Heading into the final week here at Camp Cedar Glen. Looks to be about 5 more days of digging trail, and then maybe one day of goofing off when we finish early (that's the hope). They do have a ropes course here, and the kinda sorta maybe suggested that we would get to use it. And soon I will get to shoot some arrows at their hay bales, as they have an archery range.
Trail maintenance is a dreary process, to say the least. Usually about five of us make up a trail team; two Pulaskis (the axe-hoe double-trouble combo) and three McLeods (the pitchfork-jumbo hoe double-trouble combo). And yes, our tools are proper nouns because they are all named after people. Some kind of famous firefighters I think. Whatever. But, in short, the trail building sounds like this (in order) slam, hack-drag, chipchopCLANG (if there is a rock, which there always is), scrape, and the final rearrangedirt. It is a mind-numbingly slow process, and we are lucky to creep along at .2mph.
But still, it's nice to see the level, new-dirt trail behind us that you could probably drive a golf cart up in dire need. We have discussed amongst ourselves we might be making the trail a wee to wide, but we seem to be unable to alter that.
In other news, we broke the camp's pole-saw today. A pole saw is essentially a chainsaw on a telescoping stick, and the team clearing the road had it all the way out to limb up an overhanging snag. Even though the snag was fairly large, they managed to cut it off quite admirably, but unfortunately, in it's rapid descent to the ground, the branch bent the drive shaft of the saw. One of the camp staff we work with assured us that pole saws are meant to break, so no biggie. He said something about a conspiracy in which the pole saw company still own sole rights to the patent, and they make them to break often enough to be reeeeeally profitable. The idea made me drool.
It's been a rough week for silver four beside the breaking of the pole saw, last week we were down two members due to injuries and sickness. Someone got a nasty virus (which no one else picked up, thankfully), and one of our female members messed up her back via overwork. Of course, the lingering poison oak is still everywhere (the worst part is when you are in the trans-dream sleep state, and you unconsciously scratch the heck out of it. You burn for a good half-hour after one of those). And I made a close aquaintance with a number of red ants today. All it takes is stepping near the ant hill you just annihilated with your Mcleod, and for SOME reason, they climb up your pants and leave large red welts. Obnoxious to say the least.
In closing, I would like to recommend that anyone who looks into buying a GPS in the future NOT buy the brand that is called "Tom Tom." Often we have better luck arbitrarily choosing a direction than following the GPS the Govy so kindly supplied us. It gets us places eventually, but not untill double the projected travel time has passed.
And I am totally going skydiving over spring break. And, as an added bonus, I will be living like a hobo while doing it. The skydiving place said it would be ok for me to camp out on their lawn or nearby, since they are way away from any kind of amenities and I can't rent a car for some reason. So I will be living off PB&J and oatmeal, and oranges if I'm lucky.
But SKYDIVING! Wahahaha
Monday, March 22, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Heah we ah in Suthuhn Califohnya
There's no way I'm going to do the past week justice in this post, mostly because I'm a lazy SOB and I'm tired to boot.
But life with Silver Four has been eventful. We are now on location in Julian, California, about 1.3 hours outside of San Diego. From Sacramento, we drove a glorious (make sure you pick up the sarcasm there) 12 hours to our home for the next three weeks: Camp Cedar Glen. The camp is at 3500 feet up in a mountainish area, nestled into the slope in the watershed of tow neighboring peeks. I have no idea of the specific names, but one of the mountains nearby is named Vulcan, which I thought was cool enough.
I don't think I have ever been this uncomfortable as a result of physical labor in my life. Our primary job here is trail maintenance. There are around five miles of trails winding around the camp, which isn't that much, but from the state of things, it's likely that the last time these trails were worked on was in 2006 when the last AmeriCorps team was here. They are essentially game trails that people occasionally walk/crawl under fallen brush on. But I gotta say, I love the work. Most of it, at least. Swamping is a joy. With my teammate running the chainsaw, I dog along behind with the gas and oil cans, and throw everything he cuts down off the trail. Essentially, we are trailblazing. But, unfortunately, we are trailblazing through oceans of poison oak (literally), and I am itchy in various unspeakable places.
The number of game trails intersecting the real trail calls for truly hunter/tracker-worthy observation skills, and I get to plow off up the trails in search of any sign of grading or artificial berms. But on top of the views, the solitude (being wayfarahead of the hand crew, which is laboring along behind us to dig up and level out the trail), and the adventure, I get to wrestle with trees all day. What could be more fun than coming across a downed tree and just being able to move it off the trail with brute strength? I'm usually not one for huge testosterone surges, but leveraging 30', 200+lb trees down a mountainside blasts my muscles. Primal yells of victory, etcetera.
Really. It's freekin awesome.
