Page 24 of Eco-Activist’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #4)

Eric

I ’m sitting at the picnic table, soaking up the last of the late-summer sun while I can.

My laptop’s open in front of me, rows of numbers glaring back as I enter data on the trees I tagged in the weeks before the storm.

It’s mind-numbing work. Necessary, yes—but about as exciting as watching sap dry.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s up to—felling, delimbing, maybe more storm cleanup.

I don’t know which. What I do know is I’m tired of staring at spreadsheets.

Toby once told me Luke was a wizard with a saw, an artist even.

Watching him work has to be better than staring at data cells until my eyes bleed.

“Hey, Luke.”

He turns, spots me at the table. “Yeah?”

“You going out to cut some trees?”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I come? Just to watch?”

He pauses, studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “You interested in learning? Want to try?”

“Wait—you’d let me?” My voice comes out way more eager than I meant.

“Yeah. But we’ll have to get you kitted out first. PPE. Follow me.”

I snap my laptop shut. “Great. Thanks, Luke.”

Inside the shed, the smell of oil and metal hangs thick in the air. On one wall, rows of safety gear dangle from hooks, and shelves are stacked with spare equipment. Luke gives me a once-over, mutters, “Five-nine. Medium,” then looks me in the eye.

“Shoe size?”

“Eleven.”

“Good. You’ll need to put these on.” He hands me a pile of bright orange protective clothing. “Meanwhile, I’ll dig out some boots that should fit.”

I glance at the gear. “That’s okay, I’ve got my hiking boots. I can wear those.”

Luke raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Steel-toe-capped? Reinforced uppers rated for chainsaw cuts at chain speeds up to twenty-eight meters per second?” He waits.

“No? Didn’t think so. Unless you don’t mind losing a couple of toes—or maybe your whole foot—you’d better wear these. ”

I swallow. “Point taken.” I take the battered boots he hands me. Scuffed, well-worn, but solid. I sit down on the bench and start changing, trying not to feel like a little kid suiting up for his first day of Little League.

Soon I’m dressed in my borrowed PPE: bibbed pants with shoulder straps, a zip-up jacket, and gloves—oddly mismatched between right and left hands. I top it off with a helmet fitted with ear defenders and a thin mesh visor. It all feels oversized, heavy, and awkward.

I pull the helmet off for now and glance at Luke, who’s busy hauling more gear out to the truck. “These pants and jacket feel bulky as hell.”

Luke grins. “Yeah—bulky and hot. Try wearing them in midsummer, when it’s ninety degrees and there’s no breeze.”

“So why all the padding?”

“Protection.” He taps the side of my leg.

“Anywhere a saw might hit, the fabric’s packed with special fibers.

If the chain touches it, those fibers unravel into the chain and jam it instantly.

Stops it cold. Saves your arm, your leg—hell, maybe your life.

You just replace the chain and the PPE. Boots and gloves have it too. ”

I blink, impressed. “That’s… actually brilliant. I had no idea that existed.”

He nods once. “Saves lives every damn day. Prevents tens of thousands of injuries. You ready?”

I nod, heart thumping, though whether it’s nerves or excitement, I can’t tell.

“Come on, then.”

We head for the truck. Luke hefts a ten-gallon can of fuel like it weighs nothing and sets it in the bed with the rest of the gear. I climb into the passenger seat, cradling my helmet, while Luke slides into the driver’s side. He turns the ignition, the engine rumbling to life beneath us.

And just like that, I’m trading spreadsheets for chainsaws.

Arriving at our destination—an eighty-acre stand of younger-looking evergreens planted high in the mountains, maybe an hour’s drive from the lodge—we hop out of the truck.

“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, craning my neck at the rows of slender trees.

Luke sweeps a hand toward the stand. “These are Western red cedar and Sitka spruce. We planted them fifteen years ago. Now it’s time for the first thinning.”

“Got it. And that’s for yield?”

“Yeah. We take out every other row, giving the rest more light and nutrients. In the long run, it means higher timber yield. But that’s not the only reason. Less density helps prevent disease from spreading, keeps the soil healthier, and supports stronger growth all around.”

“Okay, that makes sense. So… this is what a fifteen-year-old tree looks like?”

“Yep. Teenagers.” He pats a nearby trunk. “Jack and I already marked what stays and what goes. All that’s left is the cutting and clearing.”

I nod, still trying to wrap my head around the scale of it. “How do you make sure the trees you cut don’t crash into the ones you’re leaving?”

Luke chuckles, a deep rumble that makes it clear he’s been asked this before. “Oh, they do. Even when you do everything right.”

