Kevin Page: I bought a chainsaw but now I've got another problem

Kevin Page bought a new chainsaw. Now he needs a new fence. Photo / 123RF

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I've just completed a full day's heavy labour with some real man tools.

A chainsaw no less.

This was a big thing for me. For a long time I've been banned from using one. There's a reason for that.

Back in the days before I had a hole in my haircut, a mate and I used to make a bit of beer money on the side taking nuisance trees down for folk.

You will understand this was before the days of things like health and safety.

Official health and safety, that is. Obviously, with such big hunks of timber in our sights we used to be careful and, er, well . . . that was about it. Anyway.

There we were one Saturday morning helping this bloke out with a tree that was blocking the sunlight from an important part of his garden – his prized vege patch.

Typically he'd let the thing grow without really thinking of the consequences and now here he was with a vegie patch that was but a shadow of its former glory.

Basically, because it was in a shadow.

I have to say my mate and I were pretty impressed with what he had managed to grow.

Lettuce, silver beet, courgettes and the odd pumpkin peering out from beneath the foliage confirmed this fellow knew what he was doing.

It made sense, therefore, to take out this pesky tree.

Trouble was, it required someone with the skill to bring it down just in the right place.

Too far right and it would land in the veg and too far left it would land in the stream bordering the property.

And that's where we came in. Or rather where my mate, a long-time bushman, came in. I usually just did the talking beforehand and stuck my hand out for the cash when it was all done.

So. The job went super smooth with the expert on the chainsaw trimming off all the branches, me immediately yanking them out of the way and then him cutting 90 per cent through before giving me the honour of felling what was left in the perfect spot.

Then, maybe three seconds after I'd turned his chainsaw off and we were mentally spending the cash, it happened.

The tree, which now basically resembled a bare telegraph pole, had come down maybe a fraction too far on a downward slope and as we watched in horror it rolled right through the vegie path, wiping out all the prized lettuce, silver beet and pumpkin.

After that it picked up speed, running off the edge of the section and coming to rest in the bottom of the stream bed with maybe six inches of water trickling around it.

Besides apologising, there was nothing we could do except hop in the water and cut up the tree as best we could and then manhandle it out and back onto the bank.

It would be fair to say we were stuffed – physically and financially – at the end of the job.

Fast forward 35 years and Mrs P has decided "that" tree in the garden is dead, looks ugly, and needs to come out.

Seeing as I hadn't been allowed near a chainsaw since the Vegie Patch Incident of '87 I automatically assumed we would "get some bloke in" - it even hurts to write that – but no.

Mrs P said she couldn't see the point spending all that money when I could probably do it myself. Couldn't I?

"You bet I can," I said trying to keep the excitement in my voice under control. "But I'll need to hire a chainsaw."

It was here things took an interesting turn. It would be fair to say I did wonder whether aliens had abducted my wife and replaced her with some form of clone.

"Why don't you just go and buy one?," she said helpfully.

Now, dear reader, you may have heard the thud as my gob fell open and my jaw hit the floor. But I didn't need to be asked twice.

Before you could say "all men are closet lumberjacks" - or as my wife, struggling for the correct terminology the other day, called them 'cupboard people'.

Bless her – I was back from Bunnings with a natty little electric chainsaw which cost me diddly squat.

Now I know what you are thinking. Electric? That's not a real chainsaw.

In my defence I decided to go electric for two reasons. One, it wasn't a very big tree and Two, I am useless when it comes to the right fuel and filters and all that mechanical stuff, quite frankly, leaves me for dead.

Just give me something sharp that looks and sounds like a real chainsaw, and I can be replaced for the aforementioned diddly squat if it breaks, and I'm happy.

And I was.

For the next hour I was a super confident king of the forest. Cutting wedges, felling bits of the tree in question left, right and centre and leaving it all in a big pile down the side of our house.

My plan is to rest on my laurels this week and spend some time next weekend getting rid of it.

Mrs P is fine with that but she has one other important job for me to do first.

I have to rebuild the fence that was smashed into a million pieces when a big misdirected chunk of tree fell right through it.