I’m on a small story-telling bender. This one is recirculated yet again, for the reasons I outlined dealing with my post speaking of my experience with 100 sticks of dyanmite and landscaping, a couple of posts below this one.
Fortunately, this post here has abundant rhododendron pictures, which was the impetus behind the posting in the first place, until I wandered off into the personal. This is also important because it is freezing outdoors, lol. I mean, not a little.
(It is all of 7 degrees here in Louisville, Kentucky, as I write this. It was a balmy 27 yesterday at times, so I am more driven to see something to mitigate this Winter pain. My stay in Louisville has been marvelous from a strictly people aspect. Taking care of my Mother is like – well – it IS actually – a walk in the park. No stress, lots of family for a change and my peripatetic daughter is in classes in San Diego. Life is good – if freaking cold. And it is cold. I do not much like it, lol. Let me rephrase this – it is dreadful. I am far too ‘West Coast-ish’, if that’s a term, which 42 years there would do to one. Plus, we get another few months of this, unless Global Warming gets it done!
This post was composed in May of 2009. It is a long one, filled with pictures of flowers, lakes, sun, ducks and some writing about someone I don’t mind reposting about – a fine person. Just to keep the Springtime vibes alive, read and I hope you enjoy:)
“Extravagance” is the term I am so often set with concerning Rhododendrons. Like the Proteus plant, the simple size, girth and literal glamor of the bloom have few peers anywhere. The profuseness of a Rhododendron when in bloom I honestly believe has no peer anywhere in Nature. I love so many plants – they have been my stock in trade – but this one hovers in another sphere of general gorgeousness.
(click any image to enlarge like mad)
In the Northwest, there are rhododendron gardens all over the place. This week (May) in Florence, Oregon – on the Oregon Coast – there is a Rhododendron Festival, a full-fledged Rhodie fest complete with parades and displays and thousands of believers. Of course, everyone loves a party – so there is that. It’s been a long winter here – so there is that as well. But they’ve been having this particular festival for long years now. Love for the Rhododendron is not new here.
For purely selfish Photo Contest reasons, I add this earlier-blooming item here. I can’t imagine it not “belonging” anywhere, frankly.
When I lived in British Columbia, naturally a mainstay for visitors was the trip over to Butchart Gardens in Victoria – a world-famous garden and rightfully so, rich indeed with its own stash of thousands of rhododendrons and azaleas, like this Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden in Portland, just 4 times bigger and ten times more groomed and cultivated.
Naturally, there are plants other then Rhodies to slake the thirst for extravagant beauty. Take these pictures, above and below, of Double File Viburnums – how those branches seem to be wearing epaulets of blooms down their long arms, making them appear to be wearing instead of producing them.
These are somewhat groomed for the appearance, yet this plant casually shoots off these blooms in a very regular fashion no matter how determined its pruners are to show off.
Other places in British Columbia and Washington have rhododendron festivals. And many, many other places have small parks – often made by devoted Rhodites (my newest shiniest original English! 
) on farmland or just a once-open bit of land where someone tinkered themselves into some stunningly magnificent park, for which they collect money to visit and for which I was always so grateful to pay, just to see those exotics and bizarre rare species of Rhododendrons which eccentrics would specialize in. These were once virtual Hobby Farms, now ranked as parks. And there are more than one thinks.
I recall landscaping an estate in BC – 10 acres set in deep woods with 2,000 year old Douglas Fir stumps whose bodies had been felled in the original flurry of construction at the turn of the 20th Century, filled with a gassy pitch and crumbling peat-like deteriorated cores. One ravine near the home was particularly suited for Rhodies – deep shade with some dappled sunlight. I resolved to fill it with my own brand of a similar park but, naturally, budget concerns worried me immensely.
I consulted my usual nursery and had a line on some great buys of very small starter rhodies – with, naturally, a very restricted base of species and color. It weighed upon me as I drove the back roads of Langley and Surrey, BC, which was where my project was located.
While driving, I happened across a home – just caught by a glance out to the right of my window – where it appeared someone had themselves what looked like their own private nursery. I was curious and always looking for deals and I knew how cash spoke to growers – always subject to the whims of their small market of buyers. I braked, reversed and drove into the drive way.
