There is a great view “up the hollow” from the shop at Bent River Woodworks. This used to be the view above the workbench at Baker Equipment, the local Massey-Ferguson dealer, when it occupied this building. These days, you have to imagine away the elementary and middle schools, a few houses, and the new Baker building (now Hampshire Home Builders) to get the full effect. Like so many things around here just a few short years ago, this shop belonged to another era. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting without his idealized touch. Now, those of us who remember it add that touch ourselves.

The arrival of a snowstorm is very dramatic when viewed from there, as the ghostly white swirl slowly devours Bear Garden Mountain. In the 1970s, newcomers to the area generally didn't have an expensive, custom-built home waiting with a new SUV with which to access it. There were old farm houses and other habitable structures (though possibly not by today's standards) that were rented monthly for anywhere from $10 (basic) to $50 (average) to $100—the Ritz which we occupied and were grateful to have. With the exception of very few of these dwellings, there was no indoor plumbing and no heat other than an old wood stove. Some of these buildings have been remodeled, others demolished, and a few burned.

Conversations had a more seasonal flavor then. Summer's topics were given largely to haying, gardening, and canning, as well as to fishing and swimming. Fall's were about butchering and hunting, with much talk devoted to the then sizable apple harvest. Winter conversation often addressed wood cutting and heating in general. Spring was all the above, with mud.

Early in the winter of 1979-80, Vaughn Keiter, his son Steve, and I stood at the workbench watching the approach of a snowstorm. Though they heated with wood, they were touting the advantages of their modern backup systems. “I'm glad that I won't have to cut wood in the snow,” said Vaughn, apparently remembering occasions when he had to out of necessity. “As long as I can keep some propane in that tank.”

“I won't have to cut wood in the snow,” said Steve, “as long as that electric line doesn't blow down.”

I felt compelled to chime in. “I won't have to cut wood in the snow,” I began. “As long as it doesn't snow,” they answered in unison.

Actually, I had been going to say that my wife Stephanie and I had already put up enough wood to last through the winter. We had run short of wood the winter before, one of the coldest on record. We weren't nestled into some wooded hollow then, but out on a windswept Midwestern prairie. The snow buried the fence posts that winter, and fence posts are tall. They became mysteriously fewer in number that year. We were not going to let that happen again. We even found an opportunity our supply easily and get a head start on next year.

The snowstorm we had been watching turned out to be little more than a squall, a heavy dusting which the returning sunshine melted, leaving the ground wet and slippery. I had been hearing an engine running in the woods for the past few weeks, and upon investigating I found a sawmill in operation there. The upside to being serenaded at close range by a sawmill engine is that it usually involves free slab wood—sawmill waste that makes excellent firewood.

Four wheel drive wasn't as pervasive in our culture then as it is now, and many sturdy old trucks from the 1950s, 40s, and even a few of the 30s vintage saw wide use in the woods. With few exceptions, pulling power in these old trucks sought the past of least resistance—that is, power would be directed to the drive wheel with the least traction. The ground being muddy, I would take our 1954 Chevrolet truck back to the mill early in the morning while the ground was still frozen, load up on slabs, and get out before it thawed.

One day the ground thawed while I was still loading slabs. It was soon evident that I was stuck. The sawmillers offered to pull the truck out with their new tractor, but I would have to wait until lunch time. I thanked them and then examined the situation. I reasoned that if I dismantled part of the parking brake linkage I could use the parking brake to redirect power to the wheel with the most traction. In order to hold the brake release in the release position, I slit a four-inch piece of rubber fuel line and slipped it over the shaft behind the release knob.

I started the truck, put it into low gear, and slowly applied the parking brake. With surprising speed, the truck shot out of the mud hole and onto the firmer surface of an old farm road.

The sawmillers actually stopped the mill to see how I had done this. I explained, as I reattached the linkage and moved the piece of rubber fuel line to a lower piece of the brake release shaft to keep it handy should I need it again. There isn't much that you can do in the woods that will impress a seasoned West Virginia logger/sawmiller—not bad for a kid from Jersey. I had no further traction problems that day; it's likely that this was because I never touched the ground.

This is adapted from a longer piece, “A Truck For Hard Times,” which was submitted to Vintage Truck magazine. I gave a copy to our daughter Emily, age 21, for proofreading. The events in the story happened a few years before she was born. When she reached the part about the piece of fuel line, she put the papers on her desk and marched briskly out the door. I followed. She opened the driver's side door of our 1954 Chevrolet truck and looked inside. There, shrunken and brittle, was the rubber line that I had placed there on that day so long ago.

“Just checking,” she said, while giving me a sideways glance as if her dad might tell a tall tale—imagine that.

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