There are dead trees all over Paradise these days, because the Pine Beetle wanted it that way, and his will is rarely denied. IF that wasn't enough, there is a old growth dead standing pine in my yard, close enough to the house and power lines to need expert attention. This thread is not about that tree. Someday, when the town gets enough people together at the right time, we will take that Pine down. In the meantime, there were two or three dead Pines across the ravine daring me to do something about them.
No one bothered with these trees because a) they were on a closed mining road, and b) down a steep slope and you'd have to get out of your Pick-Up truck and drop 15 yards to get to it. And find a way to pull it up. Why bother when there's lots of wood ready to throw into the truck at ground level in other locations? But the trees bother me. Only work prevents their harvest. When the Kid was here I began the ridiculous and started the harvest. I believe I've already mentioned dragging two chunks of a tree home. The third peice, attached to the roots, waited high on the slope.
I figured either the 22" Ganga Ram or the 25" AK for the job. The Ganga Ram got the nod. I told Trav he could go with me, a sort of special honor to make him feel better about being ignored by the older boys. Carter and his buddy Mike were playing together, and the 6 year old was out of luck. By the time I reached the stream bed, though, all the kids were with me. By the time I reached the dead tree stump, none of them were with me, playing in the cold water of the stream instead of following the old man up that rotten slope. And it was hot. 98 degrees and humid. Everywhere you go the Sun and climate is just a little different, and up North the Sun just seems to shine a little brighter, and float a little lower on the horizan. Sweat poured out of me. Not to worry, I thought. The Ganga Ram did well at delimbing. When I got to chopping it through, I swung hard about 8 times and then quit. IT was heavy. I was not a Marine, and had never been a Marine. The only time I was in shape was many years ago, and there was a Couch and a TV between me and that time. But now I was forced by my limitations to adopt the Wise. Let the khuk do more of the work. Stop pushing it. And that worked fine. A bundle of Hollowdweller hits work in place of the big crash. But God, was it hot. I stopped to rest.
Funny thing about the Ganga Ram. It was an old style HI blade, thick spined with a truck build. It came from a tumultious past. A lot of folks would have sold or traded it away but I'd kept it. I knew then under the hot sun with my skin coated with grit that good karma could overturn bad karma every time. In the safe was a .22 used to commit suicide by an unhappy teenager. The handgun was a good one, used for many years on small game, and was being used once more for positive purposes. So too would my Ganga Ram be redeemed. The handle was too small, but it worked, especially if you were letting the blade do the chopping and not pushing it. That's a real difference between a heavy khuk and a lighter one; you grab pretty hard and build up speed for a chop with the lighter tool, but with the heavier the speed is not so important. Very much like the old 45/70 black powder cartridge; moderate speed and a big bullet get the job done. So which is best? Big and heavy or fast and light? The answer is none of the above, because it depends upon the job. They both can get it done. The heavy one helped now because the weight smashed through the limbs being taken off the trunk, and in the heat allowed me to chop less often but to greater effect, saving my body some stress.
A great khuk is this Ganga Ram. The friendship blade, a picture of a Nepali and a Westerner shaking hands engraved upon the flat of the knife. If I chop more today I'll pick the 25" AK though, to see if more inches are really in the way. It's a good blade too, made by Sanu.
I was beyond tired now, panting and feeling the heat deep inside. When I finally pulled the log free I could barely stand on the steep slope. I rolled the log sideways and quit. My vision was hazy. I was trembling, and there was a strange buzz going through all the cells. When I reached the stream I stood in the coolness for a time, hoping my blood appreciated the water. I even sat down in the stream. Mike came over. He'd been monitoring the old man. Neither he nor Trav had made it hiking past the tree, so steep was that slope.
Now he followed me to the house, jabbering away and asking questions. I threw my voice out occasionaly so I would not be impolite, but I said nothing. A grunt. I got the little guy to wander off somewhere, I don't know where, and pulled my pants and shoes off. With a glass of water I went up the stairs to my room and laid upon the bed. Drinking the water was strange too. It felt like there was skin between my teeth, and skin actually came off from my throat as I drank.
I told you I was hot.
Didn't have a stroke. Gradually my body recovered enough to send me back down the steps to the kitchen. Strawberries never tasted so good.
I was trembling all over, the buzz through my cells like electricity. All the poisens in my body sweated out. It sure was harder to get in shape than it was when I was twenty.
Anyone who wants pictures please email me and I'll send them to you so you can kindly post them for me. I like that. The togetherness of the forum- someone to help.
There's a trunk lying on the slope, with another dead Pine tree alongside, and they will be moved to the munk compound.
munk
No one bothered with these trees because a) they were on a closed mining road, and b) down a steep slope and you'd have to get out of your Pick-Up truck and drop 15 yards to get to it. And find a way to pull it up. Why bother when there's lots of wood ready to throw into the truck at ground level in other locations? But the trees bother me. Only work prevents their harvest. When the Kid was here I began the ridiculous and started the harvest. I believe I've already mentioned dragging two chunks of a tree home. The third peice, attached to the roots, waited high on the slope.
