Just another face in a lifetime of faces.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The hemlock stands like an old king who knows his time’s up but isn’t going quietly. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sixty feet of straight, thick trunk, bark furrowed deep, crown heavy with needles that still look green even though the heartwood’s starting to rot at the base. Trask was right to mark it—another big wind and it could drop right across the main hiking loop, take out the bridge over the creek, maybe hurt someone. Better to bring it down controlled than let nature do it messy.
I’ve got the perimeter set.
Orange flagging tape strung tree-to-tree in a wide oval, maybe eighty feet across at the widest point. Signs nailed up every twenty yards:
DANGER – TREE FELLING IN PROGRESS – KEEP OUT.
I even dragged a couple downed logs across the two main game trails that cut through here, just in case some hiker thinks the tape is decorative or is simply too distracted with some social media bullshit to care.
Racer knows the drill. He’s parked himself on the uphill side, well outside the drop zone, tongue lolling, watching me like I’m about to put on a show.
I pull on my chaps, helmet with face shield, ear protection, gloves too. The chainsaw is fueled, chain sharpened fresh lastnight, bar oiled. I run the engine once—two quick revs to make sure he’s purring—then kill it and sling it over my shoulder.
First job’s always the same: limbing.
I start low, working my way around the base. The lower branches are thick, some as big around as my thigh. I notch each one on the underside first—quick, shallow cut—then come over the top. The branch drops clean, thuds to the forest floor. Sawdust sprays, sweet and sharp, sticking to my forearms where sweat’s already starting to bead.
One branch. Two. Three.
“Hell yeah,” I rumble, pleased with how smoothly this is going.
The tree starts to look less like a living thing and more like a stripped pole. Good. Less weight up high means less chance of barber-chair when I make the back cut later.
I’m maybe ten feet up the trunk now, balanced on a springy branch I’ve left as a makeshift ladder, reaching for a fat limb that’s angled right over the trail. The saw’s screaming, vibrating through my bones in that familiar, almost comforting way. I’m in the zone—breath steady, mind quiet, nothing but the next cut.
Then I see it.
Rustling in the distance.
Not wind. Not a squirrel.
I kill the saw mid-cut and rip off my ear protectors. The sudden silence is deafening—nothing but my own breathing and the drip of last night’s rain off the needles.
I swing the bar away from the branch, hook it on my harness, and drop down to the ground in one smooth motion.
I hear it again. The sound is heavy. Two-footed. Coming from the downhill side, right through the flagging tape like it isn’t even there.
My blood goes cold, then hot.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath. “Fuck.”
Racer’s already up, hackles raised, low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Easy,” I tell him, hand out. He stays put, but his eyes are locked on the same spot as mine.
I stride toward the tape line, boots crunching needles and mud. The rustling stops—then starts again, closer. Someone’s moving slow, like they’re trying to be quiet and failing.
I reach the perimeter, rip the tape aside, and step through.
And there he is.