Stopping in at the post office in the coastal town of Reedsport, Oregon, Mike and I swiveled our heads at a potent sound reminiscent of a hive of bees on the move.
“Chainsaws!” Mike exclaimed, a gleam of excitement in his eye. “This we’ve got to see!”
We did our business in the post office, then hurried over to a fenced area where the Annual Oregon Divisional Chainsaw Carving Championship was emblazoned on a sign.
The smell of cedar and pine was thick in the air, and that buzzing sound was strangely attractive music to anyone who loves woodcraft as we both do.
“Shoot. It’s cash only,” I said. “And I’m out.”
“Well, I’m not.” Mike stepped forward, and I followed.
Inside the gate, two women with the beauty aesthetic of older motorcycle chicks looked on in amusement as Mike removed items and dug deep into his wallet for the emergency c-note he carri…
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