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.

The Perils of Plumbing

In the summer of 2007, my friend Bob and I drove to my Adirondack Camp for a weekend of camaraderie and work. Mostly work.

Immediately upon arrival, Bob hopped out of the Jeep and flipped the breaker that turned on the pump for the well that sits halfway out the long driveway. He walked the rest of the way as I turned the vehicle around, positioning it so that it would be easy to transfer plumbing supplies to the house. He spied the big maple across the top of the shed as he walked in.

"Probably ought to take care of that too," he said, pointing out the damage.

On the shed, but menacing the new construction.

"Hurrmph," I grunted, signifying acknowledgement without agreement. There was plenty to do without adding fallen tree removal. We had come to the Adirondack abode to rectify heinous crimes against nature that were perpetrated by previous owners of the place. The washwater did not go where it should. So to become a bit less hypocritical about caring about the environment, we were there to reroute much of the plumbing under the house.

Actually, being there to do the job was Bob's fault. "You know you're never going to fix your plumbing mess unless you set aside a weekend and just do it." And to punctuate his assertion, he volunteered to help make things right. So this was the big weekend. I was not looking forward to the work, but I was looking forward to having the job done.

Tools of the amateur plumber.
And a rutabaga.

We spent the majority first 12-hour day scoping out the job, discussing the relative merits of different approaches, and buying materials. It was decided that the big supplementary pump I had brought along wasn't necessary after all, particularly after seeing how difficult it would be to install it under the place.

When you are plumbing, gravity is your friend. So even though it was a long run down to the septic system, we decided to put our faith in friendship. You'd never know by looking at it, but the house is really a remodeled trailer with the superstructure and axle underneath to prove it. Crawling around under the structure, I took a few pictures to help our scholarly discussions.

Plumbing as you never want to see it.

The next day, we whacked and hacked, drilled and filled, glued and screwed. Eight of my 12 hours were spent in the tiny, dirty, disgusting crawl space underneath. To cover the dirt so that I wasn't kicking up any more dust than I had to, I spread out an old tarp that had been sitting in the garage. About 20 feet in, I realized that I was not the only one thinking that the tarp was a good idea. And the ants weren't particularly happy that I had disrupted their nest.

Only slightly better than having them in your pants.

Just before sunset, I emerged from my dungeon, finally finished with all the cutting and fitting and, in particular, the gluing. In the confined space, there were more than enough fumes for one day, mask or not.

Testing the work found no leaks. Hallelujah! Finally out from under, a celebration was definitely in order.

A small portion of the magnificent plumbing job.
Get off my back about the insulation!

The next day, we gathered our stuff together early and got ready to leave. It was Father's Day and we had families to return to. While packing the car, I remembered the tree.

Soon the ladder was up and I was up on the shed roof, wet from the previous night's rain. My trusty bow-saw was going to dispatch the offending limbs and we'd be on our way. But the tree was bigger and heavier and wetter that I realized, and it soon became apparent that my little handsaw was really not up to the task. Just then, Pete showed up from next door.

"You need the chainsaw!" he informed me. "Want me to go get it?"

I've read about hypothermia victims. It's not usually one bad decision that kills them, but a series of them. Saying yes at this point was well down the list of bad decisions. I was in a hurry to get up on a wet metal roof with an unsecured tree so that I could cut limbs with an unfamiliar chainsaw (are you counting with me?). And of course, the main thing that should have tipped me off that something was wrong: I listened to Pete.

The first two limbs came off pretty easily. Bob pulled on the rope we had tied to the biggest limb to keep it from falling on the new roof on the newly rebuilt garage right next to the shed. The third and last limb kept binding the saw, so I moved to a position on the peak where I could change the angle of the cut.

The chainsaw labored a bit, and suddenly, it cut through.

At that moment, the trunk sprung up and away, no longer balanced by the weight of the limbs that had held it flat against the roof. It struck me full in the chest, and I was shoved backward toward the edge of the slippery roof with a running chainsaw in my hand.

Immediately, I knew there was no way I could remain on the roof. As I staggered backward from the blow, I flung the chainsaw as far as I could. If it wasn't so dangerous, I'm sure this would be an Olympic event. The combination of motor sports and discus has real mass-market appeal. The chainsaw airborne, and still moving rapidly down the wet metal, I had two more steps before the edge. Stopping was out of the question, but launching the chainsaw turned me around, facing downhill, so I could at least plan my dismount. Add gymnastics to the new Olympic sport.

The ladder was where I left it, slightly left of my current line of travel.  A brief thought of trying to grab it was discounted as something that would only work in a Keystone Cops episode.  One step left.

Thinking that some lateral movement would be good to get as far away from the pursuing trunk as possible, and also help me roll upon landing, I jumped.

Perhaps I didn't really believe that I was about to die. Or maybe that business about having your life pass before your eyes is a bunch of bunk. All I know is that I only had one thought in my head as I sailed off the roof. "This is REALLY gonna hurt."

Just lovely.

I hadn't realized how pretty the delicate flower of Trifolium repens can be. You walk over the little white flowers of the clover plant and never really give them any notice until you are lying with your head among them looking for anything to divert your attention from the pain in every muscle and joint in your legs and back as you gasp to regain the breath you lost on impact..

Shortly, Bob asked, "Should I call the ambulance?"  Much later, he admitted that he really had not wanted to come around to my side of the shed to see what had happened.

"Not yet," I replied, in a perfectly calm manner that masked the pain. Well, maybe not perfectly calm. I was correct about how much the leap was going to hurt; but miraculously, I was soon able to climb into a chair and take stock. Lots of pain, sure, but everything seemed functional.

Sitting there, not ready to move, I conducted a review of the event. I began to realize just how lucky I was. I was bruised but unbroken after violating every relevant safety rule. I could have fallen awkwardly and landed in a multitude of disastrous ways. Even with a decent landing, I could have broken several different bones or minor structural details like my spinal column. The tree could have followed me down and crushed me instead of getting wedged between the stump and another tree. And I don't even want to think about the chainsaw.

The trunk, sans limbs, thankfully wedged at the base between trees,
unable to follow me down.

Providence had protected a fool. However, the Darwin Awards being an indication that His patience with fools is not infinite, I realized I needed to mend my ways. So extending my not-quite-post-mortem, I began to think about other close calls, and realized that there was a common thread in all of them. I was in a hurry.

I used to think that any elderly person I might pass on the highway was not in a hurry because he was old. Maybe that is not the case. Maybe he is old because he is not in a hurry.

Since my "3-Meter Roof Dismount and Chainsaw Fling," I have been keenly aware of just how much I tend to be in a hurry. Fidgeting in line, impatient in traffic, rushing to get things done...It's a wonder I've lived this long. But there is another key factor in this particular mishap. And that's plumbing. PVC cement, to be exact, is the real culprit in my poor decision-making. And it's all right there on the label.

"May cause irritation to eyes, skin, and nose, throat, and respiratory tract. May cause coughing, sore throat, difficulty breathing, headache, dizziness, nausea. Long term repeated overexposures to solvents may cause damage to the brain, nervous system, reproductive system, respiratory system, mucous membranes, liver, and kidneys."

Hmmm...overexposure to solvents may cause damage to the brain... It all falls together now, doesn't it? Right down to the point that I told Bob to hold a rope instead of a video camera.  A missed opportunity due to poor decisions by a damaged brain. Viral video for sure!