If I can find time on this busy saturday to do it, I'm trying to call up the various skydiving establishments within 3 hours of Sacramento, to find myself something to do over spring break. My hope is to blow all of my AmeriCorps cash getting myself certified for walk-in skydiving. It's upwards of 1k dinero, but there is SO MUCH I could do with a certification. After paying fof/completing training, I can dive at 12000' for $50 a pop, or $25 if I get my own gear. And if I jump enough, I can get an instructors license, and if that doesn't scream summer job like the fourth of july, I don't know what life is meant for.
Seriously, just imagine what a summer spent as a diving instructor/helper would be like: strapping screaming thrillseekers to your chest and jumping out of planes. Or just jumping out of planes with groups. AND GETTING PAID TO DO IT.
I have to go hop around in excitement for a while, more next time.
But life with Silver Four has been eventful. We are now on location in Julian, California, about 1.3 hours outside of San Diego. From Sacramento, we drove a glorious (make sure you pick up the sarcasm there) 12 hours to our home for the next three weeks: Camp Cedar Glen. The camp is at 3500 feet up in a mountainish area, nestled into the slope in the watershed of tow neighboring peeks. I have no idea of the specific names, but one of the mountains nearby is named Vulcan, which I thought was cool enough.
I don't think I have ever been this uncomfortable as a result of physical labor in my life. Our primary job here is trail maintenance. There are around five miles of trails winding around the camp, which isn't that much, but from the state of things, it's likely that the last time these trails were worked on was in 2006 when the last AmeriCorps team was here. They are essentially game trails that people occasionally walk/crawl under fallen brush on. But I gotta say, I love the work. Most of it, at least. Swamping is a joy. With my teammate running the chainsaw, I dog along behind with the gas and oil cans, and throw everything he cuts down off the trail. Essentially, we are trailblazing. But, unfortunately, we are trailblazing through oceans of poison oak (literally), and I am itchy in various unspeakable places.
The number of game trails intersecting the real trail calls for truly hunter/tracker-worthy observation skills, and I get to plow off up the trails in search of any sign of grading or artificial berms. But on top of the views, the solitude (being wayfarahead of the hand crew, which is laboring along behind us to dig up and level out the trail), and the adventure, I get to wrestle with trees all day. What could be more fun than coming across a downed tree and just being able to move it off the trail with brute strength? I'm usually not one for huge testosterone surges, but leveraging 30', 200+lb trees down a mountainside blasts my muscles. Primal yells of victory, etcetera.
Really. It's freekin awesome.
If I can find time on this busy saturday to do it, I'm trying to call up the various skydiving establishments within 3 hours of Sacramento, to find myself something to do over spring break. My hope is to blow all of my AmeriCorps cash getting myself certified for walk-in skydiving. It's upwards of 1k dinero, but there is SO MUCH I could do with a certification. After paying fof/completing training, I can dive at 12000' for $50 a pop, or $25 if I get my own gear. And if I jump enough, I can get an instructors license, and if that doesn't scream summer job like the fourth of july, I don't know what life is meant for.
Seriously, just imagine what a summer spent as a diving instructor/helper would be like: strapping screaming thrillseekers to your chest and jumping out of planes. Or just jumping out of planes with groups. AND GETTING PAID TO DO IT.
I have to go hop around in excitement for a while, more next time.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Burning brush piles in the rain (what fossil fuels?)
The phrase on my mind today was “if only they could see me now.” Where was I a year ago today? It’s the third? Coming back from winter break I think, dragging my body back into the combine, pondering the feasibility of a state mandated education. Today, I spent half the day felling and bucking oaks with a chainsaw, and we burned enormous brushpiles. It rained most of the day, but a little bit of diesel fuel fixed that problem.
It’s just crazy. Let’s see if I can do a first-person snippet from today…if it doesn’t feel too much like writing a college essay.
Chainsaws are heavy. To let a saw eat into a downed log is a simple matter; the weight of the saw pushes the bar through the wood. But my arms feel too dense to make the face cut. The first cut in felling a tree is a pie-slice wedge, the face cut, guiding the fall of the tree when you make the back cut to release the tension and bring it down. Wielding a 30-pound hunk of roaring metal with enough finesse to cut a pie slice out of a tree takes a lot of huffing, puffing, and stops to check your work. But of course, I’m half-blind and wet, too.
No matter how many times I wipe my goggles, it’s like I get cataracts every time I breathe. A penumbra of mist constantly follows me around; my vision is a field of gray. I glance up at the tree as I cut into it, to check for movement, but all I see are silhouettes. The rain doesn’t make things any easier. I already had to change my gloves, as my leather ones (state issued, fire retardant) got so waterlogged and heavy that they would hold form around the throttle, and the saw would continue to run until I took my hand off of it entirely.
