Tree Down

It just didn’t look that difficult.

True, the log I was staring at had the girth of a small horse, and the water that was pushing up against it leaped several inches into the air in glistening rivulets.

And, yes, it had blocked the entire river, more than sixty foot across, and lay partly submerged.

But I already had several wilderness years under my belt and, I knew - didn’t I? - how to use a chainsaw. Cut from the side without pressure, keep both feet on solid land, have a get-out plan.

“You’re a fool if you try and cut that.”

It was the mellifluous voice of Charlie Russell, an old friend who had lived among bears and in the wilds for more decades than I could count. He was sitting on the bank thoughtfully watching me and Oly, a fellow wilderness guide and a New Zealander, prepare ourselves.

“Don’t worry, Charlie,” I said breezily, “We know what we’re doing.”

Oly put a thick strap around my belt and I climbed into position just upstream of the log. The saw started on the first pull and I leaned right across the log, Oly holding onto me tight, and began to cut from the downstream side back towards myself.

“I’ll cut half way through and then we’ll stop and figure out the rest,” I shouted above the roar of the river. 

But the fallen tree had other ideas. I was only about a minute into the cut when, without warning, it exploded underneath me. There was so much force from the flowing water that the fibres just gave up.

For a split second, quivering on the edge of the river, I watched the entire tree move off downstream.

And then, just as self-congratulation began to set in, the short end of the tree – the bit closest to us – spun around as if completing the second half of a complex judo move.

It rammed hard into Oly, Oly flew into me, and we were both flung into the fast-flowing river, running chainsaw hovering between us.