Adaptive Curmudgeon

I’d started out with the intention of spending money to save time. Did I save time? Maybe, some. Not a lot.

I wound up making eleventy zillion phone calls to various dipshits who, inexplicably, seem to be in the firewood business without appearing to make much headway in the whole “sell firewood” arena. This is all you need to know in case you’re wondering why rednecks cut their own firewood.

I theorize the market is a mess due to three factors:

The first is the total dissolution of capitalist society, doubt me? Try to pay a doctor in cash. Then ask six insurance agents to explain how to insure a car. Then get on an airplane and realize everyone crammed in those uncomfortable seats paid a different fare. Prices, the signal of the market’s invisible hand, are terribly disconnected from their core product.

The second is an “industry” that is easy to enter and almost exclusively “inherited”. All you need is a skidder and a chainsaw, but everyone who owns a skidder got his first skidder from “grandpappy”. If it were any other way I’d buy a skidder, start selling wood, sell it in honest cords ’cause that’s the right thing to do, and have a new career.

And finally we’re a populace that has been trained by Costco and Exxon to assume that the guy who says he’s selling a “cord” is actually selling a “cord”. He’s not. One can verify “a cord” with a tape measure and 4th grade math but apparently I’m the first guy ever to do it. How a nation where six year olds play a mean game of monopoly turned into chumps… that’s a mystery.

At any rate I was willing, able, and eager to pay the going market price for firewood that was fairly measured in the official units of the product (cords). Instead I paid half price ($100) for an “industrial waste product” that was advertised as real firewood and sold in cords (but I only got a cord by standing up to a guy who probably rips off half the people he meets in a day).

A strange world indeed.

Remember that I was told nobody had “a fuckin’ clue” about a cord? Well the “cord in my truck/trailer was when I told the loader guy to call it quits. I wanted to buy what I’d been sold; a single cord.

A cord is 4′ x 4′ x 8′ = 128 cubic feet.

I went home and stacked the wood. Because that’s how I roll… I checked the results with a tape measure and crude geometry.

The “stovelength” wood was about 16″ long. My resultant stack was about 15′ long and a little less than 6 1/2 feet high. (It’s a stack of wood, not a brick wall, there’s some variation.)

If it had been exactly 6 1/2 feet tall that would have been a little more than a cord: (16″/12″)*15’*6.5′ =  130 cubic feet.

If it had been exactly 6′ tall it would have been a little less than a cord; (16″/12″)*15’*6 = 120 cubic feet.

I was a little less than 6 1/2′ tall so I call it as close to an exact cord as you can get. Yay me.

In the end, I bought from Frank, precisely what I’d requested and precisely what he’d promised. I’m sure he’s home fretting about it but that’s between him and his Scrooge tendencies.

A pony trailer loaded with chopped up bridge mats for use as firewood.

Stacking firewood… the poor man’s exercise machine.

So there I was, standing next to my hefty truck and my ridiculously out of scale little utility trailer (the pony trailer) amid mountainous piles of used bridge mats. This is what happens when I try to save time by buying firewood. Go figure.

At the end of a row of these gargantuan stacks was a firewood processor and a mountain of firewood. Finally!

I approached the firewood pile(s) and grimaced. I was hoping for chopped up trees. This was chopped up bridge mats. Ugh!

I grabbed a chunk and examined it. It looked exactly like someone had taken a big huge log of oak, milled it into a crude 30′ “beam”, drilled holes through it for a steel cable, tossed in a swamp, and drove an excavator across it thirty times. Yep, a God damned bridge mat!

A guy pulled up with a bobcat. I waved him down. “Care to load my truck?”

He eyed my truck. “What if I dent the truck?”

I smiled, “Then I’ll dent you.”

See… some things are simple. There are two kinds of heavy equipment operators, the true artists with precision control and the bubbas  who break stuff. I was talking to the latter though he seemed to know his own limitations. “I’ll go get Frank.” He shouted over the engine and then he was gone.

