There used to be a fine old Douglas-fir tree near where I live. It was a remnant of the ancient forests that once covered much of British Columbia.


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Since about 1640, this particular tree managed to survive forest fires, wind storms, logging, road building, and Lord only knows what sort of insect and fungal infestations. Until one day, an enthusiastic crew working in the area, employed by some government agency charged with the removal of “danger trees” that could potentially fall on roads or power lines, decided for reasons beyond me, that this tree had to come down.

The tree was very much alive and considerably bigger than anything else the fallers would have encountered. That and the fact that it stood a reasonably safe distance from a dead end road that only sees light local traffic, leads me to speculate that they were only creating work for themselves. The anger and disappointment I felt at the loss of this local landmark compelled my attempt to salvage something from the log.

The wood was problematic, heart and ring shake caused the large blocks I worked from to fall apart and it seems like the pitch will never stop running. Despite this, I still feel drawn to that log for more, unless someone bucks it up for firewood in the meantime.

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