“See you Tuesday.” Charlie put his phone away and went back to work.
Like Buck one tree over, Charlie fell into a productive rhythm, proceeding steadily down the tree trunk, the rest of the world blocked out by the noise of the saw. He was beginning to understand how the solitude and closeness with nature made loggers love woodcutting to the point that all other work was unsuitable.
At lunchtime, Frenchy and Dogface laughed when they saw Charlie’s tiny peanut butter sandwich. Frenchy insisted that Charlie take half of his second roast beef sandwich, and Dogface tossed him an orange. Charlie sat on a warm boulder, enjoying the stillness of the woods. The cloudless sky had turned a dark blue, and the sun cut through the cool autumn air, soothing his aching thighs and shoulders. He lifted his face to the sun, the sweet smell of fresh sawdust and tree sap in his nostrils, and wondered if this wasn’t the best occupation in the world.
It was three o’clock by the time Buck and Charlie finished limbing and went back to where they’d started, to begin bucking the logs in half. This felt more like lumberjacking to Charlie. Even as his arms began to shake with fatigue, he reveled in the satisfaction of what they’d accomplished. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Just after four o’clock, they met Frenchy and Dogface in the middle. “Hokay, Charlie,” said Frenchy, turning off his saw. “Das a good job you do today.”
“We all done for the day?” asked Charlie, his arms aching for rest.
Frenchy hefted his bag over his shoulder and picked up his saw. He looked toward Buck, who was already halfway to the truck, then up to the pine forest farther down the ridge. “Well, Charlie, maybe we still got some fun ahead of us before we go back.” He turned and grinned at Dogface. “Aye, Dogman?” Dogface shook his head. Frenchy laughed.
When they reached the truck with the equipment, Buck was sitting on a stump, waiting. “Bucky, you do some good woodcutting today,” said Frenchy.
“Great,” said Buck. “Now let’s get the fuck outta here. I got a beer waitin’ for me down the Roadhouse.”
Frenchy dropped his saw and duffel in the sand. “Hey, what’s the hurry dere, Bucky? Still is early, and maybe Dog and me, we got a little proposition for you and Charlie, aye?”
“I don’t want to hear it, Frenchy. Let’s go.”
Frenchy walked down the road in front of the truck. “C’mon, Buck,” said Frenchy, “I want to show you something you don’t see so very often.”
Buck sighed, but his curiosity was piqued, and he followed Frenchy down the gully, trailed by Charlie and Dogface. Frenchy walked about fifty yards down the road, then started up the slope toward the ridgeline, stopping halfway up.
“What’s the deal?” asked Buck.
Frenchy looked up the hill. “See dem two big firs, side by each up dere, Bucky?”
Charlie looked up to where two magnificent firs, each over one hundred feet, dominated the ridgeline. At their base, they looked to be at least three feet wide. Both wore red spray-painted X’s, marking them for removal.
“We’ll cut ’em down tomorrow,” said Buck, turning to go back.
Frenchy grabbed his arm. “Bucky, dem two trees is like identical twins. Same size each one, same wood. And look how big dey are,” he said, pointing up. “Bucky,” he implored, “we may never get da chance again to take down such a tree by hand.” He clapped a big hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Like dey did in da old days, aye?”
“None of that shit today, Frenchy. I ain’t in the mood.” Buck shook his arm free and started to walk away. “Plus, Burden ain’t a woodcutter.”
“I tink Charlie must be more woodcutter den you, for walking away from a tree-cuttin’ contest.”
Buck stopped in his tracks.
Frenchy held up a fifty-dollar bill. “Fifty bucks for da first tree down, me and Dog, you and Charlie, wid the two-man saws. Pick your tree.”
Buck wasn’t used to backing down from a challenge. His eyes flickered for a moment up toward the big trees, then back to Frenchy. “That’s stupid,” he spit out quietly. “Burden ain’t a woodcutter,” he turned again and started down the hill.
“We’ll do it,” said Charlie loudly before Buck could leave. “You got a bet.”
“Hokay, Charlie. Attaboy!” Frenchy looked at Buck and pointed at Charlie. “You see dere, Bucky? Charlie, he’s a real woodcutter, he is.”
