The Mule was the centerpiece of the logging yard. A boiler powered motors which ran cables up and down a central post (often a denuded tree left uncut) used as a sort of crane, drawing whipcorded logs like massively rigid snakes spokelike from every corner of the field. This mule’s boiler was mounted on tree trunks (huge themselves) for ease of sledding around the rough terrain.
Camp 18, Oregon, nestled in the Coast Range between Portland and Seaside, Oregon, is a fascinating glimpse into the days when people thought that the endless, rolling ridges of old-growth forest in the region would go on forever, that no amount of human buzzing, dragging, peeling and sawing could make any kind of a dent. They were wrong. But for better or for worse, the efforts made here created the world in which I live, and for that I am grateful.
The machines that were devised (many custom-made or “jury-rigged”) to process the monstrously huge Douglas firs and spruces were also rather monstrous.