Saga of the Sawmill (JM)

 

(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!