I examined the mess I’d gotten myself into. The block of wood in my hand was scuffed and dirty, like you’d expect. But it was wood. I checked the rings. It was oak. It was bone dry too! It was cut into “stove length” (about 16″) and crudely split (though still pretty large). It was butt ugly… but would it burn well.

I had to admit, the chunk in my hand, despite being ugly and dirty, would probably put off some serious BTU’s and make great coals. I came seeking a tree and found a chopped up bridge mat. Should I embrace diversity? ‘This shit will heat the house all night’ I though.

A monstrous front end loader roared up. “That shit’ll heat your house all night long!” The guy shouted over the machinery. My truck is a pretty big one but the bucket on the beast he was driving would crush it like a cantelope. “Yeah,” I grimaced, “you got a bobcat to load my truck and trailer?”

The guy (who was Frank) got off his mountain of steel and barked something into a muddy cell phone. A smaller, tracked bobcat zipped up. It had forklift tines, not ideal for moving 16″ chunks of oak. Frank explained this to a nervous bobcat driver. The first bobcat arrived and the guy in it tried to get out of the cab before Frank made him load the shiny truck and get dented. The two of them were arguing while a third bobcat arrived with (I could tell at a glance) a better driver. Frank and guy #1 kept arguing while I motioned to “good driver” to load my trailer. The driver, a man who grokks his machine, made short work of it. When Frank looked up the trailer was already loaded.

Frank smiled and all three bobcats shut down for an informal pow wow at my trailgate. Frank explained that there wasn’t a lick of treatment or chemicals of any kind on any ounce of that wood because if it had so much as a square inch of pressure treatment or creosote, some regulator would crawl up someone’s ass and it would shut down a million dollar job. That was why bridge mats wear out so fast. It’s not like it’s rocket science to make a mat that’ll last forever but the hippies insist it’s made of nothing but wood. Thus Franks’ new career as a bridge mat refurbisher.

I eyed the new buildings under construction. “You gonna’ resaw good beams out of the centers?” I asked.

Frank was shocked… apparently I’d discovered his brilliant plan. The bobcat guys hadn’t thought of this. “Maybe.” Frank played it cool.

“It’s good wood inside right?” I wheedled.

Frank smiled, then went on a ten minute discussion of the merits of the inner 80% core of the wood which was just perfect and had not so much as a speck of discoloration or broken fibers and could be had at the fraction of the unfathomable cost of an actual oak tree. I shared his vision. Recycling isn’t about aluminium beer cans at a nickel a pop, it’s about finding a way to profitably re-use something when it’s original purpose has been fulfilled. This was recycle in a way that made me smile. I’d like to see every table in every kitchen made of a 3″ thick plank hewn from the beams that once groaned under a crane’s weight.

“And that shit?” I hooked a thumb at the ragged, dirty, crushed, chunks of wood that now sagged the pony trailer’s springs. Frank admitted that this was the end of the road for a well used mat. But, he added, with a flourish that would make P.T. Barnum proud, this was also greatest firewood in the world. I admitted that it had it’s merits but I explained that I’d been led to believe I was here to buy cut up trees and not an industrial waste product. Perhaps it wasn’t too much to ask that the Craigslist ad and the people on the phone and Julie and Jake could have used the words “bridge mat”?

Frank, clearly a man who went out of his way to make sure nobody called a chooped up old dirty bridge mat “industrial waste” repeated that the wood was great for burning. His optimism was infectious. Then he turned and barked orders at the three guys to go various places and do various things that had nothing to do with me. Everyone jumped like a cat on fire; obviously Frank ran a tight ship.

“And the rest?” I asked, as everyone scrambled for their machine. Frank stopped. Everyone stopped. Frank turned on me like a guy used to scaring people. The bobcat guys leered on like folks who’d been scared and liked to hear someone stick it to the boss.

“You got a trailer load.” Frank barked.

“I paid for a cord.” I insisted.

“That’s a cord,” Frank waved at the trailer.

“A cone lightly dumped on a 5′ x 8′ trailer. You think that axle can support a cord?” I asked… trying to sound confused. As if I didn’t expect the “pickup load”/”cord” switcheroo.

