I'm a bureaucrat. So, logging has honed my debating skills--yesterday, got into a "discussion" that raised the eyes of the young chaser. We debaters were civil, no bad words, just a little bit loud and waving arms. I didn't back down.
Our community is still not over the "timber wars" and the school enrollment is ever shrinking (yet some teachers still teach that logging is bad for the environment), Morton still has 2 mills and a chipping (fiber) place. We have one mill. There are very few local loggers left.
Let me see, personal affectations are: ankles that lock up on steep ground and make me say owie, knees that creak, a calf muscle that won't tolerate running, numb hand from squeezing a paint gun, and a cranky disposition at times (impatience).
But there's lots of fun times to recall and a few more to come. Like just this morning, The Curse Of The Hooktenders came back to life. On my second trip up the hill, the rigging crew was on their way back down for another load of rigging to pack up. The hooktender looked relieved and said he was glad to see I was alive. I looked puzzled. He sheepishly said he'd cut a tree and then cut a block of wood off and kicked it down the hill (the hill is 80 to 90%) and then one of his guys reminde him that I might be below. The chunk did not stop. I think I was across the unit, looking for tail trees so didn't know about this. Such events make for amusing stories.