Action and Reaction Upon Lack of Traction

One of the most dangerous tools ever devised is the chain saw.  It is a wonderful labor saver, but must always be treated with healthy respect.  Its capacity for unanticipated mayhem is unsurpassed.  Not only is it a magnificent creator of sawdust, but it is also a machine that changes the dynamics of large objects we expect to be intransigent much more quickly than our minds appreciate.

And every once in a while, it kicks back at its user to exact first hand revenge.

But for all these things, good and bad, it needs a chain with sharp teeth.  Hand sharpening can improve the saw, but when performance declines to the point of acting more as a sander than a cutter, it's time to go get a replacement.  

There were multiple logs to be cut into firewood, so Russ volunteered to drive down to Zipp Hardware.  We were about half way there when it was noticed that we'd forgotten to throw in the gas cans that would insure that we could get the job done.  

"Better go back and get them."

"I guess so."  So we delayed our arrival in downtown Dolgeville by 20 minutes or so. 

Good for containing gas.
Not so great for pouring it.

Ya gotta love Zipp Hardware.  It's a real old-fashioned hardware store, with real people who actually know things about tools and hardware.  Once upon a time I went there with my friend Bob to get a 1" diameter piece of copper pipe.  Rarely used these days, we were skeptical that the store would have the pipe we needed to get the camp waterworks back in order, and as suspected, there was none in the store.  But one of the owners said, "Follow me," hopped in his truck, and drove 2 blocks to his house on the outskirts of Dolgeville.  We followed and waited while he rummaged around in the attic of his garage.  He emerged with a 4 foot length of 1" copper pipe...enough to do the fix twice.

Amazed at the service, Bob whipped out a $20 and held it out to the man.  "Naw... Put that away.  I've been meaning to throw it out for some time.  You saved me the trouble."  Can you imagine that happening at Lowes or Home Depot?

A great place.
Certainly, they have something you need.

This time, what was needed was in stock.  Anyone needing a chain with sharp teeth later in the day was out of luck, because I took all 3.  Good teeth are important.

Then off to fill the cans at Stewart's, the combination gas station, convenience store, and ice cream stand.  Magnanimous Russ offered to do the fill, since his truck was also in need, and he began with one of the cans.  

"Wait a minute.  What gas did you put in there?  We need to get the higher octane version with no ethanol for the small engines."

"Oops!"

"No matter, I'll dump the can into the truck."  So Russ filled the other can with the good stuff while I emptied the full one into the truck.  The damn "spill proof" nozzle did not fit well into the truck's filler neck, so of course, I spilled all over before the gas in the can went down to a more manageable level.  All the while, there was another truck behind us waiting to pull into the space at the pump while we did our keystone cops routine.

Self conscious about the delay, with the can finally empty and Russ refilling it and topping off the truck, I wandered back to the truck behind and motioned the driver to roll down the window with an outdated cranking gesture.

The window came down and revealed two young guys in the cab.

"Yeah," I offered.  "We're idiots.  Sorry about the delay."

"No problem, man.  We're on our phones, so no hurry."  A good use of technology.

Russ was finishing up, so I hopped back into the passenger seat.  Not being of the same generation as the guys in the truck behind us, accessing the cloud did not occur to me.  I stared a the steel trestle bridge across East Canada Creek, on which we would shortly begin our return.  As I observed without purpose, an 18-wheeler flew down the hill on the other side much faster than any reasonable operator would attempt.  The right hand turn onto the bridge would have been easily negotiated with half the current inertia.  Frozen and fascinated, I watched as the westbound semi crossed into the eastbound lane and began disintegrating as it tipped into the massive steel triangles of the bridge.  The cab came to rest halfway to the other side.

A few seconds prior,
just another boring day
for the bridge over East Canada Creek.

The destruction of the vehicle seemed to unfold slowly, even though the impact and destruction certainly were quite sudden.  Time was stretched while pieces of what looked like foam insulation and metal fell into the stream below.  Much later, I wondered if I would have reacted at all if my viewpoint had been much closer.

The effect of the bridge on the vehicle was remarkably like that of a gigantic grater on a long block of cheese.  Little pieces of the truck were skived off, dropping to the water below.  Each blade took a little more as the giant provolone was reduced by half.

Bad day for Old #106
Gotta wonder how long it took to get the bridge back in service.

Feeling the need to help if possible, I hopped out and began walking toward the bridge, not looking forward to what I might find in the cab.  The driver waiting behind us was right behind me, saying, "Man, that guys job is over!  He'll never work for that company again."  My thoughts were similar, but not for the same reasons.  Oh, to be young and immortal again.

As we approached, the remnants of the front windshield fell forward, and out of the now-vertical opening popped the driver.  Soon on the bridge, I asked, "Are you OK?"  He said nothing and turned away.  There was a cut on his hand, and his sock was bloody, but in light of what had just happened, he was in great shape.  I had to wonder why he would ever drive the rig with no shoes.

That's the driver on the left.
He may be stupid and careless, but his luck is enviable.

The town came alive, and very quickly there were crowds of people watching from both sides of the bridge.  It could not have been more than a minute before the flashing lights on the car of the local constable were blocking western access.  A guy in a red truck, who had backed away in the eastbound lane as the disaster unfolded before him, shouted a few minimally coherent profanities and sped off, perhaps in search of a lottery ticket.  Satisfied that there was little we could do, and that the authorities were properly in charge, we went back to Russell's vehicle and made our way out of town by an alternate route.

As one might guess, the topic of conversation was what we had just observed, and our part in it.  If the chainsaw was not so dull, we'd never have gone to Dolgeville.  Had we not returned for the gas cans, we never would have seen any of the mayhem.  Had we been efficient in filling the gas cans, and on our way across the bridge back the way we came, this story might be quite different.

Have chainsaws attained a new level of devious malevolence?  Are they now colluding with also-dangerous gas cans in plotting mayhem?  Have fools once again been protected by their own incompetence? 

We never used any of the gas.