Nathan Morrow spends his summer on a Great American Outdoors Act (GAOA) trail crew, clearing downed timber along the Continental Divide Trail. Last week, his chainsaw refused to start. Here’s what happened next…
Frustration.
Our brains are so overwhelmed with conflicting ideas and worries and choices. Our bodies physically experience this stress as well.
A heat rises under my skin, and I’m suddenly aware of an obscene aching in the junction of my skull and spine. A clenching of fists accompanies my throbbing migraine; deep rhythmic breathing is of no use to me now. The vast, verdant meadows around me and the effortlessly translucent clouds above my head are worthless, useless, unnoticed.
All that matters now is gritting my teeth, setting my feet, and furiously yanking the starter cord on my devoutly disagreeable Stihl MS 462 chainsaw (with a 24-inch bar).
I carried this thing all the way out here to complete a job no other hand tool could possibly imagine, and it just so frivolously chooses to remain decidedly inert.
Does this chainsaw have feelings? Did I do something wrong? Have I done something to upset the universal laws of karma and thermodynamics that govern all that I do, am, and feel?
Alright, one more yank … nothing.
I’ve already done my five-point safety check, but I guess I’ll run through it again, because maybe I happened to miss something the first time. Maybe I overlooked a crucial aspect in my saw’s operational effectiveness.
Maybe it’s the gas?
No, it can’t be the gas, the other group’s chainsaw is running just fine! We mixed the same gas on the same day in the same container, so no chance it’s the gas …
Maybe the air filter could be clogged?
Air filter must be clogged! Of course! After all that travel time spent in the dusty bowels of the truck bed, the fragile lungs of this respiring machine must be obnubilated by fragments of sawdust, tree dust, dirt dust, and Walmart parking lot truck bed reorganization dust. So much dust. It must be dust.
A swift scrench unscrew reveals … a perfectly clean air filter.
Fine.
Another pull!
… and another fizzled-out putter of saturated spark plugs and clackety plastic.
Enter: Mathias, loppers and pole saw in hand. He knows exactly what’s going on, how I’m feeling, and what he can do to help.
“Mind if I give it a try?”
Reluctantly, I hand him the fussy machine; I’ve sunk too much cost in this ordeal to give up now! There’s no way it’ll start for him. What’s he got to offer that I haven’t tried? The engine must be flooded, the saw needs to sit and rest. One must be careful not to repeat the same actions and expect different results, as per Einstein’s oft-attributed definition of insanity.
Mathias bends down, delicately handling the saw as he would a newborn lamb or a multi-tiered wedding cake. Around the starter cord he curls his leather-gloved hand and draws in a powerful breath.
He winds up, and …
Eureka! One try is all he needs for the saw to spring to life, revving and roaring with the sweet chorus of combustion, the heavenly harmonies of lubricated links racing round the perimeter of the cold steel bar. What a powerful machine, what a heroic pull of the starter cord! Cheers and congratulations are in order, he’s done it!
Mathias sets the idling saw beside me, and, with a subtle grin concealed beneath his amber mustache, declares with all the knowledge of the universe:
“I guess all you needed was a really big jerk.”
Frustration.