As I drove in, I noticed a dilapidated older car parked, its door open and some cigarette smoke wafting from the driver’s seat. Walking up the small rise, I also noticed that as far as I could see, the entire nursery was of Rhododendrons. It stretched at least 100 feet to my left and was a good 20 rows deep of large – some huge – rhodies. This was a gold mine of specimens – gigantic and mature plants – and a variety to literally die for. I was nearly shaking after beholding all this because I really knew what I had found. (Hey, you had to be there.) 
The man in the car was very old now – 77 – a Russian immigrant whose wife was cooking inside and whose relaxation and privacy included this car to a degree I speculate was pretty intense. He coughed and looked up as I stood outside the door of his smoking chamber and gave a big smile. He was delighted to have company. It made a great start to a long and wonderful relationship. How no one had found this man is still beyond me to this day. I am positive he never would have sold Plant One had I not stopped by – or some other young and enterprising landscaper – there is that.
He had a hothouse where he was cultivating starts – some from seed – and always had. He just loved Rhododendrons. As we ambled around the stock, his 6 foot 6 inch frame would bend over at a particular plant and I would get its very history. He knew each plant like children. It put a near religious reverence to the entire operation, I swear. Some of the newer Rhodies were 3 feet tall, lined up before being separated later to accommodate for their later growth. Meanwhile, some of the others were a true 8 feet tall – worth thousands of dollars each and too large even for me to relocate. I was boggled beyond belief.
He asked if I wanted to buy some of them, getting the hint when I told him I was a landscaper. Naturally, I said yes and awaited his pricing with some trepidation. “Which ones do you want?” he asked. When I showed him a 5 foot high plant in full bloom which any nursery would charge a full $400-500 for, he looked at me, squinted in the sunlight and said:
“What would you say if I wanted $25?”
I laughed and said I would take it, of course. “Well, how many do you want?” was his next question. He then ran off the list, pointing to each plant and never going above 50 bucks for any plants – even the most extravagant and large. It became almost embarrassing and there was no way I was going to rip him off after the efforts he had put in. I gave him a figure that doubled or tripled what he had asked and he started blinking, counting up the dough. I also said I would begin with 100 plants. There was no way I was leaving that field without buying as many as I could.
He was delighted, but I was not done. I wanted to know why he wanted to sell them at such discounts after all the love he had labored over to get them started. I asked him point blank. He was so easy to talk with, it was crazy. We had definitely hit it off.
“Well, I am dying. I never wanted to make some big amount of money off these plants. There was a landscaper I used to sell 3-4 to now and then and it would be some cash for us. I spent a lifetime logging and doing the garden here just became a lot more of a hobby than I thought it would. We had all this land and it’s great land – perfect for Rhodies. If I could make sure the Missus has a few things before I go, I would be real happy. Heck, the land here is worth enough to retire on if we sold it. The Rhodies are just sort of gravy.”
He had a heart condition which gave him about a year to live. He had found out earlier that very week, it turns out. It’s funny how events gravitate towards one another in life. He looked at me with some real big eyes, smiled and knocked me over:
“I was hoping you would come by,” he said.
I felt overwhelmed by events on this boring Wednesday afternoon as I made my way through another torridly-paced business day, lit up on vanity, career concerns and selfish business worries like a junky. Then this tall Russian elderly drink of water delivered that line which I have never forgotten. Among my life’s religious events, I always reflect on this moment as one of those. The suddenness and raw clarity of a synchronicity of need and of something more – maybe just Love itself – made its way deeply into my heart like a bolt of lightning.
A few tears streamed down my face as I drove home that day, in a bizarre mix of gratitude, joy, and simple awe at the outrageous unthinking compliance of Fortune itself. Oh – and I made me a great friend. That should be assumed.
Well, he lived for another two years. I was young and just starting out in landscaping but I had enough dust to provide his grateful hands with about $6,000 in purchases and – Man! – did I ever make out, too. I also bought one of those 8 footers. It took all day for 3 guys to transplant it at the new spread. The timing was stunningly apt – it had just begun blooming and, once planted, was in full flower when their homeowners – a local builder – had their house-warming party. Their gratitude for my work was pretty much off the charts and I won an award for the job – my first ever.
