Simon planted his feet as far apart as he could so that his father’s long strokes wouldn’t pull him off balance. He struggled to keep the blade straight on the back stroke, and on the fore he pushed down with all his weight so the teeth would dig, and his father wouldn’t glare at him and rush the saw back to his side. Simon was glad they were just cutting pulp, not pine or hardwood for rich vacationers’ fireplaces.

Once the saw passed through the first half and the teeth bit the core, they slowed down. The sawdust freckled the snow, then grew into short piles. Simon felt his father easing off the blade as the tree began to sway and they jumped the saw out before the tree pinched it as it fell. Simon glanced up and the tree wavered, paused, was nudged by the wind and began to arc toward the earth. Gravity was balked by the trees. They seemed to float down until four feet from the ground, when the branches doubled and snapped and were driven in like stakes.

Jacob grabbed the ax and straddled the trunk facing the stump, and with speed he began to limb the poplar. Simon took the saw and by the time he stood at the next tree his father was finished and swiped the wool cap from his head.

“Bezhig,” he said, as he looked out at the endless forest.

They moved to the next tree, angled the saw and took the guide cut. Jacob swore and spat in the snow as the bark peeled off to expose punk wood and inner bark the color of tobacco. He set his end of the saw down and scored the bark with the ax so they would remember the rotten tree. As they worked, the light grew stronger and the washed-out winter sky hung threaded through the skeletonized canopy. There were no birds, not even when they broke for lunch. The usual whiskey jacks that barked from the middle reaches of the trees and swooped down for the frozen bread were absent. The chickadees and grosbeaks that courted the shriveled pin cherries at the river’s edge and in the swamp bottoms were gone too. There was only the rustle of their clothes stiffening in the cold, the slide of their fingers over the parcels that held the old bread and chunks of salted venison.

When they had finished they shoved their hands back inside their stiff threadbare mittens and continued cutting. Already there was a swath leading away from the swamp that would eventually double back. After they were done cutting they would size them in eight foot bolts, stack them, and in early spring would peel and drag them one by one to the edge of the logging road, where the skidder would load them and cart them to the pulp mill.