The cutting of ash trees contains a dose of tree tragedy.
Photo by Bruce Ingram / Styling by Janette Spencer
When is it not wood cutting season in these mountains? When Elaine and I moved to a rural section of Botetourt County, Virginia in 1989, it took all of one winter (after the local electric power grid fizzled several times) to realize that we lacked two essential items: a woodstove and chainsaw.
I cut wood in the winter months because a constant need exists to feed the stove’s maw. But I do so in the other three seasons as well because there’s no such thing in the Blue Ridge as a too long row of neatly stacked wood.
So on this particular January Saturday, Elaine calls our daughter Sarah to send grandsons Sam and Eli across the hollow as soon as they’ve awoken and finished breakfast. After their arrival, our destination becomes a hardwood stand where the invasive emerald ash borer has killed every ash with a circumference above four or five inches or so.
I explain to the boys that we are only going to cut trees that have already fallen. Dead, standing mature ashes have the dangerous tendency of shedding their tops when being levelled—not a good situation for the grandsons or me.
Now the work begins in earnest. I begin by cutting 12-inch-long outer limbs from the selected ash. At ages 11 and 9 respectively, Sam and Eli can tote four or five pieces of wood this size to the woodpile. Before they leave with the initial load, I ask them if they remember what they did wrong on the previous wood cutting expedition?
Eli responds, “We didn’t stack it right,” which is something of an understatement. The boys merely piled their haul on the pallets which soon resulted in the entire mound collapsing. Sam, known for his logic, adds, “We’ve got to stack it all in the same direction.”
Soon the outer limbs are all cut and stacked, and it’s time to move on to what we label as the middle-size chunks… a size category that means one boy can only carry one chunk at a time—more of a challenge to Eli than his older brother who has especially “filled out” in the last year or so. I know it’s a cliché to write “how fast time flies,” and “how fast they change,” but it’s true. Sam’s in middle school now, which just seems incredible.
Next, it’s on to the big chunks…too big for either boy to carry which means I have to employ the splitting maul before they can transport the rest of the ash to the woodpile. Then it’s time for one last lesson. I explain that ash burns fairly quickly for a hardwood and leaves more ashes than embers. And I add that we need to cut a few red oak chunks, from a long fallen tree, for night logs. This leads to more questions.
“Is that how ashes got their name, because they make a lot of ash?” Sam asks…a question I can’t answer.
“Can I use the chainsaw now,” Eli inquires. “I’ve been watching you.” Which is true, as Eli has always intently observed everything we do together. I reply that it’s something his dad and I will have to discuss.
Arriving back at the house, both boys insert some of the just cut ash limbs into the wood stove. The warmth they produce seems particularly satisfying.
The story above first appeared in our January / February 2024 issue.
