The chainsaw buzz deepens as it bites into the dense wood of the ancient birch. I stand a safe distance from the tree and observe as my husband begins the task of felling it.
My job is to watch and, in the rare chance something goes awry, call for help. I’m not really worried, but it never hurts to be extra cautious when taking down trees, and I will feel relief when this one is on the ground.
I peer up into the blue sky, my visor hat shading my eyes from the bright morning sun, and wonder…just how old is this huge giant with moss growing on its rough gray bark? It’s not a pretty tree although long ago, it might have been. Two and a half feet in diameter, it towers 55 feet into the air. Its top has long ago broken off, leaving remnants measuring six inches across.
The birch trees surrounding our cabin on Lac des Mille Lac have managed to survive in a grove of tall cedars by growing tall trunks that rise high into the air before putting out any leafy branches. This one is no exception other than it hasn’t put out new leaves for several years.
The old birch is dead and leaning in a precarious position and needs to be taken down, but we’ve been putting off this unpleasant task. However, time moves swiftly, and tomorrow’s forecast is rainy, so today has to be the day.
As Dick plunges the chainsaw deeper into the tree’s trunk, I walk closer, making sure I’m well out of harm’s way should the tree fall in an unexpected direction. This scenario will probably not happen, but I want to keep an eye on my husband.
He finishes the first cut, then moves to the opposite side of the trunk to begin the final, fatal cut to this grand old tree, and I wonder about its age. Did native people walk in its shade as they traversed Lac? It’s possible. The game trail that lies between our cabin and the lakeshore could easily have been used by humans. Did European settlers also walk the same path? It’s possible.
I visualize long-ago people walking in the shadow of this gnarled old tree when it was young and vibrant and putting out green gold leaves.
I stop daydreaming and pull myself into the present. Best to stay alert. I turn my full attention to the underbrush where Dick wields the chainsaw and steadily cuts through the tree’s rings and years.
Watching for the tree to begin swaying, I’m surprised when it doesn’t. By now, it should have slowly and ponderously begun its downfall. But it doesn’t move. Then I remember that the trunk is thicker than the length of the chainsaw and cutting through will take time. A breeze moves through the upper branches of a much smaller nearby birch, and I hope this doesn’t mean that the wind has started. So far, the morning has been quite calm.
I wait and wait yet a little longer, and then it happens. With a slow and graceful motion, the old birch’s top sways and begins its precarious fall. I hold my breath as it moves downward exactly where we planned. The descent slowly continues, and it’s as if the forest holds its breath. Then with amazing quickness, the falling tree picks up speed, gaining in velocity until, with a huge earth-shaking thud, it crashes to the ground. Dust motes fill the air above it.
Later, Dick brings me a cross-cut, and I count the rings. It’s not easy, but I count 160. This old giant of a tree probably began its life sometime during the Civil War.
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