The chainsaw wouldn’t start.
We were standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by dead and dying trees. Tilted trunks and bent birches hung over us like wooden chandeliers and tattered curtains. The dog wandered into a bush, sniffing for any nearby rabbits. Leaves crackled and crunched beneath our boots.
We’d followed a path into the woods. After stalling the engine six times in a row, I’d managed to guide the pick-up truck over small bumps and dips in the ground. We’d manoeuvred past patches of grass and yellow fields. My friend had told me to stop the truck in front of decimated collection of dead trees. She has a sixth sense for what will make for good firewood.
So there we were, standing in the forest with an empty truck bed and a vast swath of trees begging to be cut down.
And the chainsaw wouldn’t start.
I’d followed all the steps to the letter. I’d flicked the switch, revved it up, and ripped the start cord, but the chainsaw wouldn’t start. I held the machine in one hand while I tried to bring it to life with my other one, but it remained still.
My friend told me to put the chainsaw on the ground. I did so, planting my foot inside the handle to keep it from wobbling. I bent down, gripped the cord, and yanked it to the high heavens. After several pulls, it grumbled awake. I lifted it and squeezed the trigger, watching the teeth spin. I turned to the forest; I had work to do.
Like so many nerds, most of my knowledge about chainsaws comes from the Evil Dead series. I’ve been to my fair share of bonfires, but we usually used pre-chopped wood or tree scraps. I’ve spent a quarter of my life in Halifax, where donair shops are more readily available than chainsaw-ripe trees.
When my friend said she needed another stack of wood to prepare for winter, I decided to join her. For some reason I can’t quite explain, I wanted to scratch my chainsaw itch. It’s not a top item on my bucket list, but the chainsaw piqued my curiosity. I decided to give a shot.
That’s how I found myself standing in front of a sea of dead trees with a purring chainsaw. My friend told me to start with a tree bent at an awkward angle. I wandered into the forest and aimed the chainsaw at a protruding branch.
A chainsaw is pure power. I squeezed the trigger and brought the spinning teeth into the branch. I braced my arms to push through the stubborn wood. As I prepared myself, the branch fell to my feet. The chainsaw had cleaved through it like magma through unrefrigerated butter.
I kicked the branch away and moved onto another. I sawed countless protrusions off the tree like a woodland barber. In mere moments I transformed it into a bare trunk. I aimed the chainsaw at the base and hacked into it, sending wood chips flying everywhere. With nothing to moor it, the tree flopped to the ground. I diced it up like a piece of pepperoni and tossed the logs onto the truck bed.
I worked my way through the forest, clearing out dead and fallen trees. There was something meditative about using the chainsaw. It’s just you, it, and the trees. Your mind is clear as you just focus on what needs to get chopped down next. It’s a relaxing way to spend a few hours.
Of course, I didn’t think that when I woke up the next morning with screaming arms. Apparently your biceps don’t appreciate holding a heavy chainsaw for several hours. Maybe next time I’ll stick with collecting branches.
