Thursday night we had a ginormous thunderstorm that knocked out the power for a bit, and also brought down a branch on the tree in the front yard, which I have subsequently identified as a honey locust (if anyone's wondering). Tearing the branch off also damaged the branch further up, causing it to droop in such a way that it would have slapped me in the face while I mowed the grass. Rather than face this sort of humiliation, I decided to try my hand at amateur tree surgery.
At this point you may ask why I didn't call a regular tree surgeon and kick back with a cold one. Because, I may reply, I'm a man with a power tool and I can do anything. That and I'm too cheap.
Out of the garage came 150 feet of extension cords, a 25-foot aluminum extension ladder (sufficiently seasoned that its safety latches had rusted into a solid lump of metal only marginally interested in performing the function for which it was designed) and the old reciprocating saw, the one with its safety mechanisms defeated for ease of use and possible YouTube fame.
I coaxed the ladder into full extension, as the branch was damaged approximately 20 feet (3.5 meters for our European, Canadian, and others who just think metric measurement is cooler than good old feet) from the ground. Of course, the only place to brace the ladder was on the branch I needed to cut, so I placed the top rung on that branch and tried in vain to level the ladder's rusty feet on the sidewalk. In order to operate the ladder at a safe angle, I'd have had to place the feet on the lawn, which was nice and mushy from the rain. So flip a coin and choose the manner of un-safety. The damn ladder's so wobbly on the branch it wouldn't have mattered much either way.
Drag my 45-year-old, scared of heights (not so much of falling but of landing) butt up said ladder, one hand holding the saw, which is now plugged in and ready to mutilate me at the slightest provocation. Wobbly ladder, angry saw, gentle breeze blowing branches in my face. Hope the neighbor has 911 on speed dial.
Once I'm fatally high in the air, I maneuver the saw into position. I did have sufficient foresight to install a wood blade before ascending. Squeeze the trigger and let it do its thing. The saw put about half its energy into cutting the branch and the other half into trying to throw me off the ladder. If I thought it was wobbling before (from my sheer terror) it was really getting jiggy now. Press on.
About 10 minutes (subjective time: 4 hours), 3/4 of the way through the branch, a mighty cracking sound tears through the neighborhood, as the weakened branch fails and falls to earth. I, inexplicably, did not do the same.
I manage to get back down the slow way, all visions of myself in an ICU banished for now. The fact that I am typing this from my own home, comforted by a cold beer, rather than from an ICU comforted by the knowledge that machines can keep you alive practically forever, is a testament to something. Can't be the virtue of clean living, so I put it down to luck, or the fact that God was busy smiting someone even more deserving than myself.
This concludes my adventure in tree surgery. It may not be as cool as playing with tigers or jumping out of an airplane, but I've done those already, and anyway it's the most exciting thing I'm likely to do today. At least until it's time to light the barbecue. Wonder how much gas I have laying around?
Aftermath. The Honey Locust of Doom remains standing.