Wednesday began, as most of my days do, in the dark.
I make a conscious effort to notice what’s around me. Yesterday morning it was the clarity of stars in the southern sky. Looking toward the other three compass points, neither were the heavens as defined nor was the backdrop as black. I thought about why that might be.
To my west and north, respectively, are Yellville and Flippin — small towns, to be sure, but each giving off a measure of light. Farther east, much larger Mountain Home does the same.
And what lies south of The Mountain?
The Boston Mountains. The Buffalo River. Wilderness. The closest town in that direction is Marshall, which is about the size of Yellville, 25 miles away. The city of Conway, population 70,000, is 50 miles distant.
Stars shine brighter to the south because they have less competition. So-called “light pollution” does have an effect.
After daybreak, as I considered how best to occupy myself, I remembered the oak that I felled on Tuesday but was too gassed to process. In my last post, I told you that the work would happen “another day.”
I saw no reason yesterday to put it off. The temperature at 8am was a bracing 40°F, perfect for getting the job done. It took all of five minutes to turn long chunks into short ones.
I put my saw back in the Ranger, disappointed to be done so quickly. Then I spotted my ax and hookaroon there in the bed.
That motivated me to try splitting what I’d just bucked. I picked up the shortest round from the pile — produced when I “topped” the stump after felling — and took a proper swing at it.
I hit my mark, dead-center, and the round split but it didn’t fly apart. The wood was still wet and predictably stringy. Hmph.
At that moment, I had a conversation with myself. My ax is sharp, capable and the right tool for the work. The fibrous, greenish wood in front of me can be split with a little effort.
Then came the most useful self-counsel of all: I can do this. I have the strength. I know how, but I’m rusty. I need the practice.
And so I set to work. I got better as I went. I didn’t stop ’til the pile was gone.
Damn, that felt good.
I stacked the splits temporarily, log-cabin-style, just for fun. (Yes, this sort of thing is fun for me.) Eventually it’ll get stacked on a pallet to dry.
Consider, if you will, that none of the bucked rounds fron my oak trunk absolutely had to be split. All of them would’ve fit just fine in the firebox of my woodstove. Some, in fact, were perfect all-nighters.
So why go to the trouble?
I don’t split to fit and I don’t split to burn. I split to season.
The more surface area I can expose to the air, the faster and more thoroughly the wood will dry. Splitting rounds this size into two or three pieces — and then putting them up properly — will have them ready to burn months sooner than if they’d been left whole.
When I split, I try to give myself a variety of sizes, from coaling wood to the aforementioned all-nighters. The rounds I leave intact for long burns are smaller in diameter, generally, or (like crotches) are virtually impossible to split by hand.
Of all the chores I do here on The Mountain — and there are lots of chores to be done — firewood is by far my favorite. The whole ritual, from harvesting to processing to burning, suits me.
There’s a certain feel to what works, a particular progression to getting each part of the process just right. I don’t have it all figured out, but I’m workin’ on it.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable