Its solid grey mass rolls arrogantly towards me. It stops dead before my feet, as if a decision is made. I hoist it up, much like the Predator creature proudly raises his prized human skull. I place it carefully on the stump.
I am going to split this log, come hell – or a visit from my relatives.
I know right away this log is going to be a toughie. It has a knot in it. Knots tie your axe up in knots. That's why we call them knots. But not too knotty for me, I believe.
I pick my line on the log to hit. Don't you take your eyes off that line. I raise the beast of an axe with surprising ease. Years of training kick in as smoothly as anti-lock brakes.
I swing the axe with awesome aplomb. Apparently, the first tree in history made of reinforced concrete.
The axe bounces back, easily to be confused with a child playing on a bouncy castle. I desperately look for some kind of sign that I actually hit the log. Smooth surface abounds. Thankfully, I'm distracted by a sound that takes me away from my failed first attempt. Newman is nearby licking his groin. I remember how wonderful country sounds are to the ears.
Swing number 2. Swing number 20. Hands are numb. Swing number 50. Swear words echo through nature. Even the blue jays are nervous. Swing number 100. The sun is beating me up. Slight damage to the log. Much damage to my ego.
I grab a water/juice mix and a towel for my soaking head. Suddenly I'm Rocky in the fight of my life. I just want to go the distance. ADRIAN!!! I LOVE YOU!!! No oscar will be awarded today.
This log is the stubborn one, not me. I will split it, maybe even into four pieces. This goal occupies every cell in my body. Nay, every electron and quark. Progress is ssssllllooowwwwwww, but still, there are a few kinks in the wood.
I am more determined than ever. Suddenly the log speaks to me. It's the black knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Taunting me. "Tis but a scratch. I've had worse. Had enough, eh? Just a flesh wound. Oh, I see. Running away, eh". Actually, just getting some water/juice mix, ass wipe.
Two hundred and fifty swings and I take another break. Then I realize it. The apt metaphor that fits this situation (the last metaphor, I promise). This log is my whale. My Moby Dick. I don't want to split this log. I have to split this log.
But why? Why can't I walk away? This log hasn't taken my limb. I could burn it as is. I am full of questions. Is this a testament to my character, or a sign that I wasn't swaddled enough as a baby? Is this just useless anthropomorphism, the assigning of human motives to logs?
I wish I were Ishmael, but I'm Ahab, and looking mighty drab.
My whale is still out there. Hurt but unsplit. More dangerous than ever. Soon. Soon this whale will be in two, or maybe even four…
