Page 7 of Not Looking
A grin broke across his face as he knelt and scratched behind my dog’s ears. “Who’s a good boy?”
Simon strode up and gave me a smile as he watched his dad and my dog. “He was the best helper during temperature checks. Kept me company and sat politely where I told him to.”
Dale stood, pulled a treat from a pocket, and tossed it to Russy—who caught it with a slight jump.
“Did Tammy get you all sorted?” Dale asked, turning to me.
I nodded. “Yep. She gave me a check for the consignment pieces that sold, and a list of restocks for the gift shop.”
He nodded. “Good.”
The light changed, and I looked up to see that clouds had started to gather overhead. “I should probably get home and unload in case it rains.”
“Simon?” Dale asked.
“I’ll start looking for lightning alerts,” the younger alpha replied. “And I’ll call up the lifeguard shack for the springs and let them know just in case.”
Dale nodded and grunted. “I’ll head down and talk to the guys on the lake.”
“See you later,” I said as I started toward my truck. “Come on, Russy.”
My dog fell in beside me as I strode back to my truck. A few minutes later, I was home, everything was unloaded, and I was looking forward to a bit of time at the lathe to finish out the day.
Chapter 2 - Craig
Vibrations traveled up my arms and down my back as my chainsaw chewed through a tree—water and wood chips sprayed out in its wake. Tremors traveled from the mud through the soles of my shoes to my feet—helping me keep track of the heavy machinery moving through the site.
The sound changed subtly, and the feel of the wood popping shifted.
I eased off the chainsaw and checked the angle and depth of my backcut. I ensured my wedges were where I wanted them, then I looked around and confirmed that there was nobody unexpectedly walking through the fall path.
I blew my whistle to let my fellow fallers know that my tree was about to come down, then started my chainsaw again.
It didn’t take much to finish the cut. I killed the motor and moved aside as soon as the tree started to tip, and kept my eye on it as it cleared the surrounding trees and crashed to the ground.
A bird flew from a neighboring tree, but no stray branches came down. Still, my eyes were sharp as I studied the canopy. Was there anything that had been dislodged and about to fall?
“Hey, Craig?” crackled the site foreman—Michael— through my headset.
I reached over and thumbed the button for my mic. “‘Sup, boss?”
“Come on down to the shack when you’re finished bucking that tree.”
“Everything ok?”
“HR wants your paperwork before the end of the day.”
The words were like a punch to the gut, but part of me had known to expect it. “Understood. I’ll head down soon.”
I glanced up at the canopy again, but with as much a sense of loss as it was a safety check. I’d spent nearly half my life on logging sites, having started as a groundie right out of high school and progressing to faller quickly.
The trees were a second home.
Satisfied that a widowmaker wasn’t going to come down on my head, I moved in and started limbing the tree. Branches fell away—most to stay on the forest floor, though I marked a few larger ones as potentially sellable.
I spent more time bucking than I normally would. It wasn’t like it mattered anymore.
Soon, the logs were ready for the skidders—and I had no more reason to procrastinate.
