Growing-up-in-the-Yukon story-time again. At a place called Jack Wade on the Taylor "Highway" (162 miles of misbegotten summer-only gravel road between Tok, on the Alaska Highway, and Eagle, on the Yukon River) there was a burn, some time in the 1960s. And at a place in the road so steep that the road took a switchback, the burn was high above the road. When we moved to Eagle in 1973, it was an area designated for public firewood cutting by the Bureau of
Land Management (BLM, aka "Bunch of Lazy Men").
So my father took his wife and four kids (ages 6, 9, 12, and 14, roughly) out there and climbed way the hell-and-gone up above the road. Started cutting these huge standing dead "blue wood" spruce trees with the bark already fallen off and cutting them into firewood lengths with his ancient Homelite C5 chainsaw. So we had wood in all sizes from one inch stobs to 30" rounds. Then he basically told us all to start carrying it down the mountain. Mom was limbing and bucking with a smaller chainsaw so the kids were unsupervised.
How long do you think it took my sisters to figure out that the larger rounds would roll and bounce all the way to the road if they could get them going fast
enough?
How many shits do you think they gave whether any of those rounds hit "the brat" on the way down?
They had never heard the phrase "that's not a bug, that's a feature" but the spirit of it was alive and well on the hillside above Jack Wade switchback that day. "Catch Daniel with a bouncing wheel of blue spruce" became the best fun they'd had since we hit that country most of a year before.
In another
thread somebody indirectly characterized some of the routine experiences I had growing up as stuff they'd consider child abuse. I rejected the characterization in that context, but I accept it in connection with almost every memory that has to do with collecting and preparing firewood. Which, considering that we burned through as much as 20 cords a winter in our first cheechako cabin, is a lot of them.
But I tell this story now because at the heart of it is a practical moral: in the right situation, cutting the wood into rounds and
rolling it down the mountain can get a hell of a lot of wood off the hill in one heck of a hurry.