My old man was a logger
in his youth he sprinted up rain-slicked sidehills
water running off a tin hard-hat and down the back of his grey Stanfield shirt
tripping over branches and brambles
chasing chokers
 
Back in the fifties
a war just over
when it seemed that the trees would never run out
and neither would the jobs
 
He left the woods and became a teacher
every day there, in front of the kids
a good, steady job with a pension and a future
meaningful, rewarding work
 
He used to say
"It never rains in a classroom"
 
We'd work on weekends though
in the trees, on salal choked hills on his property
cutting firewood or fenceposts
always, it seemed
in the rain
 
The ripping snarl of the chainsaw echoing there
the hiss and crackle of breaking branches
as the forest sighed in despair
when another one crashed down
 
He'd run up the trunk then, slashing the branches off with snarling bites
the braying Husqvarna throwing chips on his face
the tang of the sap filling the air
mixing with the exhaust
 
Steam rose from our backs
as we slipped and stumbled through the moss and branches
Cedar boughs stooping to slap at us like paintbrushes
leaving their black wet marks on our backs
 
He'd tell me then
of whistle-punks and widowmakers
jill-pokes and gyppo camps
 
The rain would drip off his nose and down the back of that grey Stanfield shirt
I'd smell the wet wool and sweat
 
He taught me to tie my boots like a logger
so the ends wouldn't pull loose
 
He told me and taught me that
as the saw-file rasped a new edge on the chain
I still tie them like that today
 
He’d tell me how the cables sung over the winch spools of the donkey engine
yarding in another turn of logs
 
He told me how the moan of the line would echo like wind high in the trees
Sometimes stories of men killed or broken horribly by those unforgiving
wailing
steel ropes
 
He left the woods to teach
so he wouldn’t be away in camp for months at a time
because he saw that it was young man’s work
and in a moment of clarity
he realized he wouldn't be one forever
no matter what it seemed
 
But I saw his eyes when he smelled the fresh-cut wood
telling the story of cook-shack and bunkhouse
I heard his voice when he talked about the haunting howl of the cables
singing over the winch drums
down in the valley
 

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