occasional spark. Brush box wood was dense, and actually contained silicon, making the timber part stone, which was great for floorboards and building, but soon blunted a saw’s chain.
She adjusted her stance on the slope, trying to bend her knees to reduce the strain on her lower back. She was into the main section of the trunk now, still green, and no good for burning for a couple of years yet, but she figured she might as well carve it all up while she was at it.
Where the tree touched the ground, she had to be careful not to cut right through. It had not been her father, as it should have been, who taught her to use a chainsaw – though she had seen him wield one plenty of times. She had been too young then to do much more than pour in the fuel and chain and bar oil.
It had been Craig, of all people, who had first given her the opportunity. He had carried a small chainsaw in the back of his four-wheel drive during holiday expeditions, in case of a fallen tree. She had thought it amusing but sure enough, on only their third or fourth trip, somewhere in the Grampians, they had rounded a bend and found a downed mountain ash, the white limbs of its crown shattered over the road.
Craig had started the chainsaw and cut up the tree with some pride, not realising that chainsawing an already fallen tree was unlikely to impress her. She would have taken more notice if he had not been able to do such things. To his credit, he had paused halfway through and gestured for her to come over. He handed her the saw, gave a few simple instructions, and stood by while she cut through the remaining sections. She had remembered her father’s rules, imparted in the truck or when training new men, about relaxing your shoulders, cutting downwards and away from your body, using the tip of the blade and so on. In the end, she liked to think, it had been Craig who had been impressed.
Not long after she moved back, she had made a trip down to the large hardware store on the coast, with the intention of purchasing a saw for herself. The well-meaning fellow, both younger and shorter than her, had tried to sell her a kiddy Japanese saw, and gave dire warnings about severed limbs and the need for Kevlar pants, earmuffs, goggles, helmet and so on: a truckload of gear. She had listened politely but insisted on a McCulloch with a much longer bar and more powerful engine. She demonstrated that she could lift it and wield it, only relenting by purchasing a pair of bright green earmuffs. Most of the loggers, her father included, had been too proud to wearthem, and were half deaf as a result. She intended to hear the birds as long as she lived.
The hardware man – Ted, or Tod, his badge had said – assumed she was clearing a block, that trees were her enemy, and she hadn’t bothered to correct him. She came up against that a lot, people of a different mindset. It had frustrated her at first – assuming that because they had chosen the same place to live they must have plenty in common – but she had finally realised there was no point trying to bridge the gap.
Her art school friends would be shocked that she used a chainsaw at all, not realising that not to have one, living among trees like this, and in a subtropical climate, was to be vulnerable.
She started on the thickest section, near the base of the trunk. It would probably be the last she extracted from the saw, and herself for that matter. Her forearms were aching. Smoke chugged out of the machine; it was overheating.
She puffed, and stretched her hands. She wouldn’t be able to do this forever, or climb the slope loaded up with wood. She had seen the tree cutters when they grew old, no longer able to wield a saw. Like shearers, their backs and knees were ruined. Their hands shook, too, from absorbing all that vibration. One fellow could no longer close his hands in any sort of grip, barely managing to lift a beer glass to his mouth at the pub, her father had said.
She baulked at buying
She adjusted her stance on the slope, trying to bend her knees to reduce the strain on her lower back. She was into the main section of the trunk now, still green, and no good for burning for a couple of years yet, but she figured she might as well carve it all up while she was at it.
Where the tree touched the ground, she had to be careful not to cut right through. It had not been her father, as it should have been, who taught her to use a chainsaw – though she had seen him wield one plenty of times. She had been too young then to do much more than pour in the fuel and chain and bar oil.
It had been Craig, of all people, who had first given her the opportunity. He had carried a small chainsaw in the back of his four-wheel drive during holiday expeditions, in case of a fallen tree. She had thought it amusing but sure enough, on only their third or fourth trip, somewhere in the Grampians, they had rounded a bend and found a downed mountain ash, the white limbs of its crown shattered over the road.
Craig had started the chainsaw and cut up the tree with some pride, not realising that chainsawing an already fallen tree was unlikely to impress her. She would have taken more notice if he had not been able to do such things. To his credit, he had paused halfway through and gestured for her to come over. He handed her the saw, gave a few simple instructions, and stood by while she cut through the remaining sections. She had remembered her father’s rules, imparted in the truck or when training new men, about relaxing your shoulders, cutting downwards and away from your body, using the tip of the blade and so on. In the end, she liked to think, it had been Craig who had been impressed.
Not long after she moved back, she had made a trip down to the large hardware store on the coast, with the intention of purchasing a saw for herself. The well-meaning fellow, both younger and shorter than her, had tried to sell her a kiddy Japanese saw, and gave dire warnings about severed limbs and the need for Kevlar pants, earmuffs, goggles, helmet and so on: a truckload of gear. She had listened politely but insisted on a McCulloch with a much longer bar and more powerful engine. She demonstrated that she could lift it and wield it, only relenting by purchasing a pair of bright green earmuffs. Most of the loggers, her father included, had been too proud to wearthem, and were half deaf as a result. She intended to hear the birds as long as she lived.
The hardware man – Ted, or Tod, his badge had said – assumed she was clearing a block, that trees were her enemy, and she hadn’t bothered to correct him. She came up against that a lot, people of a different mindset. It had frustrated her at first – assuming that because they had chosen the same place to live they must have plenty in common – but she had finally realised there was no point trying to bridge the gap.
Her art school friends would be shocked that she used a chainsaw at all, not realising that not to have one, living among trees like this, and in a subtropical climate, was to be vulnerable.
She started on the thickest section, near the base of the trunk. It would probably be the last she extracted from the saw, and herself for that matter. Her forearms were aching. Smoke chugged out of the machine; it was overheating.
She puffed, and stretched her hands. She wouldn’t be able to do this forever, or climb the slope loaded up with wood. She had seen the tree cutters when they grew old, no longer able to wield a saw. Like shearers, their backs and knees were ruined. Their hands shook, too, from absorbing all that vibration. One fellow could no longer close his hands in any sort of grip, barely managing to lift a beer glass to his mouth at the pub, her father had said.
She baulked at buying
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