Logging

The sound of logging close by is first, the sound of two feral cats with claws extended and an amplified guttural rage emanating from somewhere deep and primitive. Second, the slow cracking sound announcing something mighty has surrendered – and the third sound is the unmistakable heavy percussion of weight as the tree is unceremoniously heaved to the earth. 

The blood is carried down on the wind and is not an unpleasant, but is a somewhat acrid scent, sweet sawdust; fresh ‘tree meat’ often blended with a moss-earth musk layer. 

When you live out here – time is framed by these events; years of soft winds, silence – passing deer, many summers and winters left alone.  Yet the end of a stand of Douglas Fir trees, like an important death in the family, rips the silence and momentarily dominates the tranquil landscape with an urgent but loving request to stay close to the trail for awhile!