Buck strode over to Charlie and pulled him far enough away from the others so as not to be overheard. “Burden, you don’t know what the fuck you’re gettin’ into here. You ever take a big tree down with a crosscut saw dull as a butter knife? Halfway through, you’ll think your back is on fire and your arms are gonna fall off.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Listen, Burden, these guys, they’re pros at this. This is what they do, Frenchy and Dog. They enter lumberjack contests. Shit, they been on ESPN.”
Charlie took a deep breath and glanced at the Canadians, who smiled back. “So what?” said Charlie. “Fuck ’em. We can beat these guys.” He whirled away from Buck and went back toward Frenchy and Dogface. “You’re on,” said Charlie, reaching for his wallet. “But it’s two hundred—a hundred bucks a man,” he said, pulling out two hundred-dollar bills.
Frenchy grinned broadly and clapped his hands together loudly. “Das why you da big mule, Charlie!”
Buck pushed past Charlie and moved up the slope, eyeing the two big trees. “One condition,” he said, turning to Frenchy. “Gotta hit the water bucket with the trunk.”
Frenchy laughed and threw away his apple core. “Whatever you want, Bucky,” he said, starting off down the hill with Dogface. “We land dat tree smack on Charlie’s little bitty water bottle, if dat make it better for you,” he called back. They laughed their way down the slope.
At the truck, Buck and Frenchy threw several iron wedges, a maul, and an ax in their bags, then pulled out the long two-man saws. They sprayed them with oil and examined the teeth and handles, finally agreeing that there was no advantage to either saw. At the orange water bucket, Buck filled his plastic bottle, then put the two-liter bottle to his mouth, drained half of it, and handed it to Charlie. “Drink it all,” said Buck. “You’re going to need it.”
Buck kicked over the water cooler, sending the remaining water into the sand. He tossed his bag to Charlie, hefted the saw over his shoulder, picked up the empty water bucket, and started up the hill.
The two fir trees were twenty yards apart, and, to Charlie, they were even bigger than they looked from the bottom of the hill. Buck took his time examining both trees before he chose the one on the right. Buck and Frenchy hiked down the slope to position the water cooler. They maneuvered a loose stump to a spot where the falling trunk of either tree would hit it without interference from the high branches. They negotiated a position equidistant between the two trees and placed the orange plastic cooler on top.
Buck jogged back up the slope. “Let me see your hands,” he said to Charlie, rummaging in his duffel bag. Charlie took off his gloves and displayed his palms. Buck pulled open a jar of Vaseline and smeared Charlie’s hands with it. “You’ll be bleedin’ through your gloves in ten minutes without this.” Buck showed him how they would cut a notch centered on the line to the water cooler. He kept his voice low. “Frenchy won’t bother with a notch. He’ll figure he can hit it without one, but this’s real stringy wood.”
Buck explained how they would cut on a slightly downward angle about a foot into the tree, then hammer the wedges in, to keep the saw from binding. “Tree settles down on the saw, you’re done.” Buck picked up a handle of the saw to show Charlie how to grip it. “Lean into the tree and pull hard, don’t push, and don’t stop. Use your legs, your back, and your arms, all together.”
“I’ll learn as we go,” said Charlie, with a quick smile.
Buck leaned in a little closer. “Listen, Burden, I got to tell you…” He lowered his voice further. “I ain’t got a hundred bucks on me, so…”
“We’re not going to lose,” said Charlie. “I
guarantee it.” Buck shook his head as he stood up, pulling his gloves on.
Frenchy and Dogface had taken their shirts off, though the air was cooling rapidly. Tying a fresh bandanna across his forehead, his orange gloves tucked into the front of his pants, Frenchy walked over to Charlie. He looked like a professional wrestler.
“Okay, Charlie,” he said, pointing to a spot ten yards away. “When she starts to go, you move quickly to way back here. Don’t go directly behind the stump, and don’t wait. When you hear it crackin’, you go quick, aye, Charlie? And you watch overhead. Dese trees be bringing down some limbs.” Charlie looked at his escape route and nodded.
“Okay,” said Frenchy, as he went back to his tree. “You say when.”
