An Ode to Chainsaws and the Wood-chipper

“It's been quite a tumultuous past few days for us here on O Crew with the best project partner ever, Denver Water. We completed the last of the tree felling on top of the underground water pipeline and chipped them up. My saw, “Invasion USA,” finally got over the little rut he was in from last week. Completing our task a day early, we went to a reservoir to pick tree saplings. When our partner returned (with ice cream sandwiches), we chipped the rest of the trees and got a swag bag with water bottles, misters, a screwdriver, and straw. The next day, we were told we weren’t going to be using chainsaws anymore; our next backcountry hitch would involve trail work and crosscut saws. So, we had to turn in our chainsaws, which was sad—especially since we didn’t know yesterday would be our last day using them and we didn't get to appreciate our final few trees. Included are some of my chainsaw drawings commemorating my saw, as well as a few others.”

Note: The below is a dramatization of the events that occurred on Monday, July 1, when a woodchipper was broken from too-big-of-a log. The woodchipper was fixed and brought back into service the following day, with the project partner not concerned in the slightest.
“It began with a resounding grumble. The chipper was hungry and needed to be fed. Slowly, but surely, the grumbling became a rumbling and finally a screeching. The time had come. It happened after a long feeding time. Four of us in a line. Log after log. Everything that could be carried. We needed to satiate the beast or else. Sweat dripped down our brows, but we couldn’t placate its appetite. We were the only thing that could stop it from devouring everything. Everything depended on our ability to feed it. We were overwhelmed. Then I spotted it in the distance. The perfect piece of wood. It was double pronged, each side at least 15 inches in diameter. Flawlessly symmetrical in nature. In my heart, I knew that it would do the job. With everything I had, I lifted the timber like King Arthur pulling his sword out of the boulder and hurled it into the woodchipper’s gaping mouth. It took its last bite that day. The screeching lowered in volume, reverted back to its dull rumble, and finally, silence. It was over. We had done it. The beast had bitten off more than it could chew. And we had come out triumphant and on top.”