“Um… well usually we sell just a pickup load for $100.” Frank muttered. He was looking at his feet. The bobcat guys were smiling.

“So when I called Julie and then handed Jake cash… and I specifically asked for a cord of firewood and they specifically said it was a cord of firewood? And the receipt I’ve got… that little piece of paper says a it’s a full cord of firewood? You’re telling me you advertise full cords of firewood on Craigslist… and you call it a cord of firewood when I’m handing over cash and write a cord of firewood on the receipt… but it’s a just measly trailer load of industrial waste product when push comes to shove?”

Frank glanced at me and at the bobcat guys. This was an ugly situation. It never fails to surprise me how a guy who drives up in a $70,000 piece of heavy equipment will bitch about a hundred bucks worth of dirty wood. Frank seemed both infuriated and trapped. If he gave in to me now… what then? How would his massive ego ever survive the day? Of course I’d been waiting for this all day. I’ve seen this movie before and I was ready for it.

Time for the next phase.

“Well I don’t want you to do something that makes you unhappy. If you meant to sell a half cord in a pickup and just ‘accidentally’ instructed your folks on the phone to call it a cord… and if you meant to sell old derelict bridge mats and just ‘accidentally’ instructed your folks to never ever hint that it’s anything other than a pure virgin tree… well shit happens right?” I said it low so the bobcat guys wouldn’t have more to rib Frank about later.

Then I spoke up a little louder so the bobcat guys (who were loving the show) could hear. “…And I sure wouldn’t hold it against you if you just didn’t know what a cord was. That’s hard right?” I continued.

That did it!

“A cord is 4′ x 4′ x 8′ Goddammit!” Frank barked. “Everyone knows that.”

I waved toward the pony trailer. It’s 8′ long and you can see that. It was piled maybe 2′ deep if that.

“Load this guy with as much as he wants.” Frank instructed the good bobcat driver. “Everyone else get to work!” With that he stomped off to his machine, roared it around in an impressive pirouette, and was gone. The good driver loaded my truck gingerly and I helped. When I was satisfied I had a cord I called him off. He couldn’t stop smiling.

“You come back for all the wood you want!” He enthused.

I suspect Frank is something of a tyrant. Also I suspect Frank is the 235th guy I’ve met who scrapes an extra buck or two conflating “full cord” and “dump some shit in your Toyota”. This disappoints me. I’d have been willing to pay $180 a cord for a real cord. I’d have been willing to entertain chopped up bridge mats instead of ‘a tree’. Even so, I was impressed with his recycle/resaw plan and predict a golden future for Frank, miniature Tony Soprano of the bridge mat woodlot. I’ll miss him.

Jake’s scribbled notes were excellent. Ten miles later I was inching along a new dirt road cut into the forest. At the end of the road I found a construction site with a couple industrial pole barns in mid-assembly. Workmen and equipment crawled all over the place like ants. Someone was building something to manufacture stuff. My heart swelled with joy… capitalism!

As instructed I swooped past the construction site to a multi acre field stacked high with mountains of huge oak beams. Not logs… these were big fat honkin’ beams. The kind of stuff Thor would use to lay up his man cave. They were tightly stacked, scuffed up, and incredibly filthy.

“That’s odd.” Thought I.

Finally it dawned on me. These were bridge mats. Put on your civil engineering thinking cap because I’m about to explain ‘bridge mats’.

The history and theory of the bridge mat (noun), abridged edition by Adaptive Curmudgeon:

Back in the stone age when industry ran amok and hippies were kept on leashes, rich men wearing ties needed to build things. Wherever earth and water meet, there’s a swamp. Folks in the days of yore said “it’s a damn swamp” and drove across it with machinery. Some machinery sunk in the swamp and had to be pulled out creating big ugly holes. The rest of the machinery churned across the swamps with tires and tracks and cleats and great steel talons. (I’m making that last part up but wouldn’t talons be cool?) It was a big muddy mess but people of the time were like “it’s a friggin’ swamp, of course it’s muddy”. Stuff was built and the place where they worked looked like trench warfare had occured. Then they all pounded a pack of Pall Malls, swigged a Budweiser, and drove home in a car without seatbelts.

