Two weeks ago, I wrote about how stressed I was about not getting the wood into the shed in time for it to dry properly, and was haunted by visions of creosote in the chimney.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been sending daily (stressed out) updates of wood pile progress to S: which wood I was going after that day, how easy or hard it was (close or far, heavy or light), concerns that some of the easy wood was green wood, which made it crap wood, and a data visualization of the current distance from a full woodpile.

Then, last night as I was splitting the last logs I’d hauled up from the bottom of the property, the top line of the pile levelled out and I had to stretch uncomfortably to put the new sticks on top.

I was done.

It came as a surprise, even though I had been hauling towards this goal all summer. Like when you go to take a last step but you’re already at the bottom of the stairs, jolted and discombobulated. Confused in your body to be down already.

I texted S: “I finished the wood pile.” The immediate response: “That’s fantastic! Must be a great feeling.” But I mostly felt confused.

The woodpile is done? It is done. (spoiler: it is not done)

This is how much wood I burn in a season, plus a little just in case. It’s just under four cords. How do I know how much I burn in a season? The first year I didn’t, and assumed I’d have to scramble. But I didn’t use up the whole thing, and I drew a line on the wall showing how much wood I had left. I drew a line every year.

This last season, I used almost the entire pile, which was nerve wracking. It was an unusually long, cold winter, and I had an unusual amount of punky wood. Dad is the only person I know who calls it punky wood; it’s the wood from dead fall that is partly decayed and made mostly of air. It burns fast and cold. Great for starting fires. Bad for staying warm. You can shove punky wood into a stove all day and still be chilly, while six good, solid, birch logs will keep you warm all night.

Nearly running of out wood last season and the fact it took me two months longer to fill the wood pile this season means one thing: I am not done, even though the winter’s four-ish cords are in. I need to be hauling all year if I want to get any other chores done in the summer and to get the wood dry in time–and this summer I was lucky to get half of that wood, already cut and seasoned, from my friend’s wife’s ex (word got around that I was into wooding). So next year will be harder.

I took the rest of last night off, but tonight, I go back into the woods and start hauling up next year’s wood. This time with less stress, since I have time.