(Joseph MacRae, a poem from some time back)
Saga of the Sawmill
Driving through the valleys
of the Williamette and Columbia Rivers,
through the mountains and the small towns,
you’ll see the sawmills now abandoned.
Their dilapidating buildings
of tin and timber.
their rusty sawdust burners
standing like a monument, marking the end
of a once romantic chapter in
North West history…
I remember the exhilaration I used to feel
as I geared down my truck
with another loaf of pine logs.
Turning off the highway,
idling up to the scale shack,
then into line to be unloaded.
Climbing down from the cab of a truck,
adrenaline flowing, as sounds and aromas
fill the air.
Ah! The smell of pine rosin
and diesel smoke.
The foul stench of the log pond.
The sounds so familiar,
squeaks and groans of pain and torment.
The groaning of the bull chain,
hoisting another log up from the pond.
Clunk, clunk, as it rolls across the deck
then slams against the head blocks
of the log carriage.
Hissing of air valves as the log dogs
tighten down, holding the log on the carriage.
Clack, clack, as the carriage heads
down the track.
The ritual will be completed
again and again, the sacrifice is made.
Giant logs, centuries old,
being reduced to lumber and waste
as the head-rig sings its song,
hungrily ripping through raw timber.
As slabs drop onto conveyors
their feed to resaw,
then down the green chain
to men at work, pulling lumber,
stacking lumber,
sweating, cursing, voices long faded
into the hills.
Mill ponds filled in, log yards
empty and quiet, now stand in
Silent Reverence!
