The Writing on the Wall

A few weeks ago I stop by a little wood frame house in rural south Alabama. There is a "timber company" sign out front and some worn-out logging machinery in the back lot. I want to meet and introduce myself to the owners. According to my records, they are long-time members of the Alabama Forestry Association, and I want each of us to be able to put a face with a name.

I am invited inside by Vernon, a fifty-something-year-old man who has been in the logging business since his teen years.

There are brief introductions all around. A young and pretty secretary looks up from the spreadsheet she is intently staring at to smile and nod. Vernon's brother and business partner since childhood is slumped in a chair. He offers a half-smile and extends his hand. "Excuse me if I don't get up. I've been in the woods all day and I'm just plain whupped." I understand completely. I've been there. Not that long ago, in fact.

Vernon invites me into his office. Would I care for something to eat or drink? A coke-cola or some sweet tea? I assure him that I am fine. He offers me a seat on a comfortable couch.

Vernon's office is a museum of a life spent in the outdoors. There are hunting trophies on the wall--whitetail deer with magnificent racks, mule deer mounts from out West, wild turkey mounts, and even a beautifully-posed mountain lion. The coffee table is covered with an amazing display of arrowheads of all sizes and descriptions. There are tiny bird points, stone tools, and some of the most exquisite spear points that I have ever seen. Vernon explains that his brother has found most of these treasures in their trips to the woods over the years. He admits that he is not especially good at finding them, as his focus is usually on the trees and not on the ground. I smile, because I have meager collection for the same reason. A timber man is always looking up, evaluating and calculating, so he misses much. It is a clear case of "not being able to see the forest for the trees."

After some small talk, I ask Vernon about his business. He tells me his story in a flat, deadpan manner that reminds me of the narration of Captain Willard as he recounts his mission in the movie "Apocalypse Now."

Vernon's grandfather introduced him to logging when he was just a boy. In those days, pulpwood (or "pupwood" as it is typically pronounced) was cut with chainsaws into 5.25 foot pieces and hand-loaded onto the metal racks on the back of short trucks. It was hard, back-breaking work, but Vernon and his brother loved their grand-daddy and the time they spent with him in the woods.

He remembers that Saturday so long ago when they cut and delivered five loads in a single day. And he especially remembers the pay he received for that day's work. There is a trace of a smile when he says "I didn't know any way a man could spend that much money."

Vernon and his brother were hooked. They continued to work with their grand-daddy until he died, then they started their own business.

I interrupt the story here. I ask if their dad logged with them as well?

"Lord, no. It was my grand-daddy on my momma's side. My daddy was a shop keeper. He tried to log with us one time, but it didn't work out. He was a good man, but too impatient for logging. I swear, I believe daddy could tear up a hammer with his bare hands. He kept breaking all our equipment."

Vernon and his brother did quite well for a long time. As the logging business became more mechanized, they adjusted their business and bought better equipment. The two were soon buying their own timber and running four separate logging crews. Business was good--plenty of mills to haul to, and plenty of timber to cut. There were cycles in the economy when things "slowed down," but overall they made adjustments and stayed profitable.

About ten year's ago, Vernon realized the peaks and valleys in the market were beginning to get shorter. Hard work was no longer the only key to profit. Markets for his timber began to shrink. There was still plenty of timber to cut--just not as many mills around to receive it. He began to explore other options and do some research. Although he doesn't use the word, I understand his thinking. He was looking for a "niche"--an area that was being overlooked by other logging companies.

Vernon found one. He built a small sawmill that transformed low-grade hardwood that other timber companies didn't want into railroad cross ties. He signed a contract with Norfolk-Southern Railroad, and for the next five years they bought every tie he could produce. For a time, it seemed that he would have a problem figuring out a way to spend all that money again. At its peak, the mill employed twenty men and kept all four of his logging crews busy.

Then one day the world changed again. The railroads lost the freight market to truckers and quit buying his product. He searched for other markets, but there were none. Four logging crews quickly shrank to one, and twenty men with sawmill paychecks became ten.

Vernon admits he is fresh out of ideas. He is now faced with record costs and few markets. He is, in his words, "just hanging on."

He shakes his head as he shows me out. Tells me he appreciates me taking the time to stop by and meet him. We both share our hope that the economy will soon get better and his business will pick up.

But I admit that I drive away with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that the writing is already on the wall.