Today, that plant might fetch the entirety of what I paid for all 300 plants I got from Vladimir.
I did not plan to write all that but it’s one of those “Rhodie stories” I have that seemed natural to share. After all, one good turn deserves another, doesn’t it?
Water is life. The lessons taught us by the plants and animals who survive and flourish in desert landscapes teach the same lessons to those humans who also choose to live there. Hoarding water, developing retaining and collecting systems and then using the life-giving resource to further life itself are all in the architecture of plants and cities.
The picture below, for example, is the dam which guides the lake water level at Lake Tahoe and which controls the amount of water let loose into the Truckee River which wanders through Reno on its journey to Pyramid Lake.
(dam pictures courtesy of US Dept. Of The Interior/Reclamation Division)
Reno, in many ways, is exceptionally fortunate in that the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range runs close by, just on the outskirts of town to the West, in fact. What that means is that the mountains retain a frankly staggering amount of snow almost (!) every year, attributable to jet streams which guide the Hawaiian-induced “Pineapple Express” moist and warm weather patterns towards the West Coast and then inland. One night accumulations of as much as 12-15 feet are not unknown. A basic snow pack often reaches 200′ in a season. This translates into a store-able source of liquid life. It also produces opportunity, which Reno has taken full advantage of in terms of water storage and availability in its High Desert environment which typically gets a bit over 7 inches of moisture per year. But the reservoirs also provide a huge recreational component for fishing, boating and camping, to say nothing of the attendant golf courses and softball, summer sports facilities.
The above is the earthen dam at Boca Reservoir. There are a good 4 reservoirs including Lake Tahoe which serve Reno. Each is in excess of 30,000 acre feet, so that’s some serious water.
Drip Irrigation
Adaptable as always, those crafty humans went and helped themselves immensely by maturing a technology of delivering water to plant materials in at a previously inconceivable rate, allowing more or less the exact and proper amount of water to go in evaporation-proof manner, directly to a plant’s roots. Drip irrigation made the scene and has now matured into a technology of vitality in even non-desert applications. Home owners everywhere now can hang baskets served by tiny irrigation lines and delivered at whatever intervals and amounts they choose. Gardens and pots can be serviced with water, even while a gardener goes on a vacation – without involving the neighbors!
Here – above – is the Reno Automobile Museum, fabulously wealthy Bill Harrah’s stunning collection of cars and a tourist attraction of well-deserved eccentricity and completeness, stuck hard in downtown Reno. My good friend Tom Stille was the Landscape Architect and this picture shows a slightly-compromised view of his style of plantings. Yes, he supplied some sod but it was at the request of the owner, while the rest of the property is very riddled with totally native plantings and boulders. Note that every plant is fed by drip.
Finally – Landscaping Around A Doggone House!
It leads to enormous possibilities in residential applications – bottom line. The other primary ingredient of High Desert life is the Sun. There is quite a bit, sustained, at times almost oppressive. But what it can do for flowers and plants is out of the envelope:
Fed daily and sometimes even twice a day, the amount of water needed to provide this succulent scene amounts to a couple of baths a day.
And it is much the same with this one below. One of the other key ingredients in designing Desert Landscapes consists of also providing key diversionary elements such as boulders, creeks – even water features – which use little or no water whatsoever. Face it – after filling up, a recirculating water feature such as tops this little man made creation – a mini mountain – uses very little water after the fill.
This late Fall – early Winter view from another angle of this project reveals the cascade and creek which actually splits and diverts at the second landing. At this time of year, we typically motor down the irrigation as plants go somewhat – but not totally – dormant. But one can still run the water in the waterfalls long past this date.
Possibly impractical, I guess, but highly-satisfying to home owners are small oases, filled with fish, as yet more life teems around the pool with a vitality fed from underground.
The possibilities of using stored water effectively have produced a reduction in water by in gardening and agriculture by nearly 30% over the past 10 years. And this was over a period of time which saw the Housing Bubble and people paying for much incredible landscaping work with the ATM purchases their growing appreciation of value allowed at the time. While unfortunate, this reveals my contention far clearer by what resulted from an expanded construction trade but – still – a reduction to such an extent.
Water rules but delivery systems rule more.