Now things are different. Hippies run things and industry is terrified. “Damn swamps” are now “irreplaceable wetland”. “It got muddy ’cause it’s wet” turned into “I’ve disturbed a duck and six tadpoles, please sue my ass until I can’t walk straight”.

Because industry operates on earth (and not a university professor’s theoretical construct) machinery must still venture into swamps wetlands. But if they so much as make a pint of water turbulent with dirt (which hippies call “deadly suspended sediment”) they’re screwed. The solution to this is the bridge mat.

To make a bridge mat one begins with great squarish beams, often hardwood. These “beams” (which are very hefty) are log sized and log length and tough and solid. Each one is big enough to beat a Prius like a nail. They’re “laced” together with big chains or cables. Many are linked together. The result is a Godzilla sized Lincoln Log arrangement of beams that can be “rolled out” across the swamp. Track hoes, cranes, and various other mechazoid equipment gently lays down the “bridge”. Stuff drives back and forth over the bridge, which spreads the weight and allows very heavy stuff to almost “float” over the mud and vegetation. Steely eyed regulators watch things every second and disturbance to the site is carefully avoided or mitigated.

When construction is done, the mat is gingerly lifted up and set on a flatbed semi to be hauled to the next worksite. If the whole system sounds ludicrous all I can say is that it works.

I’ve seen enough shit to build a city rove back and forth on what looks like chained up wads of logs and then, when it’s pulled, it’s like hardly anything happened. There will be some bent vegetation, picture some squashed weeds and squished cattails. After a few weeks even this is starting to fade. Usually after a winter’s snow pack and freeze/thaw cycle the area is nearly pristine. You’d have to look very hard and know what you’re looking for, just to know a bridge had ever been there.

Frankly I’m in awe of this. I’ve seen some places where huge pipeline has been laid and six months later it looks like a nice place to hunt deer (which it is). Don’t let handwringers get you down, silly sounding approaches like bridge mats really perform miracles.

Also, and I say this in all humility, I’m of the opinion that avoiding turbulent waters and soil compaction and all that is indeed a good thing. As much as I like to make fun of regulators and hippies, I like that a pipeline can be placed in the ground and it’s still “pretty” and “healthy” when it’s all over.

It was a big construction company. There were several excavators, dump trucks, and the like in a large muddy parking area in front of an industrial building. They were obviously in the business of building roads and such. No sign of firewood. I roared into the huge lot with my hefty dually truck and the mismatched tiny little “pony” trailer; spun around in a big circle kicking up dust and leapt out of the truck.

The door of the office burst open and a pale skinny woman with bleached hair hurried toward a battered Ford Focus parked next to a dirt pile. She and the Focus had both seen better days. She was lighting a cigarette and tossed the match my way. Only then did she see me.

“Julie?” I grinned across the expanse.

She startled. I assume she turned pale but she was already pale to start with.

“I brought an onion sandwich. Want half?”

Without a word she jumped in the car and careened away. It was missing a back window and had a few dents. Julie was probably not the best driver.

Inside the office I found a guy with a calculator scribbling numbers on a calendar at a furious rate. I introduced myself “Hi, I’m Curmudgeon.”

The guy looked up. “I’m Jake.” He looked out the window at the ragged sedan heading out of the lot. It was probably in third gear and was definitely gaining speed. It jounced over terrain that would make a goat stumble with wild abandon. “Dude, she drives like it’s a mission to kill that poor car.”

“It looks like she’s succeeding.”

“Ha ha ha… you’re right.” He glanced at a bowl on a desk. “Look, mints. Want one?”

He grabbed a handful. I accepted a few. They were pretty good. Jake was staring at the bowl. “There’s never food here. Hmm…”

I decided to cut to the chase. “I’m here to buy one cord, 4’x4’x8′ of cut, split, dry, oak firewood. It’ll take my truck and trailer combined. You have a bobcat to load it. You want $100. Is all that right?”

“Yeah.”

