Sharp Edges: Why I Never Touch a Chainsaw Without My Chaps

The mist is thick enough to swallow the base of the hemlocks. It is 6:00 AM, the air is a damp 42 degrees, and the smell of wet rot and pine needles is heavy in my lungs. My breath comes out in short, white plumes. I am tired. I have been up since four, and the light is only just beginning to bleed through the canopy. The engine of the saw idles with a rhythmic, aggressive thrum that vibrates through my palms and up into my elbows. I feel invincible because the sun is coming up, and I have a pile of wood to clear before the rain moves in.

I am working on a fallen hemlock that is wedged against a stump. The wood is slick with morning dew. I don't reach for my chaps. I tell myself they are too hot, too bulky, and that I will only be making three or four quick cuts. I am standing on a slope, my boots sliding slightly on the leaf litter. I grip the saw, lean in, and prepare to plunge the bar into the log. I am rushing. I am always rushing when the weather is turning.

The tip of the guide bar hits a hidden knot in the wood just as it reaches the upper quadrant of the bar. In a heartbeat, the saw doesn't cut; it leaps. It kicks back toward my face with a violent, upward snap that feels like a physical blow to my chest. My arms are jerked upward, and for a second, the world is nothing but the scream of the engine and the terrifying sensation of the bar flying toward my throat. I stumble back, my heel catching on a root, and I hit the ground hard.

The silence that follows is worse than the noise. The saw is still idling on the ground, inches from my hip. I am breathing in ragged, shallow gasps. I look down and see a jagged tear in my denim jeans, right where the bar would have struck if I had been standing an inch closer. There is no blood, but my leg is shaking so violently I can barely stand. The cost of my haste is a heart that feels like it is trying to exit my ribcage and a realization that I almost lost a limb because I wanted to save five minutes of work.

The physics of a chainsaw are indifferent to your intentions. When the top quadrant of the bar nose—the kickback zone—hits a hard object, the energy has to go somewhere. It goes up and back toward the operator. You cannot outrun it. You cannot out-react it. You cannot improvise with the momentum of a spinning chain.

I do not take risks with my gear anymore. I follow the safety standards laid out by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA), and I never deviate from the specific safety instructions found in my saw's owner manual. If the manual says the chain brake must be engaged when moving between cuts, I engage it. If the manual defines a specific way to hold the saw to prevent kickback, I do it, even if it feels awkward. I do not guess. I do not "wing it."

Now, when I step into the woods, I am encased in protection. I wear ballistic nylon chaps that are designed to clog the drive sprocket and stop the chain instantly upon contact. I wear wrap-around eye protection that stays seated even when I am sweating. I wear heavy-duty hearing protection. I wear steel-toed, high-traction boots. I look like a man prepared for a fight, because that is exactly what I am doing every time I pull that starter cord.

What I’d do differently

If I could go back to that misty morning, I would change every single decision I made in the thirty minutes leading up to that kickback. First, I would respect the weather. If the wood is slick and the ground is uneven, the risk of a slip-and-fall during a cut increases exponentially. I would wait for the dew to dry or move to a more stable cutting site.

Second, I would never, under any circumstances, skip my PPE. Denim is not armor. It is a thin layer of cotton that a chainsaw will move through like it is nothing. I would put on my chaps before I even fueled the saw. Third, I would check my stance. I was leaning too far into the cut, putting my center of gravity in a position where I couldn't recover when the saw jumped. I would plant my feet, find a stable base, and maintain a clear path of retreat. Finally, I would stop rushing. The moment I felt the urge to "just get it done" override my caution, I would have shut the engine off and taken a breath.

When you are operating power tools, you are managing a controlled explosion. You must treat the machine with the same respect you would give a loaded firearm. You do not improvise the safety protocols. You do not improvise the distance you keep from the cutting edge. You follow the established rules of the tool, or you stay out of the woods.

This week's chainsaw readiness checklist

• Inspect your PPE: Check your chaps for tears or thinning material. Ensure your eye protection is clear and not heavily scratched.
• Test the chain brake: Start your saw in a clear area and engage the brake to ensure it snaps into place as intended.