About a year ago, I began writing down some of the things that I have encountered in my forestry career. Most days are mundane, and one day runs into the next as far as memories are concerned. A few stand out, sometimes because they are spectacularly good, sometimes because they are extraordinarily difficult. Recently I experienced two of those tough days, back-to-back. The location is in southwestern Washington, where I am participating in a forest inventory for a large timber company.
I write these accounts for my own benefit. But if enough Kossacks enjoy reading along, I will post a Deep Dark Woods story from time to time. Most of my stories are not this long, but I wrote this one while all of the memories were fresh, and it covers a two day span of time. Your comments are welcomed, whether you’re responding to this diary, or posting your own Daily Bucket notes.
Easy days are not the stuff of legends. Yesterday and today saw me on some of the toughest ground of the past decade. Fortunately, I had company. Two other foresters (Mark and Phil) are working on adjacent ground, and we will travel together in case there’s trouble. Even though I’m an independent contractor accustomed to long days alone in the woods, I’m not crazy enough to tackle places like this by myself.
The land is about 10 miles off the nearest paved highway, accessed by logging roads that snake into the hills. First we cross a large block of timber-company land with well-used roads. High on a ridge is a gate marking a change in ownership. Immediately the roads are overgrown with vegetation, indicating few visitors, and certainly no loggers in recent years. Road maintenance costs money. If roads are not in use, not much money gets spent on them. As side trails branch away, the vegetation grows thicker on what’s supposed to be a major haul road. To the uninitiated, the mix of grass and forbs seems innocent enough. But just try driving up a 20% slope in two-wheel-drive when the stuff gets wet.
Yesterday I drove farther than I should have, and spun out on one long incline on the way out, barely making it to a rocky spot where the tires regained control. Today I drove even further. Mark and I each took our trucks, with the idea of having two vehicles for better logistics as we took plots on the steep hillsides. I was leading the way, and became increasingly concerned as the greenery thickened, and the condition of the roadbed worsened. Dips and potholes were barely visible beneath the plant cover. Large rocks had come loose from embankments, creating obstacles to be slalomed around or moved aside. At a wide spot I pulled over and got into Mark’s four-wheel-drive truck. It was a good call. At the bottom of the hill, the bridge was long gone. And there was no place to turn around. I would have had no chance, attempting to back my truck up that sharp grade.
All that was left of the old bridge was a row of huge logs at the bottom of the creek bed. Approaching from the downstream side, we saw steep banks guarded by heavy salmonberry and other brush. We located a spot upstream of the bridge site that was easier to cross. Then we hiked about a half mile along the road, which on this side of the creek was actually being maintained. The road followed the contorted contours of the hillside, gradually gaining elevation away from the creek. My work area fell between the road and the creek. I tackled this ground while Mark worked the uphill side of the road.
When logging roads are carved into steep hillsides, high banks are created on the uphill side, and correspondingly sharp drops on the downhill side. Loose rocks and rotting logs left over from construction and logging add to the danger. Merely leaving the road and getting into the woods can be a challenge.
Once you’re in the woods, the slopes are seldom consistent. A 70% gradient is steep enough; then the ground will sneakily get steeper, until you realize that it has become 120% (note, a 100% slope is a 45-degree angle). Each little drainage that feeds into the big creek in the valley creates its own little canyon. Some are fairly simple to cross. Many are not. Picture some or all of the following: Slick exposed rock, small cliffs with no handholds, thorny brush such as devil’s club and salmonberry, slimy dead branches on the ground that are slicker than a greased sliding board, and large mossy logs left over from logging, piled in random directions. The forester’s challenge is to safely navigate his way to the bottom of the drainage, and up the other side. Much elevation is lost and regained in the process. Sometimes the best angle of attack is to contour your way upstream and cross where the ground is more gentle. Other times it’s best to dive straight down into oblivion, and crawl up the other side.
Today’s work fell into the categories of steep, steeper, and steepest. The plot grid consisted of short runs of 2 or 3 plots between the road and the big creek. Looping from one line to another was close to impossible because of those side canyons. The alternative was to put in the plots, and climb back up the way I went down.
All day long, that’s what I did. The good news: the land was well stocked with trees, keeping brush to a minimum, and making the ground visible. Steep ground can be safely navigated when you can see the earth below your feet. Brushy sites, on the other hand, conceal holes and downed logs. One false step can spell trouble.
Yesterday, by contrast, saw me in a place where bears had girdled and killed much of the timber, leaving the brush species to fill the void. The farther along I got in my day’s work, the steeper and more broken the terrain became. At one point I attempted to angle between two plot lines instead of climbing all the way back to the road. I made it perhaps four-fifths of the way. Suddenly the real estate I was on became view property. Technically speaking, I was not on a cliff, but the land dropped off in parabolic fashion, gaining in steepness until it was nearly vertical. Ahead of me lay about twenty feet of loose soil and small rocks, maybe golf-ball size and smaller, some rounded, some angular, and no vegetation to hang onto. A hint of a trail crossed the opening, suitable for small animals but not humans.
In such circumstances, my brain goes through a series of “if/then” propositions, laying out the possible scenarios if I try a certain risky behavior. When the consequences of falling are not severe, I will sometimes take the chance. Usually I make it just fine; occasionally I will crash and burn. On this cliff-that-wasn’t-quite-a-cliff, a fall would have led to at least a hundred feet of sliding and tumbling, and very possibly some broken bones. My chances of a successful crossing had to be 100%, or I was not going. This looked like 95%. I backed off and clambered to a higher point on the hill, only to be faced with a nearly identical situation. The third try took me to the top of the formation, where I found safer places to set my Vibram-soled boots while grasping at the occasional thimbleberry cane and Oregon-grape bush. All of this effort only took me to the trickle of a creek that was the centerpiece of this nasty ground. Now I had to get up the other side. The first route led to a bluff and was soon abandoned. The safe way out was straight uphill, where I could grab onto small alder trees and pull myself to gentler ground.
So much for yesterday’s fun.
Departing the woods, I convoyed with the other foresters. Phil led the way and Mark went behind me. I watched each bump and dip that Phil’s truck went through, and reacted accordingly. Whenever the grade became steep, I gathered all the momentum that was possible under the circumstances of tight turns and a narrow pathway. On several steep pitches, the wheels lost traction. But each time I was able to make it to the top. When we stopped at the end of the bad sections, Phil commented on my Toyota’s ability to negotiate dicey situations. Planting a kiss on the roof, I replied that it rarely leaves me stranded.