The High Desert landscape world has made life of higher quality for those who have taken advantage of it all.
This is a recirculated story about dynamiting for landscaping purposes and my very precious moments with a fine man – Bert – and a great crew of machine operators just when I was very ambitiously starting out in the field of landscaping………I’ve recirculated it because I think there are lots of you who have not encountered it. My blog has become ponderously large now, I realize. I do know blogger reading habits somewhat and asking someone to view this 18 month old post in a natural review of my work is asking a ton. I really don’t expect that sort of attention. I bring some of these back at the risk of boring those who have encountered them before because they are soulful or timely or that I got lazy – and to you, I apologize. To you guys, thanks for your comments and I’ll have a fresh Desert Landscaping – Part 2 in a couple days.
(2 notes – 1. – I fully realize this story runs on. It is very long. I advise maybe cutting the reading in two. You can stop at the “Dynamite” section and resume later – that’s about halfway. I had someone read it who thought it too long and I cast about for what to cut and, honestly, I am happy with it as an accurate rendition of the circumstances of the project. 2. -Another thought – the preservation of these stumps was obviously something I wanted. It’s a heartbreaker, in many ways. Just remember that the entire province of BC is one massive tree farm. Plus, you can fit California and Oregon together inside of this massive province. While you and I might deem these stumps priceless – which they are – it is not unusual to see them as impediments. After all, there are literally millions of them. BC is rich in stumps!)
Since I have been plying this trade for so many years, it only stands to reason that I would accumulate a few stories which might make for interesting reading. I do have one or two already in here, one in particular a sort of narrative concerning the construction of the Portland Chinese Garden I was involved with helping construct. I have this one, a tale of an eccentric rhododendron grower in Langley, British Columbia which you might enjoy.
Horror Stories
But I thought it might be interesting to deal with “horror” first. Now, I don’t want to put thoughts in your head, but I ‘am convinced we all love seeing someone more miserable than ourselves, just as – when “the horror” occurs – almost anyone’s life seems better than the one we are living. I remember thinking, in the midst of some blazing financial or personal tragedy how even Death Row Prisoners had 3 meals a day, a cot at night and so few responsibilities. Now that’s stretching!!
These are tales that chronicle what may be somewhat typical, actually, of many landscapers. I mean, anyone in business for themselves for longer than a couple of years has to have a fairly impressive stash of horror stories. Since every trade is different, they vary in severity, longevity and in the sources of the horror.
1. The Root From Heck
I obtained a contract from a guy who, by any criterion, would be called “pushy”. Others might call him a straight out “pain in the butt” – and did, for that matter – often. Anyway, he hooked me in by telling me I would have “carte blanche” to landscape an enormous piece of property – (10 acres) – from front to back. The only caveat to the project was this:
“I don’t want any history. Tear it all down and rebuild it!” OK, um, sure.
What I did not realize at the time was how literally he intended his remark. There was a lake there, fed by an Artesian Well which was very mucked up and which I was going to be happy dealing with. Indeed, this lake spilled into a creek which was terribly overgrown and which would require scraping by machine in order to find the soil and get it to a “blank space”, fit for re landscaping. All this was cool – no, I misstate that – it was to die for. I was ecstatic.
The parameters of the work would be the draining and diverting of the water in the small lake while we scraped all the muck and blue clay off the bottom and sides, complete with the reeds, pussy willows and blackberries which literally teemed there. We would essentially render it blank, as mentioned. The creek itself which flowed from this was in a ravine, right below and aside the house itself – a veritable mansion with a 3,000 square foot foyer, no less. I believe the home was some 20,000 square feet. A giant of a house.
Our role was to install various spillways and waterfalls for the well’s water to spill over, making it a series of waterfalls, fed from the lake above. Points of interest in waterways has always been a lure and a huge strength of mine. I love it. There were around 6-7 of these as I recall. Anyway, so off to work we go. Mucking out the lake was performed by using a good sized pump, feeding about 300 feet of hose to avoid the spillway and excavation work planned in the ravine. The muck and stuff, we were to take to the back of the property and use later to level it all off and sort of reclaim the land from the mess it was. No problem. That was the easy part. We were going to plant clover and alfalfa in the “back 5″ (acres) and he was talking about getting horses or cattle. Since both these plants love clay, it was a natural.