I figured either the 22" Ganga Ram or the 25" AK for the job. The Ganga Ram got the nod. I told Trav he could go with me, a sort of special honor to make him feel better about being ignored by the older boys. Carter and his buddy Mike were playing together, and the 6 year old was out of luck. By the time I reached the stream bed, though, all the kids were with me. By the time I reached the dead tree stump, none of them were with me, playing in the cold water of the stream instead of following the old man up that rotten slope. And it was hot. 98 degrees and humid. Everywhere you go the Sun and climate is just a little different, and up North the Sun just seems to shine a little brighter, and float a little lower on the horizan. Sweat poured out of me. Not to worry, I thought. The Ganga Ram did well at delimbing. When I got to chopping it through, I swung hard about 8 times and then quit. IT was heavy. I was not a Marine, and had never been a Marine. The only time I was in shape was many years ago, and there was a Couch and a TV between me and that time. But now I was forced by my limitations to adopt the Wise. Let the khuk do more of the work. Stop pushing it. And that worked fine. A bundle of Hollowdweller hits work in place of the big crash. But God, was it hot. I stopped to rest.
Funny thing about the Ganga Ram. It was an old style HI blade, thick spined with a truck build. It came from a tumultious past. A lot of folks would have sold or traded it away but I'd kept it. I knew then under the hot sun with my skin coated with grit that good karma could overturn bad karma every time. In the safe was a .22 used to commit suicide by an unhappy teenager. The handgun was a good one, used for many years on small game, and was being used once more for positive purposes. So too would my Ganga Ram be redeemed. The handle was too small, but it worked, especially if you were letting the blade do the chopping and not pushing it. That's a real difference between a heavy khuk and a lighter one; you grab pretty hard and build up speed for a chop with the lighter tool, but with the heavier the speed is not so important. Very much like the old 45/70 black powder cartridge; moderate speed and a big bullet get the job done. So which is best? Big and heavy or fast and light? The answer is none of the above, because it depends upon the job. They both can get it done. The heavy one helped now because the weight smashed through the limbs being taken off the trunk, and in the heat allowed me to chop less often but to greater effect, saving my body some stress.
A great khuk is this Ganga Ram. The friendship blade, a picture of a Nepali and a Westerner shaking hands engraved upon the flat of the knife. If I chop more today I'll pick the 25" AK though, to see if more inches are really in the way. It's a good blade too, made by Sanu.
I was beyond tired now, panting and feeling the heat deep inside. When I finally pulled the log free I could barely stand on the steep slope. I rolled the log sideways and quit. My vision was hazy. I was trembling, and there was a strange buzz going through all the cells. When I reached the stream I stood in the coolness for a time, hoping my blood appreciated the water. I even sat down in the stream. Mike came over. He'd been monitoring the old man. Neither he nor Trav had made it hiking past the tree, so steep was that slope.
Now he followed me to the house, jabbering away and asking questions. I threw my voice out occasionaly so I would not be impolite, but I said nothing. A grunt. I got the little guy to wander off somewhere, I don't know where, and pulled my pants and shoes off. With a glass of water I went up the stairs to my room and laid upon the bed. Drinking the water was strange too. It felt like there was skin between my teeth, and skin actually came off from my throat as I drank.
I told you I was hot.
Didn't have a stroke. Gradually my body recovered enough to send me back down the steps to the kitchen. Strawberries never tasted so good.
I was trembling all over, the buzz through my cells like electricity. All the poisens in my body sweated out. It sure was harder to get in shape than it was when I was twenty.
Anyone who wants pictures please email me and I'll send them to you so you can kindly post them for me. I like that. The togetherness of the forum- someone to help.
There's a trunk lying on the slope, with another dead Pine tree alongside, and they will be moved to the munk compound.
munk
I have a '79 Jeep Cherokee Cheif with a brutish AMC 360 and quadratrac 4 wheel drive. It needs a bit of an over haul. My dad said it would be a fun project to pull into the warehouse over the long dark winter. Father and Son working side by side even with lots of resentment and disappointment...it wouldn't matter being elbow deep in grease. Engine gunk is the great equilizer among men. King or street sweeper, grease will get ya dirty. This is the Zen my pop and I reach. Yeah, that ol' Jeep could pull a few stumps. The Blue Fury. That's what I call her. She's clocked more miles ont he back of a trailer than on the road itself since i bought her. Robin-egg-blue oxidized to a faint haze held together with duct tape, luck, and love. She's beautiful.
Although when I am cutting holding a really heavy one parallel with the ground it is really hard on the tendons in my right arm which are continuously sore from rolling the little mouse wheel scrolling thru medical records at work.
