When my dad said we were getting up at 5am, he wasn’t kidding. His morning schedule demanded we jump out of bed and climb into the truck, the back flanked with high wood racks. Two or three chainsaws were stored in the truck bed, along with cans of gasoline, rusty chains, a yard stick, chalk, and a cooler. This equipment was secured under a green canvas tarp that effused a pine scent from previous visits to the woods.
Dad took the wheel in his 1968 white Chevy pickup, my friend, Mary sat in the passenger seat. I was wedged in the middle, straddling the stick shift, trying to sip coffee as we made our way out of town. The morning was chilly and new, the traffic quite light. Getting up that early on a Saturday rendered us among the few who had places to go.
Eventually clearing out the cobwebs of sleep from my brain, the morning grew electric. We were motoring to the woods north of Spokane, to some secret locale my father had discovered the previous spring. He had a constant eye for suitable timber, especially if the trees were already down and dry, insuring a superior burn. After an hour or so, Dad turns off on a mountain road, bumping along deep into the timber. The terrain is steep, and he assures us we’re close to his remembered spot. The coffee is long gone, and we need to stop soon and wander into the trees for relief.
The truck rumbles to a halt on a lone logging trace. We’re out of the cab stretching our legs breathing in the morning warmth. My dad has already dropped the tailgate and is tending to the gas and oil in his Stihl chainsaw. We help haul out the rest of the equipment, and donning leather gloves follow him to the downed trees, lying right where he scouted them, above the road. I go first, chalking the cut-length with the yard stick, measuring out the entire tree. His chainsaw roars to life and my dad follows me, slicing tree rounds to fit the wood stove. Mary is rolling the sections to the flat, and righting each round for further splitting with an axe.
The day has grown quite hot. We toss our flannel shirts into the cab, drink some water from a canteen, and go back to it.
By 11:00am the trees are no more. Where they had rested for a season, only skiffs of sawdust remain, the wood secured onto the truck. It’s now that Dad opens the cooler and we dine on bologna sandwiches and warm Shasta cola. Somehow the white bread tastes surprisingly good, though only lunchmeat and butter. We had worked up powerful appetites.
My father is relaxed now that the job is complete, and the truck loaded with over a cord of firewood. We roost on the tailgate, chitchat and laugh, sweaty and smelling of pinesap.
That he loves the woods is clear by his smile and satisfaction. And there we socialized, two teenaged girls and our genial guide resting our backs against neatly stacked rows of wood.
My father is in the hospital. The ravages of Parkinson’s Disease, chronic blood clots and advanced age has faded his once vibrant presence. We don’t know how much time he has left, as he grows weaker by the hour. And perhaps this isn’t the best way to inform friends and acquaintances of his failing condition. Still, we can choose to remember him, as I have, during his halcyon days when he was everybody’s dad.