Tree Falling

By Bob Hansen

From my childhood I recall certain things as highlights. Tree-falling, for instance. I grew up in a rural setting. The area is now covered with houses. But then, it was country—farms and fields, streams and forests. In that setting, occasionally, a tree must come down.

In my early days, my father wielded the chainsaw. Being wise, he tackled the task when I was around, so that I might experience (from a safe distance) the wondrous rush.

Eventually, after extensive instruction, it was my turn to use the chainsaw. I remember when I was allowed to cut down a few dead trees to sell for firewood. In my mind I still see the tall, skinny, Douglas firs. I remember studying the trees for any leanings and judging the place where I wanted them to fall.

Then, I fired up the saw and began the exhilarating process. As the cut deepened, I watched the top of the tree for any indication that it was about to yield.

High in the air, branches quivered. I backed away. The tree paused. I cut deeper. The tree moved again. The giant could no longer forestall the inevitable. It groaned as I scrambled for cover. Branches snapped and fell from the sky like woody rain. Then, THUD! The glorious sound of a hundred elephants thumping the ground.

That was a long time ago. Now the thought of toppling a gigantic tree holds no luster.

When I recently discovered a diseased alder tree leaning dangerously over our pond, I saw it as another chore to be scheduled.

Finally the glorious day arrived. I mean, I guess I couldn’t put off the task any longer. I mentioned the project to two of my sons. They were excited. But they are young.

When I fired up the chainsaw, they came running. Then, we men, two generations, gathered for the hallowed moment. I made the first cuts, pausing at critical junctures to pass along my tree-falling wisdom. At last the tree creaked. Anticipation swelled—in my boys, I mean. The tree’s top surrealistically arced downward. A great snap! Then in an awesome show of might (to some), the tree spanked the water’s surface.

All too quickly, the poignant moment passed from the present, lodged in memory. It had been a momentous speck of time, seconds that spoke of mysteries beyond what can be explained. Shear wonder—for my sons, that is.

Truth be told, I am still fascinated by the things of power: the pounding of a waterfall; the roar of high winds; the energy of lightening bolts; the driven, foam-crested surf. I still grasp and admire power. It’s a built-in feature. My boys understand my admiration. They instinctively share it. My wife, I suspect, understands it less—a concept hiding in mist.

While the existence of God may be plainly seen in the beauty of nature, it may also be seen in the power of nature.

Bob Hansen writes from Chehallis, Washington. Bhansen6@juno.com