Something to whistle about ~ April 17, 2003

David Heiller

“I only saw wood in April,” Ken declared on Saturday morning, April 5. “And May if I have to.”

He made that declaration to Deane and me before we got going on a pile of black ash logs. He was saying it tongue in cheek, like he often does. But there was a grain of truth to it also, which I came to appreciate over the next two days.

“What’s a sawmill like this worth?” I asked him as he was assembling his Wood Mizer LT40.

“Catch me on the right day and I’ll give it to you,” he answered with a smile.

We worked for the next two days with that sawmill, and I don’t think he would have given it away, because it worked like a Swiss clock, and it was run by a master.

Deane and his crane lifted our
 black ash logs onto Ken's sawmill.

Deane Hillbrand and Ken Peter worked as a team. It was a joy to be a small part of it. Deane would lift eight-foot-long logs onto the sawmill with his crane, and Ken would saw them up with his sawmill. I had the challenging job of lifting off the slabs and boards and piling them up.

Deane always stayed slightly ahead of Ken, so that we never had to stop to wait for a log. We only stopped for lunch or coffee, or when a blade broke or became too dull to use.

It was interesting to see how efficient Ken was with his sawmill. He’s done it for many years, so he has it down to a science. He ex­plained how he did it, but it was too complicated for this newspaper editor.

Level the log. Make a top cut. Flip the log. Measure up from the center. Make another cut. (Or two?) Level the log. Flip 180 degrees. (Or was that 90 degrees?) Cut more. Flip again. Cut. Measure. Cut.

Got it? I didn’t. After watching him do it for two days, I sort of saw the method. All I know is that each board was either 10, eight, six, or four inches wide when it was finished, except for the stair treads, which were two inches thick and 12 inches wide. These came from the biggest logs, and we ended up with 13 of them.

Ken at the helm of his sawmill.

When Ken needed to flip a log over on his sawmill, he would either hook it with his peavey, or more often, he would wrap his arm around it and rotate it that way. He made it look easy, but every time I tried it, I could feel my back send out distress signals.

Ken’s strength came out even more when we were putting slabs under the tires of Deane’s trailer so that they wouldn’t sink into the ground. Rather than back the trailer onto the slabs, Ken just lifted up each end of the trailer and I slid the slab under the wheel. Easy. No sweat.

The boards didn’t look like much to me. But to Ken and Deane, who make their living working with logs and boards and timbers, it was good-looking wood, and that made me feel good.

On a couple occasions, a clear, light board would come off the saw, and Ken would give a whistle of respect. On one stair tread, Deane even stopped what he was doing and admired the piece like it was a Picasso.

David and friend Terrance in our living room.
You can see the the woodworking: that is the black
 ash that Deane and Ken and David put took out
 of our woods in Sturgeon Lake, 
and sawed on Ken's sawmill. 
I got my hands into the mix when I sanded, stained,
 and finished each an every piece of wood in our home. 
 

Ken and Deane did one other thing right. They made me feel like I was pulling my weight. Ken said to me a couple times, “You’re doing all the work.” That wasn’t close to true, but I didn’t mind hearing it. Deane said if I hadn’t been helping, it would have taken a lot longer. I felt part of the team.

We finished up on Sunday evening. The saw had quit its whining. Our ears were free to hear the silence of a fine April day. You appreciate silence after running a sawmill. The air was so clear and brisk that I said to Ken, “I can see why you like to saw wood in April.” He gave me a look that said he knew I got it.

Ken scaled out the pile of wood, writing figures in a notebook, and proclaimed the grand total: 2,143 board feet. He calculated the weight at 10,715 pounds. And I had stacked every pound.

Maybe Ken was right after all.

The wood will go into a new house for Cindy and me. When it does, when it is smooth and, rich, I’ll see what Deane and Ken were whistling about, and I’ll be reminded of two fine men and a hard day’s work.