Since my last article, I have spent so much time cutting firewood that I have time to do little else. Therefore, I have little else to talk about. Unless, of course, you count splitting firewood and stacking firewood as something else.

For at least the past week, too much firewood has made me a dull boy. Other than erecting a clothesline that I have been planning to put together for several weeks, it’s been just firewood in my spare time.

The front porch is already full on one side, two deep, in a row about four feet high and 12 feet long. The other side is single-stacked.

Between the Norway spruce trees in front of the house, a large stack of wood saved from the forest floor fills the gap, while the other two trees are spanned by apple wood and a mixture of live and dry oak. I haven’t burned firewood as a main source of heat in a long time, but given the price of fuel these days, I may not be alone in making the switch.

I hope those who do switch over either recall or realize how much work getting in a winter’s worth of firewood can be. I certainly had candy-coated my memory.

About 90 percent of my wood has been oak this year; it is some of the best, and heaviest, firewood. I actually prefer locust, but I’m not complaining. I have about five truckloads cut, split and neatly stacked around the house and probably will only need two or three more to be safe for the winter. That having been said, I hope to cut four or five more so I can be more than satisfied. I’m one of those people who can’t stand the thought of running out. Make hay while the sun shines, as my daddy always told me.

My friend Mike and I set out on a recent afternoon to cut firewood, only to have several mishaps set us back.

His saw was too dull to use, which left us with only one saw. At least I was smart enough to head to the local lawnmower repair fellow to have mine sharpened on his little machine. I must say, I have never used a sharper saw. I’m obviously much worse at sharpening that I once thought. I will likely be giving him a $1.50 more often now.

We cut a large dead oak and watched helplessly as it lurched slightly to one side and caught precariously in another live oak nearby. The dead oak we set out to cut was about 22 inches through the middle, while the live tree measured at least 18 inches. After talking it over, we decided that it was much too dangerous to get close to the dead oak. I don’t trust a dead tree all that much. If it were to be hollowed out inside or rotten in a spot, trying to cut it could lead to it crashing down unexpectedly.

So we opted to cut the live oak and let them both fall together. The live oak looked to have a clear path to fall down through the woods, so we figured everything was going to work out fine. However, figuring was never one of my strong points.

About halfway through the tree, it moved cracked and shifted to one side and the dead tree came crashing down to the forest floor. I took the saw back over and finished the cut, only to watch that tree also fall into another tree. The first tree was notched properly, but the pressure from the dead tree pushed it to the side by about six feet at the tip top, just enough to barely catch a neighboring oak’s boughs.

As we looked at the tree, we decided to try and cut away a section of the trunk and make the whole thing fall. Fall it did, but it only stood up straighter, still hooked in the other tree. Two more times I cut out a wedge and then sawed the tree, only to watch it stand up again.

Finally, with about 20 feet carved from the base and the remnants of the tree standing nearly straight up, we shoved it over. By the time that tree was down, the time was up and not even one stick of wood had been cut.

By Saturday morning, he had both his small saw and the one he named “Big Bertha” sharpened and ready to go. To be quite honest, I was at first a little uneasy to work with a man who named his chainsaw. I was even more uneasy when he started talking it to it about midday, but I didn’t say anything. I think he felt the same way when I started yelling at a stick that had tripped me a few times. We all have our quirks.

The cutting was easy in comparison to toting the wood, about 30 feet up a hill to the closest place we could get our trucks. Some of the chunks of wood, especially near the base of the trees, weighed in at nearly 150 pounds. Wet oak and an uphill climb aren’t my ideas of a good time. However, even the deadwood was heavy and dense. A good standing tree like that is exactly the kind of firewood I needed with winter coming. We finally got loaded — the trucks, that is — by about noon. After eating lunch and fetching his splitter, we lit in to the woodpile. We finally finished up by about 3:30 and he headed home after I helped load his truck.

Then it was stacking time. After taking a break for about an hour, I finally managed to get all the wood stacked. I then took the opportunity to use the splitter on a pile of apple logs I had already cut.

After that, I headed back to the woods and picked up more firewood, finishing off the load with some good six foot poles just before dark.

The last load didn’t take nearly as long to get because I was able to get closer to the wood with the truck. Take my advice, don’t cut wood on a slope where you have to park on the uphill side. And whatever you do, don’t start romanticizing about the charm of a quaint wood fire and the wonderful exercise. All you’ll end up with is a sore back and plenty of splinters.

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