At the core of this large frame of mine is a motor that doesn’t like to slow down. Deep in my soul is the will to press on, to do until I no longer can. Within my brain, though, is the certain knowledge that I need to back off the throttle.
It makes for quite the internal wrestling match.
There’s this small mountain of firewood-to-be sitting next to our neatly stacked and tarped cordwood. It started with what I salvaged from excavation debris down by the well shed. I’ve added to it every time I drop a tree or buck deadfall, other than what I set aside near the fire pits.
The plan has been to tow Deb’s cousin’s gas-powered hydraulic log splitter up here and split what needs splitting, then stack it all on a pallet.
Then the other day, while browsing posts on a firewood forum, I read a bunch of glowing reviews of a particular splitting axe. If they were to be believed, the thing was damned near magical, a tool that that could transform even city slickers, newbies and 98-pound weaklings into wood-processing machines.
Too good to be true? Maybe. But it wasn’t the first time I’d seen this axe praised without reservation. And I had to admit that I, wrecked shoulders and all, might still be capable of doing some light splitting by hand, given the right tool.
So I bought one. It wasn’t expensive at all, less than 50 bucks. I told myself that if it didn’t work out quite the way it was advertised, at least I could use it around the fire pits every now and then.
This morning I took it down to the woodpile to try it out — just a few test swings, nothing strenuous. I set an eight-inch piece of red oak on the chopping block, took aim and, channeling a technique learned over a half-century ago, brought the head down on my target.
The wood flew apart so easily that I didn’t even feel the impact until the bit buried itself firmly in the block. I hadn’t swung all that hard, either.
I tried it on a similar-sized chunk of black locust, and then on some ten-inch hickory. Same result. By then I was laughing out loud.
The tool is a Fiskars X25 Splitting Axe. It’s equipped with a 28-inch “shock-absorbing” synthetic handle and a head weighing just four pounds — relatively light, so it’s truly an axe, not a maul.
Geometry, not weight, does the work. It’s designed for one job and only one job. In other words, this isn’t an axe you’d use to fell a tree.
I was elated. What’s more, I was motivated. I looked over at that mound of unsplit wood and decided to see how far I could get with it.
Obviously, I picked my battles. The 22-inch rounds of white oak, along with the knottiest and gnarliest bits, were moved to the side for power-splitting later. Everything else was fair game for the Fiskars, which continued to perform admirably.
I stacked as I went. With a single pallet to work with, I constructed piers in adjacent corners and laid up wood in the relatively tight space between them. When that run reached about five feet in height, I built another pier and did the same at 90 degrees to the first stack.
I made a fourth pier at the last corner, which let me stack the other two sides. When I ran out of wood, they stood a couple of feet tall. Odd-shaped chunks, like crotches, and too-small bits I tossed into the void in the middle.
It’s kind of a modified holz hausen. First time I’ve ever stacked firewood that way.
By the time I was finished — in less than three hours’ work — I’d reduced the size of that disorderly pile by 75%. What I found most remarkable was that although I definitely was tired, my shoulders didn’t ache like they’d taken a pounding.
In my hands, the Fiskars X25 had lived up to the hype. Between the geometry of the head and the design of the handle, it made this almost-67-year-old with creaky joints feel like a kid again.
Something that I genuinely enjoy, something I never thought I’d be doing again, is back in play.
Keep moving. Press on. Do the work.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB
One thought on “The right tool for the job”
Comments are closed.