Work over the past week had been trying, so
when I saw an opportunity to duck out a little early on Friday afternoon, I
peeled out of the office and headed for the peace and quiet of my favorite
hunting spot…A couple hours of shed hunting was just what the doctor ordered!
I pulled in next to the grain bin and
hopped out and made my way across the edge of the bean field under an on
again-off again sunny sky. I trod along to one of my lucky spots and something
caught my attention…off in the distance, the distinct high pitch whine of a
chainsaw working hard. The saw revved and bogged down, as I struggled in the
wind to find its direction. A loud crack followed by an earth shaking boom as a
behemoth slammed to the forest floor.
I sneaked along an old fence row, drawn to
the noise of the loggers like a summertime moth to a porch light. More saws chimed in
along with the constant “beeping” of heavy equipment moving forward and backing
up. I pushed my way through the overgrown pasture, snagging myself on every rose
bush and briars. I made it to the edge of the woods and found a high spot to
get a better look…
Across the creek, a handful of men in
hardhats were making quick work of the red oaks and hickories in what I’d
always known as the “open woods”…A couple of the guys acted as “fellers” and
another worker went to work limbing up the fallen giants. A skidder and other
heavy equipment gingerly worked their way around the labyrinth of fallen trees
and limbs. White oaks for whiskey casks and wine barrels, hard maples for furniture...
I found myself a seat on the remains of a
long dead cedar and watched the show…The boy in me enjoyed the sounds of
the 2-cycle saws screaming through the large trees. The awesome power of four
and five story red oaks crashing to the ground creating a mini-earthquake in their
wake…The tremendous cracking and popping of the trunks as they splinter before
falling off the stump. I had a front row seat from a couple hundred yards away.
The harvest of mature hardwoods is
necessary and in this case, probably long overdue. To the best of my knowledge,
this woods was last logged in 1974 or ‘75. By taking some of the big, old
trees, it opens the canopy and gives the saplings their turn in the sun and a
chance to grow and mature. It creates new habitat for the wildlife…Nesting
areas for the turkeys and songbirds and browse for the whitetails. The scars
left behind heal and the woods takes care of itself.
But, part of me couldn’t help but feel
some sadness…I’m not a “tree hugger” or a bleeding heart and I’m all for
responsible logging of timber. I know the landowner well and the logging crew
and have complete faith in both. Part of the sadness for me comes from seeing
these ancient trees meet their demise. I can only imagine how old a red oak, 3
or 4 feet in diameter is. How many storms, how many woodpeckers, how many
insects have they survived…? How many seasons have came and went, how many birds reared their young among the branches?
But the real lump in my throat comes from
change. I’d been connected to this spot for over 20 years. I’ve sat countless
hours under the shade of these trees waiting on squirrels to show themselves or
listening to a Tom in the pre-dawn darkness thunder a gobble, as he readies to fly off
the roost. I’ve perched myself among the limbs in hopes of catching a buck as
he feasted on the white oak acorns that littered the ground each fall. My kids
and I have camped under the leaves and the stars in those very woods. I’ve been
witness to them becoming hunters and creating their own story, their own
memories. We cobbled together a log cabin years ago, never quite finished, but
full of life from a dad and his young daughter and toddler son… If I close my
eyes and listen hard enough, I can still hear their young voices and laughter
as they played in the tree house just over the hill from my vantage point. I
sit here and try to remember how many times I’ve walked through the “open
woods” and no number I could come up with would even come close.