Charlie and Buck started in front of the tree with a horizontal cut for the notch. With their first few strokes, Charlie realized how difficult a task it would be. When they completed the notch, it seemed to Charlie that they were already too far behind to catch up. With his back to the other tree, Charlie could hear Frenchy and Dogface stroking their saw at a faster and more powerful tempo than Buck and he.
Buck glanced toward the other tree. “We’re okay, Burden. Just lean into the cut.” Gradually they settled into a powerful rhythm, with Charlie trying to copy Buck’s technique. He was impressed with Buck’s strength, as his shoulder and neck muscles bulged with each stroke. He also admired Buck’s focus and drive, as his eyes burned with the flame of competitiveness. It occurred to him that Buck was having his first enjoyable moment of the day. He was a match for either of the Canadian lumberjacks. Now if only Charlie could hold up his end.
After ten minutes, Charlie’s hands and arms were burning. He tried to use more leg and back, but he could feel the fresh scar tissue across his back protesting. He was having trouble catching his breath, and sweat was pouring into his eyes, but he couldn’t let go of the saw. “Doin’ okay, Burden,” Buck encouraged. “Stay strong. Long, strong pulls. You got it.”
Charlie set his jaw and ignored the pain, concentrating on each pull. They were about a foot into the tree when they heard Frenchy and Dogface hammering in the wedges. It wasn’t a good sign. Charlie looked over at Buck, who shook his head.
They cut hard for another few minutes before Buck stopped. “Wedges,” he said breathlessly, scrambling behind the tree, picking up the ax and the big wedge for the center of the cut. Charlie welcomed the moment of relief from the saw but found he had trouble making his arms work. Finally he got a wedge into the cut and managed a feeble hit with the maul just as Buck landed a massive blow to the big wedge with the back of the ax.
“Watch out,” said Buck, taking a step toward him while bringing the ax back for another swing. Charlie had barely moved when Buck brought the ax through the air with a powerful swing, landing a loud, metallic blow dead on Charlie’s wedge, sending it well into the cut.
For the next ten minutes, they leaned into the saw with long, powerful strokes. Charlie’s hands, arms, and back were beyond hurting, and his long-sleeved T-shirt was now completely dark with sweat. The wound on his back was burning, and he thought he could feel skin tearing apart with each pull of the saw. Liquid seeped down his back, but he couldn’t tell if it was sweat or blood until he looked down and noticed the creeping ooze of dark maroon on the left side of his shirt at the ribs. Inside his right glove, he could feel the burn of torn blisters and the slippery combination of blood and loose skin.
“Doin’ great, Burden. Doin’ great,” Buck spit out between breaths. “We’re gonna beat these assholes.”
Charlie squeezed his bloody right hand tighter around the wooden handle. They were halfway through the trunk when a cold wind started to blow. The sun had disappeared and the temperature was dropping quickly. Twigs and small branches rained down on them as the tops of the trees swayed menacingly in the darkening sky. Charlie could feel the chills and nausea of hypothermia as the wind blew against his sweat-soaked clothing.
“Dogface is crampin,’” Buck whispered excitedly. “Dog’s crampin’ up.”
Behind them, the other saw had slowed its pace noticeably. Charlie turned his head for a quick glance and saw that Dogface had a look of excruciating pain. As he turned back to his own tree, Charlie vomited on his right arm, a milky liquid sprinkled with what looked like small pieces of apple skin. He spit repeatedly to try to break the long strings of saliva that hung down from his mouth to the front of his shirt, before deciding to ignore them.
As the big tree swayed, Charlie heard the trunk groan and felt the roots heave beneath his feet. The wind had knocked loose some large dead limbs, and one crashed through the branches above them, splintering into a shower of dead wood. Charlie realized the danger they were in. These trees weren’t going to go quietly.
“C’mon, Burden, don’t let up!’ Buck yelled. “We’re almost there.”
Then the wood popped like a firecracker next to Charlie’s ear. The cut had widened several inches, and when Charlie looked up, both trees were leaning slightly downhill. Buck was in front of the tree now, driving the ax violently into the notch to adjust the fall angle. “She’s goin’, Burden, move back!” he shouted.
Charlie pried his hands off the saw and tried to run back to the spot Frenchy had pointed out, but his legs gave out at the knees. He scrambled slowly over ground now littered with twigs, branches, and pine needles, feeling the earth heave under him as the roots strained to keep the old trees upright.