We accomplish the lake cleanout by using a D-5 machine with a bucket for loading the trucks who then take the material to the back area. In the meantime, I hired a 3 yard cleanout bucket on a monster excavator, complete with another D-5 Cat bulldozer for the ravine. It was hugely industrial for a while. Another guy – a local – came by and mentioned he had a large bulldozer to help with and would charge less money – he said he was bored. He had all these toys – even a huge crane – which he had accumulated over the years and ran an auto demolition yard. Fun guy, with toys – who could turn him down? So he came along, too, working in concert with the others. It was going swimmingly.
This is a picture of a D-7, from a stock Caterpillar photo:
The ravine itself had all these old stumps from the first-growth logging which had occurred in the British Columbia forests at the turn of the Century. This had resulted in numerous humongous stumps of old Douglas Fir and Cedar trees which were absolutely fascinating. They secreeted “pitch”, even still, a sort of varnish from old sap which was incredibly flammable and smelled just like some acetone compound. Sticky and moist, I used to fantasize how some of this sap could be older than Jesus. Truly, the stumps were from trees which were a thousand or more years old. There was nothing cooler, in my view than having these remnants of our human and floral past standing around. Add that they made some of the greatest imaginable mediums to plant in. I was excited more each day we worked.
Well, the homeowner comes home and congratulated me on doing a magnificent job of clearing it all and inside a time frame which we had surprised him with. In truth, it had really only taken about a week. We had pushed over these 150-200 foot tall trees which had been dead a while, as well as some he had requested which were alive. Bert, the guy with the toys, had taken away much of them in the form of firewood. The owner was pretty stunned and it left a glow as he spoke, raving about how it was “perfect” – much better than he had even expected. The only glitch, according to him, was those “dam stumps”. “Remember when I said ‘no history’?”
Sitting with his wife at the kitchen table, I patiently laid out my reasons for leaving them – stressing both their historical interest as well as how they could add so much to the landscape for purposes of planting. His wife had very much bought into my rap but he resisted. I’m not sure if it was his macho because he was so used to running things or whether it was a real urge to be his version of a “pioneer” and render it all his domain. We took a walk outside with me taking the behalf of the stumps and he pointing at which ones he wanted out. We argued some and he even came around a bit. It was a tiny victory however. In the end, he wanted about 6 of the 12 or so stumps completely removed. I sighed and agreed, with reservations.
These stumps were about 10-12 feet across. They stuck out of the ground about 6 feet, some maybe 10, and they represent one heck of a lot of work. Some even had other trees – even other species of trees – growing out of them as if they were fertile soil, which, of course, they were. But since we had the huge excavator still on site, along with 2 other strong D-5 and D-7 bulldozers, I figured it would be a snap. Plus, the one virtue of these pitch-laden stumps are in their volatility. We were going to burn the refuse we accumulated and which Bert did not take away. These were your average “fire starters”, to say the least. In fact, starting this fire would take one match. So, in my sadness at seeing them go away, I at least had the consolation of some relief in terms of the disposal of our currently enormous pile of forest refuse. But I had underestimated the mutual sadness of his wife. It turned out she had advocated leaving them most vehemently. She had been an ally in my urge towards preservation and the entire issue had become a real hot potato inside the home. But that sucker would not budge. I was fully convinced the dynamics inside the home determined the fates of those gorgeous natural stumps. Alas, we moved on to Monday.
Bert’s D-7 had a ‘splitter’ on the front which rested on the blade of the Cat- a virtual “spear” which was essentially a long (12 feet) narrow triangle which could penetrate a stump and basically cut it in half, especially aided by the force that a huge bulldozer can deliver. I have never seen one since and I have to believe this was a unique object. I also know he made it himself, a fact for which he was quite proud and I also know it worked…………..to a degree. As it widened and as the machine pushed the penetration deeper, you could often hear a monstrous “Crack!!” as the tree split. This was some brutal technology – like a log splitter applied to a maximum-sized object. We set the excavator nearby who would use the big bucket to split the stump further and eventually dig out or at least loosen up the roots. At the same time, on the other side of the ravine, we placed the D-5 which had about 300 feet of airline-strength cable spun around its winch. We ran the cable to the split half of a stump, wrapped it up and the D-5 would begin pulling, usually never even applying any driving power to get the desired result. It’s heavy weight and the combination of forces were generally all it took to yard some humongous root right out of the ground. We would then use the Cat with the cable to take the remains over to the burn pile, then return for more.
