playing with his favorite toy. We finished up a road line (picked up all the logs lying under a stretch of cable extending from the yarder) and moved to the next setting. It was my job to choose the setting and many times folks didn’t agree with where I set things. Nobody said anything this time but Jerry was busy with his loader clearing out spaces for logs and for his own extra perfectionist peace of mind.
After the yarder was in place they handed me the sky line, a very thick cable, and I started down the mountainside with it. I had left a chainsaw down the hill that I could use to notch a stump out for the skyline to wrap onto and hold. After securing the skyline I signaled the yarder operator, Frank, to pull it tight. The line came tight and all was ready for logging. The hardest part of my job was done and now I needed to go look at the next yarder setting. I picked up the chainsaw and started walking back up the mountainside beneath where Jerry, the loader operator was, still shoving dirt and brush around to make himself a cozy workspace.
Then I heard what sounded like the chariots of hell sweeping down on me. Jerry had loosened up a 400lb boulder with all his fussing around and now the massive object was barreling down the mountain directly at me taking out small trees. I had time only to take one step and drop the chainsaw behind me so it wouldn’t be smashed. With that one step I put a 16inch tree between myself and the raging boulder of death. The boulder smashed into the tree nearly crushing the base and sending needles from the above branches showering all around me. The boulder then split into smaller death hurtling thirty pound decapitators that zinged by me on both sides of my head stinging my ears.
Without waiting for my life to flash before my eyes I ran up the side of the mountain till I had Jerry and his machine in my sights. I began grabbing up rocks and throwing them with all the force I had at the preoccupied middle-aged man in the loader. I cursed and threw rocks until I calmed down and then, muttering slurred hateful thoughts, I picked up the chainsaw and walked to the next tail hold tree.
This would be where the yarder was anchored from behind and I had to find a large stump. I spotted a good sized sugar pine and began to cut it down. As I started the back cut I noticed the tree come backwards a bit in the direction it wasn’t suppose to go. I shut-off the saw and chatter on the radio, attached to my belt, alerted me. “You goofy ratbrain,” snarled Frank over the radio, if you were to censor his language. “That ain’t how you do it,” the radio cackled, again picking up Frank's voice.
“Why don’t you come down this hill and show me how its done you big mouthed bonehead,” yelled back Lewis, the rigging slinger, also in that language if it were censored. The radios went dead and I shook my head. Frank and Lewis were always bickering back and forth over the radio telling each other how to do their jobs.
Whatever the case I had to go get some wedges and an axe to try and persuade this tree to fall the right way. The yarder wasn’t too far away and being as my saw needed more gas I put it on my shoulder and walked that way.
Frank was standing in front of the yarder with his hand up leaning on the machine as though having a heart attack. As I drew near he turned suddenly and in a show of great emotion said, “I didn’t mean to kill im’. I just jumped down thar an’ choked on him a while til’ he quit movin’.”
One of the crew showed up on the road with us. “Aw he’s awlright Frank he up an’ ran off soon as you left. Ran off towards the crummie.”
“Shoot,” I said, “that gun is in the crummie; I’ll bet he went to get that gun.” I walked around the side of the hill to where I could see that the crummie had disappeared along with our ride home. Lewis had took off with our ride being as it seemed he’d ridden in with the boss that day not having his own rig with him as he usually did.
Well the boss showed up and calmed me down over my near death encounter and calmed Lewis down, who was going to press charges, and before you knew it we were all one big crazy logging family again.
No comments:
Post a Comment