“None of these folks were trying to grow timber. They just enjoyed living in the forest,” says Richard Sanders, the principal forester at Wildwood Consulting. He’s overseeing the salvage logging operation at the end of Bull Creek Road in East Asheville.
He and I meet on a frigid December morning where part of that forest once stood. It’s a dead-end cove where homes like mine used to be hidden from sight thanks to an abundance of rhododendron, mountain laurel, yellow poplars, oaks, pines, maples and other flora. Now, we watch as that privacy is removed by skidders, trackhoes, tractors with logging heads and log trucks packed with salvaged timber.
Sanders, a bearded man with a wise presence, says “This is the worst valley I’ve seen so far, as far as the extent and severity of the wind damage.”
Catherine and Alan Gibson have lived off Bull Creek Road for seven years and experienced the storm from their basement. “Hearing these trees come down … they were like bombs going off,” says Catherine. “You would hear the crack, and then you just brace yourself for where it’s going to hit. And then finally, the sickening crash.”
The N.C. Forest Service (NCFS) estimates that the storm damaged 89,440 acres of timber in Buncombe County, causing an estimated loss of $19.3 million. Most of that damage occurred in the area that was hit with the front-right quadrant of Tropical Storm Helene. The fisted knuckles of mountains starting from Webb Cove, over Tanbark Ridge and out to Bee Tree, show a line of desecration. The mountainside is unrecognizable: nothing but fallen trees and tipped stumps. The trees still standing all have their crowns scalped. From an aerial perspective, it looks as if an inexperienced aesthetician put a wax strip across the dense forest and, ssskkkkriiip, did a botched pull.
Everyone in the neighborhood heard the howl of a wind that wanted to blow through the mountain. Thousands of trees dropped like toothpicks.
When the fog from the storm lifted and Catherine and Alan Gibson saw the devastation for the first time, “the only way I can describe how I felt was despair,” Catherine says. “Fear and despair.” The gravel road between their home and the road — normally a two-minute walk— had hundreds of downed trees across it.
“It was impenetrable,” Catherine says.
Difficult feat
Once everyone in the cove had been accounted for and their immediate needs addressed, neighbor Molly McMillan reached out to Sanders for help with managing the decimated forest. Everyone explained their goals of getting access routes opened, reducing fire hazards and removing as much of the downed material as possible.
Sanders suggested salvage logging, whereby trees damaged by natural disturbances are harvested, hauled off the land and then sold by the loggers. The landowners don’t pay for the removal, and loggers recoup their expenses with the collected lumber.
It’s an incredibly difficult feat to pull off. In fact, after weeks of showing storm-damaged timber to several loggers, Sanders’ company has only found three viable salvage operations, including the one on Bull Creek Road. To be successful, loggers must see economic value in what is already on the ground, there must be significant acreage, land access can’t be constrained, and property owners have to agree to live with a timber harvest occurring outside their windows.
After Sanders suggested salvage logging, “there were big email threads amongst the neighbors,” Catherine Gibson explains.
Some neighboring landowners, such as my family, weren’t suitable candidates for the operation. In our case, most of the tree damage occurred behind a creek that didn’t have a crossing for the heavy machinery. Those who could be included expressed concerns about liability and stream protections, as well as how to protect their wells and septic fields.
“Long story short, everybody came around,” Gibson says.
McMillan agrees. “We had no other option. If we let it sit, in two years it would be an unbelievable fire hazard.”
Fog, mud and ice
On an October morning at the base of the cove, Sanders gathered the neighbors to meet the fifth-generation family of loggers set to take on the project. After they went over the operation and had their questions answered, the six eligible families gave the loggers permission to access 90 acres of combined woodland.
So far, the project is about halfway through its four-month expected timeline. As long as the weather is favorable, the loggers are out cutting trails around the mountain and removing trees from their path in an orchestration reminiscent of an ant farm.
“They’re here when it’s 23 degrees, at 7 in the morning. They light up their machines and start,” McMillan says.
Most days, three to six men are out working in rough conditions — facing fog, mud and ice.
“It’s just the hardest-working group of people,” McMillan continues. “They’re just choreographed amazingly. We’re in awe watching these guys.”
Neighbors show their appreciation, too, by taking turns bringing the loggers lunch. “We love this family so much,” McMillan says.
“I’m really excited about this one because it’s all working out really well,” Sanders adds. “The landowners are all working together — which never happens.”
Hopeful phase
It’s not hard to imagine why. Despite being a self-sufficient and green industry, there are many strong, irascible opinions about logging in Southern Appalachia. Sanders has listened to hundreds of landowners share their beliefs about logging. For him, it’s all about taking a long-term perspective.
“Everyone can agree that wood products are environmentally superior compared to plastic, steel, concrete or glass,” he says. “But we’re a society that can’t tolerate looking at a timber harvest anymore. We won’t accept that trade-off.”
I watch as another extrawide logging truck hauls off 90,000 pounds of timber, all branchless and cut to the same length. Over the past three weeks, I’ve observed from my home as these trucks load and carry off thousands of similar loads. Logically, I understand that the trees were already on the ground, thus salvage logging is the best solution to this horrendous disaster.
But Sanders is right about witnessing a logging operation: The trade-off is emotionally difficult to accept. Instead of nature wild and free, we see it orderly and stacked horizontally. It smells like tailpipe and mulch. I ask him to share the long-term perspective that allows him to be unburdened by sadness as we observe the calculated removal of a forest.
His casual unconcern changes, and he lights up at the chance to share the hope that builds after decades in the industry. “Forests are resilient,” he says. “It’s going to grow new trees. The only problem is you’ll have to look at this ugly thing for two years. But then you’re going to have a young, growing, vigorous forest.”
Sanders passionately paints a picture of what will happen when the loggers finish and springtime arrives. Without the mature tree canopy blocking the sun, an early successional habitat will quickly grow across the open acreage. Grasses, wildflowers, vines, tangled thickets of briars and itty-bitty saplings will cover the landscape first. Animals will come back, too. In fact, this type of habitat will provide a unique and crucial sanctuary for songbirds, deer, pollinator insects, rabbits, turkeys, snakes and box turtles.
Catherine Gibson is in the hopeful phase now, too. “I’m excited to see how the land will reclaim itself. We’re going to be witness to what’s about to happen, and it excites all of us.”
Beyond nature, on a human level, it’s also lovely witnessing the neighbors and loggers bond, with appreciation and gratitude going both ways. The day before Christmas Eve, I visited Molly McMillan and her husband, Marshall, at their home. During our conversation for this piece, Marshall saw a truck driving up the gravel road. Of course, he knew whose pickup it was; the neighbors and loggers are all on a first-name basis now. It was one of the workers’, and he was bringing up lunch that his wife made to feed everyone in the cove.
