Zeman_FinalLoggerMagalog

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The lumberjack opens his eyes wearily, body sore from the previous
day’s 16 hours of labor. The air is crisp and thick, weighed down
heavily by the early morning moisture of the forest. There is a
stillness that he loves about this time of day. It’s just before the
others have risen. It’s before the saws begin to feed their endless
appetite of oak, ash, fir, and pine. Lifting the dark, gritty, scalding
coffee to his lips, he mentally counts the days he has been gone from his
family. He silently laments how many
more lay ahead of him before he can
see his wife. Because the job is all
there is. The job means security for
his family. The job means he may
one day own his own mill. But the job
is never done.
Finishing his coffee, he pulls on his
boots and reaches for his single-bitted
axe. It fits in his hand perfectly, the
handle worn and shaped by sweat,
blood, and an incalculable number
of swings. His calloused thumb
passes gently over the edge, checking
for nicks that can be quickly filed off.
His mind begins to prepare for the
day. He pushes all thoughts of family
to the side, suspending actual time
because there is only the job. He joins his crew in the back of the wagon pulled
by the ancient gray draft horse. In an hour they’ll be far from camp, wrestling
with their two-man saws, dancing with death in a ballet of wood chips, falling
giants, and meager pay. This is his life and he would choose no other.
He is a lumberjack.
These days, you’re more likely to see burly, bearded men debating the
amount of citrusy hops in their favorite microbrew, holding their mugs
with soft, unworked hands and dressed in pristine imported flannel
shirts than a real lumberjack. Gone are the vast camps of adventurers,
miscreants, wanderers, misfits, and day-laborers that sought a paycheck
felling timber. Men that reshaped the face of this country with their sweat,
unbreakable backs, and a desire to keep the lumber industry alive and
well. As far as tough trades go,
lumberjacks are near the top of the list.
In the 1800s up through the 1940s,
from Washington State to Maine,
Michigan to Louisiana, hordes of men
would descend upon the endless
forests. With little more than hand
tools, they cleared thousands upon
thousands of acres of land. They
dropped trees of staggering size.
They moved them to the intersecting
network of rivers and tributaries, and
floated them to their sawmill
destinations. At no part of that
process did they not risk their lives,
often for pennies a day,
even by today’s standards.
Across the country, ancient vegetation
like the giant Sequoias of California succumbed to the endless barrage
of saws often wielded by large teams of men. But the epicenter of the
logging world, Bangor, Maine, was known for cutting and shipping more
timber than any place on the planet. As the 19th century wore on and
American expansionism moved ever westward, it was accompanied
by the nomadic lifestyle of the lumberjack.
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