I handed Jake $100 cash. Jake stuffed it in his pocket.

“I’m gonna’ need a receipt.”

“Oh sure.” Jake got out a receipt book and a battered pen and started writing.

“I want it to say ‘one full cord’.”

Jake wasn’t worried. I was wondering what the next trick would be. The wood was in Juneau? The bobcat was actually a housecat?

Jake handed me a receipt. It said ‘one full cord oak firewood’.

I had no idea what would constitute the next part of the adventure so I waited. Jake wiped his hands off, grabbed a scrap of paper, and started drawing with a Sharpie.

“OK. You go down route 14 right?”

I sighed.

“Hang a left here.” He pointed to a hand drawn diagram with one line crossing another. “Then two miles on route 9.” He paused to steal more mints from Julie. “Past the railroadbut before the lake… there’s a right hand turn.”

“Take the turn?”

Jake looked up like I was the dumbest thing he’d ever seen. “Why would you do that?”

I smiled and said nothing.

“Right at the turn is a dirt road. Just built it last month.” Jake said it slowly, like I was particularly dense. “Go almost to the lake, and go right onto the new dirt road. If you get to the lake you’ve gone too far.” I nodded. Jake handed me another mint. I accepted. He scooped a handful in his mouth and kept talking. “It’s two point three miles on that dirt section. It’s dry. No mud.” He grinned around the mints, obviously proud of the road he’d built.

I interjected “At this location there is firewood?”

“Yes!” Jake beamed, like I’d learned a new concept today.

I continued “And that is where I can get a guy with a bobcat to load cut, split, dried, oak firewood?”

“Of course!”

“And this guy who drives the bobcat, he will know how much to scoop to make up a 4′ x 4’x 8′ cord of wood?”

“He won’t have a fuckin’ clue.” Jake nodded grimly.

I sighed.

“Yeah, they’re idiots.” Jake sighed with me. “Just give ’em shit until you’ve got a full load. Tell ’em Jake said a full goddamn cord.”

We shook hands. I drove off seeking my firewood…

Ring ring. “MegaCorp Construction, we build it so you don’t have to. How can I help you?”

Curmudgeon: “I’m calling about the ad. It says you’ve got firewood for sale?”

“Certainly. I’ll transfer you to Jake…”

Click… they hung up.

Ring ring. “MegaCorp Construction, we build it so you don’t have to. How can I help you?”

Curmudgeon: “I’m calling about firewood. I think we just got disconnected.”

“I’ll transfer you to Jake, he does the firewood.”

Click… they hung up.

Ring ring. “MegaCorp Construction, we build it so you don’t have to. How can I help you?”

Curmudgeon: “I’m calling about firewood, please don’t transfer me to Jake.”

“But Jake does the firewood.”

Curmudgeon: “What’s your name?”

“Julie”

Curmudgeon: “It’s nice to talk to you Julie, if try to transfer me to Jake and instead hang up on me a third time I’m coming down there to talk it over with you personally.”

“Oh my.”

Curmudgeon: “And I’ve got all the time in the world. I’ll bring scrabble.”

“Um…”

Curmudgeon: “I have halitosis. I eat a lot of beans. I can sit around all day breathing and farting…”

Click… “Jake here.”

Curmudgeon: “I’m calling about firewood.”

Jake: “Oh yeah. We’ve got lots of it. Hey, did Julie transfer you here?”

Curmudgeon: “Yes. It took her a few tries.”

Jake: “Man, she always screws it up.”

Curmudgeon: “Anyway you have cut, split, seasoned, hardwood?”

Jake: “Yes we do!”

Curmudgeon: “It is cut and split?”

Jake: “Yes.”

Curmudgeon: “It is seasoned. Nice and dry? I want to burn it around Thanksgiving.”

Jake: “Bone dry. Ready to go right now.”

Curmudgeon: “Hardwood?”

Jake: “It’s oak. Good stuff.”

Curmudgeon: “Forgive me if I sound weird but I’ve been hurt before. This wood is cut, split, seasoned, and oak?”

Jake: “Yep.”