Since the tree is supposed to fall towards that side (based on the lean), it’s totally possible that the tree will settle as you’re cutting. If your saw is in the tree when it starts to lean even a little bit, the tree will trap your bar and no amount of horsepower outside of another saw will be able to free it. Besides cutting your chaps, this is the most embarrassing thing a sawyer can do. But I finally free a wedged slice from the tree. I hit the chain brake, shut off the saw, and stretched a bit.
The final cut is the fun part. One straight slice into the tree, and it falls. I give a final shout to my teammates to let them know a tree’s coming down and start the saw. I think I stop cutting too soon, because all of my trees fall slowly, letting themselves down gently as the stump pops and cracks.
I still think it’s crazy, just to look back at what I did in school (which I think more than ever was horribly implemented, but gives me less grief now that I’m gone), and all the questions I had about my future. Especially last summer, where the amount of energy I spent fretting about getting into AmeriCorps was monumental. Last year’s Sam seems pretty shallow now. Not his fault at all I’d say, just a product of his environment. That goes to say that the school and mainstream adolescent environment in this country is pretty shallow. Sure, in school I learned all about the abstract stuff that will let me build machines to manipulate matter and energy, but I’d say I’ve learned as much this year (and with only half of AmeriCorps done, too) about human life than I have in all of my preceding 18 years combined. The way people interact, the way people live, how the individual relates to society and vice versa.
Well, this is going to turn into a societal rant, so I’m going to stop here. But thus far, 19 year-old Sam is primarily concerned with getting to sleep at a decent hour and knows his place in society.
This is my last full day here at Mendocino, and I’m going to miss the industrial kitchens, giant redwoods, and noisy generators. Tomorrow we head back to Sacramento for a day, and then it’s on to Camp Cedar Glen, about 1.5 hours east of San Diego.
It’s just crazy. Let’s see if I can do a first-person snippet from today…if it doesn’t feel too much like writing a college essay.
Chainsaws are heavy. To let a saw eat into a downed log is a simple matter; the weight of the saw pushes the bar through the wood. But my arms feel too dense to make the face cut. The first cut in felling a tree is a pie-slice wedge, the face cut, guiding the fall of the tree when you make the back cut to release the tension and bring it down. Wielding a 30-pound hunk of roaring metal with enough finesse to cut a pie slice out of a tree takes a lot of huffing, puffing, and stops to check your work. But of course, I’m half-blind and wet, too.
No matter how many times I wipe my goggles, it’s like I get cataracts every time I breathe. A penumbra of mist constantly follows me around; my vision is a field of gray. I glance up at the tree as I cut into it, to check for movement, but all I see are silhouettes. The rain doesn’t make things any easier. I already had to change my gloves, as my leather ones (state issued, fire retardant) got so waterlogged and heavy that they would hold form around the throttle, and the saw would continue to run until I took my hand off of it entirely.
Since the tree is supposed to fall towards that side (based on the lean), it’s totally possible that the tree will settle as you’re cutting. If your saw is in the tree when it starts to lean even a little bit, the tree will trap your bar and no amount of horsepower outside of another saw will be able to free it. Besides cutting your chaps, this is the most embarrassing thing a sawyer can do. But I finally free a wedged slice from the tree. I hit the chain brake, shut off the saw, and stretched a bit.
The final cut is the fun part. One straight slice into the tree, and it falls. I give a final shout to my teammates to let them know a tree’s coming down and start the saw. I think I stop cutting too soon, because all of my trees fall slowly, letting themselves down gently as the stump pops and cracks.
I still think it’s crazy, just to look back at what I did in school (which I think more than ever was horribly implemented, but gives me less grief now that I’m gone), and all the questions I had about my future. Especially last summer, where the amount of energy I spent fretting about getting into AmeriCorps was monumental. Last year’s Sam seems pretty shallow now. Not his fault at all I’d say, just a product of his environment. That goes to say that the school and mainstream adolescent environment in this country is pretty shallow. Sure, in school I learned all about the abstract stuff that will let me build machines to manipulate matter and energy, but I’d say I’ve learned as much this year (and with only half of AmeriCorps done, too) about human life than I have in all of my preceding 18 years combined. The way people interact, the way people live, how the individual relates to society and vice versa.
Well, this is going to turn into a societal rant, so I’m going to stop here. But thus far, 19 year-old Sam is primarily concerned with getting to sleep at a decent hour and knows his place in society.
This is my last full day here at Mendocino, and I’m going to miss the industrial kitchens, giant redwoods, and noisy generators. Tomorrow we head back to Sacramento for a day, and then it’s on to Camp Cedar Glen, about 1.5 hours east of San Diego.
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