We got 5 of them out of the ground, proud of our successes. You could hear triumphant roars now and then as we succeeded at these gnarly tasks. These trees were definitely stubborn. Meanwhile, the lady of the house watched in horror as the destruction proceeded apace. Clutching her 2 year old, she was visibly crying. It was some sad stuff, unfortunately, casting a real pall over the project, then coursing through every remaining moment we worked there. Sure, I wandered up and spoke to her often. I had actually grown fond of her and we had joked about her old man more than once, the truth is. And I even liked the guy, so this was the banter of a friendly sort. But the rubber was hitting the road on this one now and she was darn near inconsolable. Nor did she blame me or anything like that. Unfortunately, I had made too much sense in my arguments for preserving the stumps. I hugged her and mentioned that there were silver linings, etc, etc. The usual. I also took her boy down to ride on the Cat – now, he was convinced we were the coolest guys who had ever lived, so we had that going for us and she smiled at his obvious relish. He saved us, I am convinced to this day, from curses and voo doo she may have resorted to. The guys were great with him, as well. They sympathized with me and her, actually. No one could understand the logic of removing these priceless virtual organic antiques.
Well, there was only one stump left. We performed the standard operation, with Bert trying his damnedest to split the trunk. But this one was somehow more solid. We attached the winch line to a half we thought would be above a seam in the trunk and Bert pushed in his splitter, Guy used the excavator to help and the D-5 across the creek pulled, even engaging his drive this time. The groans and efforts of the combination of all the machines was absolutely deafening as each strained to accomplish what was becoming seemingly impossible. We tried variations of every move but that dang stump had not even budged – not one inch. We went at it for an hour or more to absolutely no avail. The stump was incredible. There was only one solution – Dynamite.
Dynamite
Bert mentioned he had a buddy who had some sticks of dynamite. He was licensed for it and all that, having worked for the highways blasting rock for the past 20 years. Bert arranged for him to come out within an hour. It was actually fairly impressive. Needless to say, this was my first experience at using dynamite for landscaping and I would never have guessed how to even go about acquiring a good blast man. Bert smiled at me and winked: “We’ll get ‘er outta there, Steve.”
I wandered up while waiting to apprise my client’s wife that we were about to blow up her property. Nor was this a pleasant experience. “Dynamite??” she responded in horror. I mentioned it was a last ditch effort to get the stump out of the ground. And, to be honest, dynamiting tree stumps is not all that unusual. She called her husband who was all for it, remarking at how resourceful I was. It was embarrassing, actually. I mentioned she might want to go to the store or something because things were going to get hella noisy. But she said she wanted to stay for the whole process. I sighed and went back down to where the arrival of the dynamite guy had everyone standing around him.
He was this 135 pound grizzled old man with 3 fingers on his left hand and no thumb. I looked at him and my heart skipped a beat. I suddenly wondered what the heck I had done to deserve this. Of course, it had also started raining – I left that part out. I began to face a misery which I had never plumbed before. The stresses were getting to me.
The little dynamite guy got shown the tree and made his best guess as to where the tap root was going to be. He placed 10 sticks at that spot wired it up and ran up the hill by me. “Ready?”, he asked and I nodded. He tooted his horn, set the plunger and it went off – “Ka-Bloom!”
The earth shook where we were standing and I could see the other trees bounce in in place. Bert immediately started up his D-7, splitter on, and rammed the tree again. The guy across the creek pulled and the excavator reefed on one of the roots closest to the creek. The roar of machinery recommenced as the smoke from the dynamite wafted across our vision.
The stump did not budge. Not an inch.
After 10 minutes of effort, the cable snapped on the winch and shot back at the Cat like a bullet from Hell. Luckily the cage prevented it damaging the driver or the rest of the machine but I will never forget that sound as long as I live. That was the single most malevolent “hiss” and “pop” in history. The speed of the broken cable line was stunning. By the time the break sounded, it had already smacked the Cat. I could have sworn it was simultaneous.