“So what do you do when that happens?”

“We send the smallest, lightest guy up top to give it a shake.” He keeps a straight face. “Then the tree usually comes down, and we catch him when he falls. Mostly.” He pauses. “That’d be you today.”

I stare at him. “Luke, even I don’t believe that horseshit.”

Now he does grin, clapping me on the back hard enough to nearly knock me over. “You’re learning. Grab this—and this—and this.” He hands me an armload of gear. “We’ll set up over there.”

Once everything’s laid out, he gestures to a cedar. “Alright. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

I look at the tree he’s picked. It towers above us, reddish-brown bark, fanlike green foliage, small woody cones. Beautiful. And I’m about to watch it fall.

“The classic felling technique’s the simplest, so that’s what I’ll show you,” Luke says. “First, decide what direction you want the tree to fall.” He points out into an open clearing. “That way. Clear space, no obstacles.”

I nod.

“Next, check for hazards, clear debris if needed. We’re good here.” Another nod from me.

“Then we note escape routes. If the tree does something unexpected, you need a way out. Here.” He points left, then right. “Either path works.”

“Got it.”

“Okay. I’ll walk you through verbally before we start the saw—once it’s running, you won’t hear a damn thing.”

“Right.”

“We get as low as possible to avoid wasting timber. Then we cut a notch—a wedge shape—on the side facing the direction of fall. Diagonal cut first, then horizontal, meeting to form a notch a little less than halfway in. That wedge gives the tree somewhere to go, so it tips the right way. With me so far?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we go around back.” He leads me to the opposite side of the trunk.

“Here we make the back cut, just above the level of the notch. But we stop an inch short. That leaves a strip of uncut wood—the hinge—that controls the fall, guiding it down real smooth. Do it right, gravity does the rest.”

“Questions?”

I ask a couple of clarifiers, mostly to stall, but he answers them straight. Then it’s time. We put our helmets on and lower our visors and ear defenders.

With a single pull, Luke brings the saw snarling to life. The sound vibrates in my chest. He braces, checks the built-in level on his saw, and makes the notch—two precise cuts, clean and confident. Chips spray, the smell of fresh cedar rising sharp and raw.

We move around to the back. Luke checks alignment again, then begins the back cut, saw whining as it bites into the trunk. I watch like a hawk, adrenaline buzzing in my veins, half-expecting disaster even though I know he’s a pro.

Before the cut is complete, he pulls the saw out, snaps it off. The sudden silence is startling.

“Okay,” he says, lifting his visor. “We could use ropes or wedges if we wanted extra control, but gravity’s the easy way. Come here.”

I step up.

“Put your hand on the trunk. Give it a gentle push toward the notch.”

I do, and the tree feels different—alive, almost springy, like it’s holding its breath.

“Feel that? She’s ready.”

“Yeah, I feel it.”

“Good. Then why don’t you finish it? Do the back cut yourself.”

“What—me?” My voice cracks.

“Sure. Nothing to it. Visor down.”

I adjust my gear with hands that suddenly feel clumsy. Luke fires up the saw again, then holds it out.

Jesus, it’s heavy. I nearly drop it. He’d been tossing it around like it weighed nothing. To me, it feels like a sack of concrete. But I grit my teeth, adjust my grip, and take it.

Luke steadies me, one big hand guiding mine. Together, we ease the blade back into the cut.

"About another half inch is all it needs, okay, Eric?" I nod, lick my lips, concentrate on getting everything straight and accurate before I push down on the throttle.

The saw growls and comes alive with my command; the tree trembles.

“Okay,” Luke shouts over the engine. “That’s it—she’s going!”

Sure enough, as I pull the saw clear, the tree groans, falters, and begins to fall. It tips slowly at first, then gathers momentum until it crashes to the ground with a deep, echoing thud—exactly where we wanted it to land.

Luke grins and holds out a hand for a slap.

"Nice work, Eric. Your first tree. The next one, you can do the whole thing."

I smile up at him, pleased at the compliment, though I know he's at least partially blowing smoke. I'm also trembling with the excitement of the moment, and yes… I'm keen to try it again. If this is what it's like, felling a tiny young tree, what must it feel like to fell a huge old monster?

We get back to the lodge earlier than expected, so after a shower to freshen up, I grab my laptop and head out toward the picnic bench to continue my data entry.

But as I round the corner, I slow to a halt—because Luna’s already there.

She’s sitting with Southpaw curled at her feet, the wolf’s eyes half-closed as he basks in the late sunshine.