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Richy Harrod

October Harvest


The two-track forest road rounded dry ridges and crossed small draws with little to no flowing

water. The road was overgrown with buckbrush, willows, and Douglas maple which grated down

the pickup side like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Why the hell don’t they brush these roads out anymore,” I said disgustingly to my wife, Vicki. Our necks were stiff from craning up at the tree canopy looking for suitable firewood trees. The hillside steepened and the road darkened from the shade of overgrown vegetation. “Is that a grouse?” Vicki said as I quickly hit the brakes. Bailing out of the pickup, I grabbed my old trusty Winchester Model 120 from the back seat and jacked a shell in the chamber. The hunt was on! Family traditions are important for us, and spending time in the October woods hunting deer,

grouse, and firewood has been a yearly pilgrimage since perhaps the mid-1800s. My great, great grandfather and his brother traveled the Oregon Trail in 1860 and settled along the

Powder River near North Powder, Oregon. In the 1970s, I was a young boy raised on this same

cattle ranch my ancestors established. Gathering fall firewood was a necessity to heat old

farmhouses during frigid wintertime temperatures. Hunting deer and grouse became secondary

to the main task of cutting firewood, but we brought shotguns and rifles when we went to the

woods, just in case.

In my way of thinking, gathering firewood is another form of hunting. We scout throughout the

year for standing, dead Douglas-fir, lodgepole pine, or if lucky, tamarack (western larch). The

dead trees (snags) are cut and split into manageable pieces, loaded into a pickup, and hauled

to be stored at home. On National Forest, firewood is tagged in the same way a deer or elk are

tagged. Cutting firewood has its own appeal and fond memories made as cherished as some of

my favorite big game hunts. The smell of 2-cycle fuel exhaust, conifer pitch, and sweat awaken

memories of October family outings of many years’ past.

My brother, Ron, and I joined our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins on

firewood trips before our earliest memories. When we were older and stronger, our job was to

load firewood pieces into the back of a pickup or flatbed truck. Dad and Uncle Don would fall the snags and buck them into fireplace sized rounds. Older cousins would split the rounds, and Ron and I would load and stack them neatly. Our uncle, ever the consummate safety officer, would scold us every time we passed in front of a running chainsaw or swinging axe. “Damn it, I told you boys to stay back!” he would shout.

As a young man, I continued to help my elders haul firewood every fall. My grandmother,

Louise, loved to be in the mountains and hunt for firewood trees. She lived to the ripe old age of

101, lived by herself, and stoked a fire by herself until she passed suddenly. Grandpa Harrod

lived two hours away but would drive at the drop of a hat to join the rest of the family in the

mountains. It probably reminded him of working in the woods of Colorado in his youth. My parents too have grown older, and I helped them gather firewood every October until they

moved two years ago to a house without a fireplace. Dad and I would hunt for grouse strutting near the road edge along brushy streams while mom would spot the choice firewood snags with her mother.

Vicki and I always took our kids along on firewood ventures making our own family memories

and traditions. The kids were eager to help lift the firewood pieces into the back of the pickup for

their mother to stack neatly in the bed of the pickup. “Damn it you kids, don’t walk in front of that chainsaw when its running,” I would shout, carrying on the grumpy old man tradition. The kids learned to shoot a shotgun at stationary grouse. My daughter enjoyed spotting deer and became an avid deer hunter as a result. Because of their hard work, they learned to appreciate the heat from the fireplace and hearty meals from grouse and deer.

The older family members have passed, and our kids have left home to live their lives, but Vicki

and I still make our October journey to the mountains to gather firewood and, if we are lucky, a

grouse or two. My work clothes have the aroma of exhaust, sawdust, and sweat. It reminds me

of treasured time with family, self-sufficiency, hard work, and tradition. The feel of frosty

mornings, the sights of golden leaves and deer on the move, the high-pitched whine of a

chainsaw, and the smell of pine pitch will always remind me of the October harvest.

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