By Peter Christensen

Op-Ed Commentary

His name was Atlas, came out to the island from Rupert. He was light-boned for logging work but that did not matter because he ran the loader on the upper landing and had a light touch working the machine.  He’d park his tall rubber boots just outside the door to the cab and wear slippers inside. I did not worry about getting injured on the landing when Atlas was running the loader.

After he lifted the trailer off the tractor and placed it on the hitch, he would set the loader arm down on the ground till I had closed the coupling, checked the air-lines and was safely back in the cab of the truck. I liked that.

I was driving truck for Karl. He had the woodlot license, came from an old-time logging and milling family. He could run machines, build parts and fix or weld and, he was a businessman. I was wintering on Porcher Island, waiting out the winter before continuing to explore the inlets of the remote North and Central Coast on our sailboat Quintette. One had to be very self-sufficient on those excursions; there were no repair shops or marinas where we travelled.

Things were slow and I could use a bit of extra money for replacement engine parts so one day after coffee I asked Karl if he needed a driver? Karl thought I was crazy; he knew me as a writer and retired Park Ranger. What the heck would I know about driving a loaded logging truck down a steep backcountry road? But he gave me the benefit of the doubt and said to meet at the shop where the trucks were parked on Monday morning. He had three trucks, an old blue Kenworth, the other two newer. Old Blue stood idling, putting out blue smoke.

I did okay. I’d run gravel trucks during my younger days and had hauled restless horses in stock trucks on backcountry mountain roads. A split shift transmission was no mystery and with a refresher I got onto the two sticks again without much pause. We headed up the mountain to the landing. Karl showed me how to hook up the trailer and explained the difference between running a truck on air rather than one on hydraulic brakes like the one’s I was used to. You keep the pressure on to keep the air tanks filled and let the big brake drums cool the brakes.

We headed down loaded with large cedar and hemlock fir logs. I was driving and as we headed toward the first steep tight switchback Karl said, “Just stick the nose out a bit as you go around the turn so the trailer can follow.” I did that, in fact, overdid it a bit. The colour came back into Karl’s face after we made the turn successfully!

At the lower landing by the water where the log barge comes in, he showed me how to run the loader, how to grab the logs off the trailer and to build a pile. Then how to settle the empty trailer back onto the bed of the tractor; that was tricky.

We made a couple trips together and then as we were passing the shop he pointed to the red Kenworth. “Let’s park Old Blue and take the newer truck.” That was a relief for both of us. For him because he wouldn’t have to fix something and for me because the power assist steering on the newer truck functioned!

The next week Karl and Wendy left for a long-planned winter holiday to Hawaii. I enjoyed the driving, and the outfit.  No one was in a big friggin’ hurry and things went along nice and steady. I had a few good country tapes to listen to on my Bluetooth hearing aids and my little dog, Skeena, accompanied me sitting on the passenger seat during the long days.

One day, it seemed all of sudden, the cut block was empty, the wood hauled and there was a fortune in timber sitting on the landing where the log barge would come in. Karl and Wendy returned from Hawaii and he and I drove down to view the wood.

Everything had gone pretty well! No major breakdowns had occurred. It was a nice day and as we were standing beside each other looking at the logs I asked him if he thought there was something I could have done better? He looked up and around the landing at that big pile of wood and got the biggest smile on his face I had ever seen, and he said, “It looks just fine.”

Peter Christensen photos

– Peter Christensen is a Columbia Valley based writer and poet.

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