Then an ungodly explosion of cracking wood made Charlie spin around to watch the violent ending. He was amazed to see Buck standing next to the tree, watching as both trees began their long, final trip to earth. Frenchy, also oblivious of the danger, stood between the two trees, hands on hips. The trees crashed thunderously down the slope, sending a cloud of dust high into the air and illuminating the area around them with daylight, as if the window shades of the forest had been thrown open.
Charlie watched the two men for their reaction. They both stood motionless for several seconds. Then Buck bent at the knees and sprang into the air, letting out a mighty whoop. He jumped on top of the fallen tree, arms raised in the air. “Yeah, baby!” Buck strutted down the log, bobbing his head like a turkey. “Direct fucking hit is what I’m lookin’ at here, woodcutters.” Buck was grinning from ear to ear as he came back up the log. “Hey, c’mon, Burden!” He waved a hand, motioning Charlie forward. “You gotta see this!”
Charlie struggled to his feet and limped toward the fallen tree. He was beginning to feel his arms and hands again and barely managed a smile. Buck disappeared once more, dancing down the trunk of the tree. Frenchy met Charlie at the top of the slope, his hand extended. “When was da last time you have dat much fun, aye, Charlie?”
Charlie laughed. “Yeah, been a while.” He looked down the slope and saw Buck standing next to the flattened water cooler. Charlie realized it was the first time he had seen Buck smile all day.
Frenchy clapped his hands. “Hokay, boys, good job.” He handed Buck two hundred-dollar bills and winked at him. “Next time we don’t give you Charlie for a partner.”
Charlie sat down on the stump, exhausted, watching Frenchy and Dogface walk down the hill. Behind him, Charlie heard Buck drop his bag on the ground. He turned his head just in time to see Buck pull out a long hunting knife. The blade glistened in the dim light. Charlie glanced downhill for the other men, but they were nowhere in sight. He instinctively tightened his back muscles.
“Hold still,” said Buck, gingerly peeling up the bottom of Charlie’s bloody shirt. The razor-sharp knife sliced easily through the middle of the wet shirt. “Shit, Burden, little grunt work and you city guys fall apart.”
“It’s an old wound,” said Charlie. Buck handed him a clean long-sleeved shirt from his bag and a bandanna to wrap his hand in. The shirt felt warm and dry. Charlie put it on but stayed on the stump, too tired to move.
Buck reached into his front pocket and pulled out the bills that Frenchy had given him. “Here’s your hundred.” Char
lie took it and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Buy you a drink down the Roadhouse, if you’re goin’,” said Buck.
“No,” Charlie said. “I think I’ll get my hand wrapped and go soak in the tub.”
Buck looked down the hill at the flattened water cooler and laughed. “Well, I got three days off and a paycheck, plus a hundred o’ Frenchy’s dollars in my pocket, so I’ll be goin’ on a little toot myself.”
“Maybe you should just go home, Buck.” Charlie tried to sound friendly.
“Yeah? What do you know about my home, Burden?” Buck spit out angrily.
Charlie didn’t want to get into it with Buck, and he shouldn’t have said anything, but now he had no choice. “What I know, Buck,” he said calmly, “is that one of these days you’re going to be my age, and your kids will all of a sudden have grown up, and you’ll have missed out on the most enjoyable thing there is in life. Being a father. Being a father to great kids, like you’ve got.” He frowned with disgust, because he knew that Buck didn’t get it. “You’re going to miss it all, Buck, and you’ll never get those years back.” Charlie pushed himself up from the stump to try to end the conversation.
Buck had an angry, confused look on his face. “Maybe you’d like to be goin’ home in place o’ me. Like those boys was sayin’ at the Roadhouse that night? All that stuff about runnin’ with Nat and pallin’ around with the kid.” Buck’s voice was getting louder, and he was inching closer to Charlie as he spoke. “And who knows what else you been doin’!”
Charlie wanted to let it go, but he wasn’t going to back down. “Nobody’s been doin’ anything, Buck. The Pie Man was the first person I met down here. He’s a great kid, and I like him a lot. Natty showed me her running trail, and I ran with her a couple of times. That’s it, Buck.” Charlie reached down for the crosscut saw.
Redemption Mountain Page 37
