A detail of the tread of a spidery, log-grappling tractor. The dead bones of the logging boom in the Pacific Northwest always have a sort of gravitas, resting as they do below the the many boughs of a still magnificent expanse of wilderness.
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.