Go to Nyer, a small, ancient
(gorgeous) village in the Pyrenees mountains, France. This village will have a
fast-flowing river running through it, a magnificent restored chateau (now an
old-folks home), and will be made more charming by the church bells that
trustily chime on the half-hour, on the hour, and then one minute after the
hour chime (just to make sure you didn’t miss the time as you were stirring from
your slumber, day or night).
Take three rustic locals. Take
one chainsaw. Make sure the rustic local man-handling the chain saw has never
used one to cut down a tree before. Take one or two or three fraying lengths of
rope (or as many worn-out pieces as you like), and tie them together, not
necessarily paying attention to the resulting strength or durability of this constructed
rope. Take one very high tree with two main trunks that diverge approximately
two metres from the ground. Take two seriously old farm sheds, one made of
stone and the other of four precariously positioned upright posts topped by a scattered
array of corrugated iron.
NOTE: It is imperative that two
groups of happy holiday makers will have, the previous evening, arrived in the
holiday houses situated directly next to the tree with two trunks destined for
removal. These holiday makers should not be fully awake, nor dressed, nor
breakfasted when the church bell tolls at 9.00 am (and then at 9.01 am). Narry less
than a second later said chainsaw will start. It should be revved many times to
ensure it is in working order. The rustic local with the least knowledge of
tree removal and chainsaw etiquette will climb the shortish ladder, ready to
apply his limited knowledge to the task ahead. Note the jaunty, devil-may-care attitude
to safety. Protective gloves, ear muffs, boots, helmet, clothing? Pshaw!
Instead quickly observe the t-shirt, torn overalls and old sneakers. Watch as the
rustic, ill-clad local positions himself on the ladder, with one of his
compatriots holding it at the base (a nod to safety, I think you’ll admit).
First trunk: Now begin. The
nearest branches that can reached with your chainsaw will be removed. Hither,
thither, any which direction you choose. If the branches fall towards the
ground - bravo! If the branches fall towards you - lean athletically (or
arthritically) to one side of the ladder, but be sure to show no emotion on
your weather-worn face. Excellent. Two/three big limbs gone. Now for the first of the
two main trunks.
Rise a few more rungs up the
ladder. Note that in the meantime the rustic local companions will have tied
the aforementioned rope around the first trunk, attaching the rope some
distance away to another not-to-be-removed tree. A ratchet will then be used to
tighten the rope in the direction in which the trunk will naturally fall
(ensuring it doesn’t fall on either of the old sheds). Slice randomly and with
all enthusiasm at the tree trunk. No movement? Try a bit of haphazard sawing on
the other side. It’s good to have your rustic local friends shouting
encouragement/suggestions and sometimes curses to you as you progress, in order
for this to be as efficient as possible. Listen to a further stream of curses as the
ratcheting rustic local realises that one of the knots in the make-shift rope
is hindering the progress of the ratcheting process, i.e., the ratchet can
ratch no more. Brute force will be required instead. Two rustic locals should
therefore hang as heavily as possible from the rope, pulling the trunk in the
pre-destined direction. Note with a sideways glance that various other
residential locals (ancient, battered, ensconced for centuries in the stones
and mountains) are gathering around local paths to see what is disturbing their
enjoyment of the church bell tolling. Up behind you and towards your left, see five
to ten curious faces of coffee- and cocoa pops-fuelled holiday makers watching
from the vantage point of their holiday homes.
After some more random slicing
and splicing and sawing and cursing, coupled with jeers and shouts from
heavily-hanging rustic local compatriots, shout at them, “I am not an arborist!”
With the air cleared, try the chainsaw one more time, this time, notably,
ensuring that the blade gets stuck in a selfish crevasse. Then hear a boom and
a crash and a bang, which unexpectedly, is the result of the rope suddenly and
inconsiderately snapping. Leap out of the way as the trunk falls directly on top
of one of the ancient sheds. This is not a good outcome for the shed, but at
least trunk number one has been felled (far from where it was intended to fall,
but it’s down).
Gather together with fellow
rustics. Try not to look bewildered or bothered. Be calm and act as if this was
supposed to happen all along. Observe five to ten astonished faces at their
windows, stunned to see the rope broken, the trunk down (albeit on the shed),
with the stubborn shed still standing, by good chance. Note that an formerly observing
residential local has wandered back to his house and got a real rope - no
splicing, fraying, knotting, or cobbling. What a beauty! Attach rope to the
second trunk and to same tree, with ratchet in position and ready to work.
Second trunk: Send novice
arborist up the ladder again and watch him proceed in a similar manner; hacking,
slicing and sawing at will. It’s quicker this time as the novice arborist is
much more experienced now, so it should not be a surprise when the rustic,
local, chainsaw wielding novice arborist suddenly calls out, “Attention! She’s
falling!” Look in astonishment as the second trunk makes a bulls-eye hit onto
the second ancient stone farm shed, not however, onto the cleared land in front
of all concerned, where perhaps she was intended to fall, given the new rope
and the functioning ratchet.
Ah well, job done.
After the chiming of the bells,
the clinking of pastis glasses and the patting of backs, only the downsizing of
the tree trunks remains as the job in hand. The most experienced, shouting, cursing
rustic local now takes over with the chainsaw. His agility, his speed, his
skill, his unsystematic cutting is a sight indeed. He doesn’t seem so happy
however when a large limb of the trunk disappointingly tumbles on top of him,
seriously wedging him belly-over another limb, with feet flailing and face
turning redder as the church bell tolls. Watch him wriggle this way, wriggle
that way, but on no account call out for assistance. Note the novice arborist
is frozen with indecision - should he help and acknowledge a lack of safety,
skill or ability of stuck companion, or should he ignore his plight with the ‘she’ll
be right’ attitude. Finally, with a deft and balletic sideways lurch, the stuck
rustic local becomes free and back in control. The sawing up of the firewood can
proceed and there’ll be warmth for all this winter.
In New Zealand we would have:
- a cordoned off area
- possibly distributed notes in letterboxes informing of removal of tree and likely disturbance between specified hours
- superior and mandatory safety equipment including high-visibility vests, sturdy steel-capped boots, protective gloves, helmet and ear muffs, plus being roped securely to the tree
- the tree removed from the top down - carefully, precisely and successfully
- a team working together to achieve this (location dependent).
We were all ready to run to the
other side of our holiday house should the tree start falling in our direction.
It was not out of the range of possibilities but it was just so heart-in-mouth,
exciting to watch, and the perfect way to start a tranquil holiday in France.
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| This method shown here is too systematic and does not necessarily guarantee the unexpected outcomes described above. |
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