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9 | (continued) The main point of this short course: firewood, whether hard or soft, deciduous or coniferous, broadleaf or evergreen, is usually at its best (driest) between the loss of its bark and its invasion by the microscopic decomposers that lie in wait for all that dies in a forest. My “find” simply hadn’t been dead long enough. My second mistake was leaving the tree lying over on its side long enough for the Crank to see it and get his longjohns in a tangle over my callous and wanton decimation of his precious woodlot. (If he thought it was such a marvelous place, why didn’t he live there the way I did? Answer me that.) It wasn’t that he might have wanted such a tree for his own stove—even he had better sense than that—it was simply the principle of the thing. The episode only served to harden his granitic heart against my presence on his land, perhaps my very existence—a sentiment returned in full measure. I’d be a liar if I claimed that the baths were a joy. The tipi, as I’ve mentioned, was half the size it should have been, and its floor didn’t slope for proper drainage. On really cold days (the temperature, as mentioned above, dropped only once to -15°F), but it was a struggle even to begin the whole process, much less to finish it, naked and soaking wet in an unheated, drafty, makeshift shelter that had long since acquired the stench of untreated sewage and was forever puddling up with muddy soapwater that had to be repeatedly kicked out through the edges by angling my foot and using my showershoe like a squeegee. It was being clean that was the reward of all this petty misery, a condition which has always seemed to me worth a few minor inconveniences.
About 25 yards south of the tent, the long-dead bole of a once-mature maple stood in a space even more open than the one I occupied. It was over two feet thick, at least thirty feet tall, and thoroughly soaked with rainwater. Not a branch remained on it. I had noticed it, but having no use for it, I hadn’t paid it much attention. (Unlike my “find,” it had been dead much too long.) One is always aware of the potential for tree-falls among untended woods, and practiced campers habitually avoid even passing within the radius of such a behemoth, if at all possible. The normal warning of an impending tree-fall is perilously short. One simply does not wish to be caught in the drop-zone when an object of this size and weight hits the ground. But I was at the tent when the moment arrived. On a sunny but windy day in mid-Fall, with the wind from the west, and few leaves left to resist it, I heard a louder-than-usual crack come from the direction of the beast, and I turned in time to see the sopping monster, without touching another tree, fall over and slap the ground full length. It shattered into at least half a dozen segments, like a marble column, and shook the earth beneath my feet. I thought, “Well, that’s one less disaster I have to worry about.” You should have—I SAY YA SHOULDA BIN THERE WHEN SHE WENT, BOYS! BY JESUS, IT WAS ONE HELLUVA THUMPER, I’M TELLIN YA! LIKED TO CLEAR ME RIGHT OUTA BUSINESS THERE AN THEN! NOT A STONE’S THROW AWAY! PRAISE THE LORD I’M STILL IN ONE PIECE! The next week, Terry came by, and he happened to pass the sprawled remains of the bole. As a birder, he was curious to know how a number of fresh woodpecker holes came to appear in a fallen tree, not a natural occurrence. “It just went down last week,” I said. “This? This went down?” “Yeah. It shook the ground when it hit.” “Fuuuck. . . ” he muttered. The very quintessence of my own thoughts on the matter. |
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