Curmudgeon: “And you posses this wood right now. On earth. In a non theoretical construct?”

Jake: “Ha ha ha… of course.”

Curmudgeon: “I would like to purchase one cord of it. I’ll happily pick it up. How much?”

Jake: “A hundred bucks a cord.”

(Now this was odd. I was expecting about twice that. What games were afoot this time. Was he just setting me up to fall? Am I the Charlie Brown to his Lucy? Would I really get to kick that football?)

Curmudgeon: “This is firewood, cut to stove length (16″ or so), split, it’s dry/seasoned, it’s oak, it exists right now, and it’s $100 for a cord?”

Jake: “Yes.”

Curmudgeon: “I’ll take it!”

Jake: “We’re closed today.”

Curmudgeon: (Skipping a few mental gears.) “Aaackkk… OK fine. I can buy firewood from you, tomorrow?”

Jake: “Yes.”

Curmudgeon: “I’ll call again tomorrow then?”

Jake: “Cool talk to you then.”

The Next Day:

Ring ring. “MegaCorp Construction, we build it so you don’t have to. How can I help you?”

Curmudgeon: “Hi Julie, this is Curmudgeon. I’m looking for Jake. I just ate an onion sandwich and I haven’t bathed in weeks. I can come right down there and hang out all day but it would be just as easy to talk to Jake on the phone.”

Click. “Jake here.”

Curmudgeon: “Hi this is Curmudgeon.”

Jake: “Julie made the call transfer on the first shot?”

Curmudgeon: “Yes.”

Jake: “That’s weird. What did you say to her? She just came by to check I got the call.”

Curmudgeon: “I told her I wish to do business so you guys could make a profit and keep the company afloat.”

Jake: “Ha ha ha. Well you want firewood or what?”

Curmudgeon: “Yes. I want to buy one cord of cut, split, dried, oak firewood for $100. I’ll pay cash and pick it up myself.”

Jake: “Great. You gonna’ load it up yourself?”

Curmudgeon: “Well if you’ve got a bobcat handy that would save me the trouble.”

Jake: “Sure a bobcat can dump it in your truck in no time.”

Curmudgeon: “So, if I show up you’ll load my truck with a bobcat.”

Jake: “Of course.”

Curmudgeon: “I’ll be there in an hour?”

Jake: “Not today… all our bobcats are on construction sites today.”

Curmudgeon: “OK Lucy, when should I kick the football?”

Jake: “Lucy? Just come by tomorrow.”

Curmudgeon: “OK.”

The Next Day:

Ring ring. “MegaCorp Construction, we build it so you don’t have to. How can I help you?”

Curmudgeon: “Hi Julie, this is your special friend Curmudgeon. I’m looking for Jake.”

Click. “Jake here.”

Curmudgeon: “I would like to purchase firewood?”

Jake: “Then come on down!”

Curmudgeon: “You have a bobcat available today?”

Jake: “Sure do.”

Curmudgeon: “OK I’m just asking because I want to be clear; you have firewood. You’re willing to sell one cord of it. It is oak. It is cut, split, and dry. It exists right now. You have a bobcat to dump it in my truck. Right now. And you want $100 in American dollars to purchase this firewood.”

Jake: “Heck yeah. Did you tell Julie you eat onion sandwiches?”

Curmudgeon: “I like onions. So tell me… how big is a cord?”

Jake: “4′ x 4′ x 8′. Everyone knows that.”

Curmudgeon: “4′ x 4′ x 8′ is 128 cubic feet and one cannot fit a full cord in a single truck without racks or very careful stacking. I’m bringing my trailer. Half a cord in the truck, half in the trailer. Sound good?”

Jake: “Whatever.”

Curmudgeon: “I will be there in 10 minutes with $100.”

I fired up my truck and hitched the pony trailer. For Julie’s sake I dressed the part. Overalls, shit kicker rubber boots, a battered hat, a ripped t-shirt. I’d like to say I was “costuming up” as a scary redneck but dressing as ‘scary as possible’ really isn’t that exceptional. I wished I had onions… to make a sandwich.

Stay tuned…