When we first came to Maine, we stayed with friends in Wiscasset, farther down along the coast. The host was a part-time preacher and also drove his own log truck.
That log truck was fun for me, an implant from suburban Philadelphia. We didn’t have log trucks down there. My father and I occasionally cut a tree down from our back yard, which I guess in Maine would be a back lot. But in suburbia it was a back yard. (My father and I used a two-man hand saw.)
But log trucks were new to me. I was familiar with my 1957 Chevrolet, but that was definitely not a log truck. Although I occasionally toted shorter logs in it.
Clayton, which may be our friend’s name (It’s been many years so I’m not sure.), took me with him on those log-truck adventures. They were on back roads, no, “backer” than that. The roads were mostly dirt, and they had their ups and downs.
The truck itself had a “rig” … good Maine word … that lifted logs onto the truck. It was hanging on a cable, so the logs were kind of wobbly as they came up. I’ve never seen a “rig” like it since. But then I haven’t ridden with loggers since, either. The logs didn’t look stable hanging on that rig.
And one of them wasn’t.
We were both standing more or less beneath one log as it dangled from the “rig.” All of a sudden both of us lunged out of the way. The log had somehow escaped the “rig” and was falling — right toward us. I guess we both saw it slip loose, which is why we moved so fast. (Or we just decided to jump at the same time. Something for psychologists to ponder.)
Right where we had been standing, that log thumped to the ground. It would not have been nice for either of us had we not leaped out of the way. But Clayton hooked the “rig” back up to the log and lifted the log onto the truck.
And neither of us was squashed … or dead.
Ever since then I’ve been allergic to cable-connected “rigs” that lift logs onto trucks. No matter, as the modern log trucks don’t use such a “rig” anyway. Either the truck has a more solid and stationary hook and a solid apparatus that lifts it, or another piece of equipment lifts the log onto the truck.
At any rate, no one stands any chance of becoming squashed or dead. (That I know about.)
As a kid, I once was walking in a woods about a mile from our suburban house, when I approached a dead tree that was still standing. When I was about 50 feet from it, the tree fell over, dead, right in front of me. I’m pretty sure it missed me, because I’m sitting here typing.
I did scare me, though. I nervously walked up to that dead tree, then on the ground, and walked around it.
I’ve had a few other close calls with trees as they decided to fall. But none that close.
Since then, I’ve always been careful about dead trees — especially when they were falling.
Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@roadrunner.com.
