Trees Must Fall

This 35-year-old tree had been leaning over at an increasingly alarming angle and finally snapped at the base. It happened in the night on 29 May 2022. Three days later, I had stripped the foliage, removed the lighter branches and cut the main trunk into short lengths. I admit I did not accomplish this single-handedly, having been helped by two younger family members armed with a chain saw. I now have a substantial supply of firewood that should last me through the winter once I have split the logs into usable pieces, which is not going to be speeletjies (child’s play).

This tree was one from a grove of seven that I had allowed to grow to maturity and die, either from old age or as victims of rampaging north-westers. Now there is only one left, and it could topple in the next storm, or it could defy the inevitable for another year or two. I should have cut all of them down a long time ago because Acacia cyclops is an invasive species that has colonised large areas of the Western Cape, crowding out the indigenous fynbos. But it makes excellent firewood and for a long time it has played an important part in my preferred way of life, which involves a considerable amount of outdoor cooking. 

I have hardly ever bought braaihout, choosing rather to harvest trees that grow within easy walking distance. Cutting down suitable lengths, carrying them home, sawing them into short pieces and splitting them with an axe is arduous work but good physical exercise. However, I cannot recommend this as a way of making a living, having tried to do just that on two occasions.

It was out at Groothagelkraal back in the '80s when the property was owned by the alternative couple, Ian and Avanol Bell. I gave up the attempt after three weeks, having been reduced to a physical wreck. I was exhausted and becoming emaciated, my arms and legs were badly scratched in a hundred places and I had developed tendonitis in my right forearm from the constant stress of wielding a chainsaw. It also soon became clear that there was very little money to be made after deducting expenses like wages for two helpers, chain oil, petrol and chain sharpening. 

When I heard about a charcoal kiln for sale, I thought this might be an easier way to turn Rooikrans trees into a commercial product that could yield an income. Charcoal is produced by partially burning wood in a space starved of oxygen. The kiln was about 2meters long, 1.2 wide and 1.5 high. It was built with heavy steel plate, had a chimney at one end and a meter-by-meter hatch on top. The thing weighed a ton and transporting it proved to be a nightmarish operation. After positioning it close to a dense stand of rooikrans, I set to work cutting enough meter-long pieces to pack the kiln two thirds full. This took three days. Then I had to find a quantity of dry wood with which to build a fire on top of the stack. Once the flames had taken hold, the hatch had been closed and  sealed with soil, and smoke was rising from the metal chimney, I went home.

When I returned in the morning it was clear that the fire had gone out. At the third attempt the starter blaze spread to the main bulk of wood and The chimney smoked for a week. On opening the hatch, I was delighted to find that the lengths of wood were black, brittle and lightweight. Genuine charcoal! I began to pack my black gold into bags, thinking I was now in business. Then, halfway down, the branches became heavier and uncharred. This meant that more than a third of the load would have to be refired.

I persevered for another six weeks and ended up with about a hundred bags of charcoal of dubious quality. It was time to admit defeat and move on. Neither firewood nor charcoal were going to provide me with a living, and I added them to my list of failed enterprises.

Forty years later, I can now see that my life has been one long list of failures. This does not bother me, though, and I remain cheerful and self-assured. Early success at any one endeavour would have prevented me from experiencing a number of life-enriching setbacks. There can be no doubt that failure keeps one grounded, while success promotes hubris, the enemy of humility and compassion. When I see bags of braaihout at the superette I know what it has taken to turn trees into neatly packaged fuel. As I split the logs from my fallen rooikrans I will think with scorn and just a little pity of all those who have lost touch with nature and are incapable of a braai without Blitz and briquettes.

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