Only a Flesh Wound

I love my chainsaw. In Cabot, VT, that puts me in good company, which is to say, it puts me in the company of practically everyone.

I think the chainsaw is probably the finest expression of combustion on the face of the earth. In exchange for a gallon of gas and perhaps a pint of bar oil, you get enough firewood to keep you and yours warm for weeks.

I know that chainsaws are dangerous. Really frickin’ dangerous. That is one of the reasons I like them so much. I have raced motorcycles at speeds exceeding 150mph; it felt far more safe that running a saw. This winter I hopped off the biggest drop of my skiing life. It was fun and felt sorta scary. Running a saw is funner and feels scarier.

I have decided that if the world ever runs so low on petroleum products that I no longer have ready access to them, I will save my last gallon for my saw.

I have 12 cords of log-length firewood sitting in the driveway. I am eager for the snow to melt; excited for the moment when I climb atop it, yank the starter cord, and dig in.

No comments:

Post a Comment