The first thing I noticed, as I returned to my desk on the third floor of Hanscom Hall at Gould Academy, was how loud the silence was. It was mid-May of 1965, and I had come back to rejoin my classmates (they had not left) in Mr. Bowhay’s Advanced Math class. My backside had remained in my seat; it was my mind that had traveled.
It was a beautiful day outside, and my head had pivoted in response to a fragrant and warm breeze wafting through the open window next to my desk. To further hinder my classroom participation, a chirping sparrow was serenading me, and dancing around in the treetops, inviting me to rejoice with him in celebrating spring’s long-awaited arrival.
The second thing I noticed were the smiles and smirks of my fellow classmates, and thirdly, I noticed the sterner, but, luckily, somewhat amused, countenance of Mr. Bowhay. I was hardly the first, and wouldn’t be the last, to take a short mental leave of absence during his tutelage. As my face colored a bit, he asked, “Mr. Chapman, are you ready to continue with class?”
Before, and long after I was daydreaming in Mr. Bowhay’s class, I have spent countless hours taking mind trips outside my physical body, including some, as a child of the Sixties, induced by psychedelic drugs; that was primarily the result of naive and reckless experimentation, bowing to peer pressure from kids I perceived as cooler than me, and a scarcity of good role models. The great majority of my mind tripping episodes have been more organic in nature, and certainly more predictable and less hallucinatory; they have, nevertheless, been adventurous, entertaining, often enlightening, and sometimes surprising with unexpected discoveries or consequences.
Physically traveling, actually getting in a car or hopping on a plane to visit a place far distant from my neck of the woods, has not been something I’ve given myself very often as an indulgence over the years; and, yes, it is an indulgence, particularly living, as we do, on a planet which is so alarmingly close to becoming unable to support “The Human Experiment” due to accelerating climate change. There is a higher cost to travel than plane tickets and hotel fees, of course. Having had a long career as a logger kind of takes away my right to preach about using fossil fuels. We do need to take our heads out of the sand, acknowledge facts, and embrace science, I think, as we prepare to make the choices and sacrifices that will be needed.
A great number of my travel miles have accumulated from putting one foot in front of the other. It is said that the average person, in an average lifetime, will walk a cumulative distance of five times around the world, as measured at the equator. It’s likely that I have covered that distance in forested miles, as I’ve walked, run, hiked, cruised timber, and logged in the northern forests of Maine and New Hampshire.
It has been my great honor to have been entrusted to log for so many woodlot owners (or, as I prefer to think of them, caretakers) over the years. They have allowed trees to grow on lots as small as a few acres, to lots as large as many hundreds of acres. There have been north of fifty such caretakers, with names starting out with nearly all the letters of the alphabet…beginning with Angevine, and ending with Zale. Each lot, and each caretaker, would present to me a different and unique visage, and a brand new opportunity to forge a relationship with those separate and variable entities to achieve a collaborative and favorable result.
The mind would set out on its new journey as I made an initial timber cruise of a tract of timber. An assessment of the quality and quantity was needed, to start with, but the job layout possibilities would also be considered in that first look. Is it a “good chance”? What is its history? When was it last logged, and are there old roads, landings, and trails that can be utilized? Are there water crossings? Many other questions need to be answered before the caretaker can be properly informed and a game plan developed.
Often my mind would wander away for a spell while on one of those initial rambles. How could it not? There isn’t anything much more wonderful or magical than a woodlot that has been allowed to become cool, soft, and oxygenated, but standing sentry tall and proud, while under the auspices of Mother Nature and Father Time; that wonderment and awe is seldom felt after a timber harvest, no matter the care taken in logging. A good logging job does offer Ma and Pa a quicker path to set things right.
So, I would be traipsing around on a new timber cruise and be a man of two minds. I would indulge the “forest bather” side with the uncut and unspoiled natural beauty of a well matured woodlot, while the practical logger would have his time to strategize, count board feet and assess grade, and formulate a cutting plan. It was a tad uncomfortable at times trying to reconcile those opposing mindsets.
But reconcile I would. We all use and need wood, that caretaker has to have income to justify keeping his woodlot, and wood is a renewable resource, a working forest, as they say. And, as logging has been my life-long career, I needed to cut trees and change landscapes to support myself.
Once the deal was struck and the logging started, I got into full logger mode. Logging demands one’s complete attention, and does not abide mind-tripping daydreamers. I have been able to transition to a more practical, methodical, and tuned in version of myself from the felling of the first tree to the last load of wood leaving the landing. The game of logging is a hard skill set to master, and the business of logging is difficult to manage, as well, with all the variables of weather, equipment expense and breakdowns, frequent worker injuries, mercurial markets, and competition for woodlots. It is not for everyone.
In spite of that (or maybe, to a large degree, because of that?), I look back at my career, as it nears the end, with satisfaction and a measure of pride. The largest burst of pride comes when I revisit an old job, mind-tripping away, and see that I’ve been forgiven for my earlier trespass. Recovery is well underway, and the woodlot is transforming itself back into a magical place, ready to delight and enchant those forest bathers among us.
Glad you never mind tripped while logging. Instead you had the skill of staying in the present moment by moment.
Nice piece, Tony!