Our dynamite guy was puzzled, so we got down in the hole and used shovels to try and locate the tap root. Thinking we had found it, we loaded that one up with another 10 sticks of dynamite. Once again, the sound of the warning horn, then the muffled but incredibly loud “Ka’Boom!!” of the dynamite as it went off. Once again Bert firing up the D-7 and once again he headed downhill to lance the stump. This time he actually made a tad of headway, getting through all the way to the other side but the firmness of the stump befuddled any effort towards increasing the split. The excavator roared, the D-5 guy had fixed the cable and stubbornly insisted on another “go” at pulling the stump apart and the same thing happened.
The stump would not budge.
To make a very long story short, we tried another 8 times to blast that stump. We had used 100 sticks of dynamite in our efforts by the end of this session and the dynamite guy was standing there scratching his head, still. Add that he was now out of dynamite. I thanked him for his efforts and sent him on his way. I walked up to the incredibly upset Mom and mentioned her dynamite days were over. To say she was relieved is an understatement. The, when I walked outside, I saw a most bizarre event.
Bert had gone around the tree to the top of the ravine. He was now orienting his bulldozer nearly straight down. He was mad. The guys were taking this personal now. Bert got himself about 30 feet above the stump and then just launched himself off a precipice which was probably about 60 degrees. When his bulldozer hit that stump, his splitter went through it almost like butter. The crack of the stump was insanely loud as all its pressure released inside the split Bert had just created. He slid on his splitter as it went through, rising off the ground. He sat there, hoisted literally “on his own petard”, bouncing off the ground, stuck in that stump.
So here we are, we have this immense D-7 bulldozer, stuck into a stump with its running pads literally off the ground! Bert was suspended, all 20 tons of himself propped right up into the air. He sat there for a few moments and he began laughing. Looking at me he asked: “Am I off the ground?”
I looked at the layer of mirth written large across his oil-stained face, smiled and said “Yup!”
The other guys wandered over and we all began laughing. “Dam,” Guy said, “I never even seen that before!” The other guy was laughing as well, some of it in relief as we saw the cracked stump and knew we had gained a purchase.
“Hey, Bert, what’s it like to fly in a D-7?”
It was pretty rich. We also knew we had won. That was not small. Crazy Bert had gotten mad enough to enforce his will on that stump – and a formidable foe it had been. That he risked his life was implicit – but he was somewhere beyond thrilled. This was why he was alive. He just craved this stuff – problems and fixing them.
The excavator piled up some dirt under Bert’s Cat and the other ‘dozer came over to ease the journey down by placing the bucket on the tracks and applying downward pressure. The excavator then re-positioned himself to the front of the Cat and began pushing with his bucket in the tip of the “splitter”. With some serious groans from the machinery and the amount of iron-on-iron, the sheer torque of it all saw us get inches at a time until we finally got Bert out of that stump. That was a true victory and our optimism hit a real high.
So………. we returned to our basic positions and it took about 15 minutes to clear the area, then pop the stump with an audible “Pop!” as the roots finally gave up their amazing war. Pulling one half of that giant stump free was one of the most electrifying sights I’ve ever seen. I nearly cried from joy. So we got the other half out like warm butter, then replaced the soil. The stump was out and was added to the pile. After 6 hours on this gnarly stump, it was now dark outside and still raining. But we could not help but feel triumphant. It was with one bizarre mixture of feelings that I drove home that night. The range of emotion during that day was simply astounding. I’m not sure to this day if it added or took away my time on Earth.
We had missed the tap root which had uncharacteristically been skewed from its very origins and went virtually sideways into the bank. Bert’s launch of himself in his ‘dozer had loosened the root which had indeed been somewhat damaged by the blasting earlier. The downward pressure released not only the root itself but Bert’s additional great good fortune had come with hitting the perfect spot in a seam running up the stump, splitting it in half.
Later on – a couple days following this, we had the fire which would render all our refuse into a small pile of ash. That the fire went 6 stories high and blanketed the entire neighborhood in soot and ash is another story for another time. It turns out Bert’s crane was a toy which could make epic blazes.
