Bingham followed up on the rescue of a paraglider from a tree by profiling the man who climbed and rescued him. He focuses not on the rescue itself but on the character of Bob Saari, tree climber—his toughness, his apparent fearlessness, his stubornness. It’s a neat window into one man and his unusual job.
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Becky Saari listened to her husband on the phone and grew more intrigued with every word.
"What is stuck in the tree?"
"Who?"
"Doing what?"
When Bob Saari hung up and told her he was off to Cannon Beach to rescue a paraglider hanging 140 feet up a spruce tree, Becky didn't flinch. It was after dark Sunday, and they had just walked in from youth group at Naselle Assembly of God, but she understood why Danger Tree Removal in Astoria had called.
Becky knew without doubt her husband could rescue the stranded man.
But she also knew that Bob, a professional tree climber, was injured.
"I'll go with you," she said, "in case you need me to drive back."
They arrived at Ecola State Park two hours later, around 10:15 p.m. The rain had stopped, but the wind that had punched the paraglider into the tallest tree on a ridge was still blowing, and fog clung to the forest floor. Bob gathered his gear from the back of the truck—climbing belt, spurs, flip line, and hard hat—and Becky scanned the dark woods for the dangling paraglider.
She saw nothing but searchlight beams shooting up an enormous spruce.
After 27 years of marriage, Becky knows the risks Bob takes every time he scales a tree. She's rushed to the emergency room more times than she cares to count; she's tended seven broken bones and, four times, legs torn open by a chain saw.
This night, she stayed in the truck because it was dark and muddy, and she had on her good white tennis shoes.
Before Bob walked away, Becky kissed him. "Be careful," she said.
And as he disappeared into the darkness, she did what she always does when he leaves for work—she prayed.
* * *
Bob Saari's most recent injury happened not quite two weeks ago. He was working near his home in Southwestern Washington, falling trees for Seal River Logging, Inc., and he'd just refueled his chain saw.
Bob, who turned 52 Wednesday, took out the tree but didn't know it had grabbed another that snapped back up, downing a rotten snag. The dead tree, maybe 25 feet tall, slammed Bob from behind, cracking his plastic helmet and knocking him unconscious.
He awoke 20 or 30 minutes later. A coworker came over to check on him because he hadn't heard the whine of Bob's saw in a while. The crew put Bob in the truck and drove him to the emergency room in Longview, Wash., where he was treated—in Bob's opinion—as if his injuries were worse than they really were. The impact bruised his sternum, twisted his hip so severely it hurt to walk, bruised several ribs on his left side, scraped his shoulders, and cut his chin so it required seven stitches.
Doctors brought out morphine when they saw Bob's misfigured thumb. But Bob's thumb was "fine": It's been that way for years from a previous accident.
Becky met Bob in the emergency room.
"I want you out of the woods," she said.
Here he was again—barely a week after a tree limb had swiped him hard enough to bruise his back—but she said nothing more. Working in the woods is what Bob does, work he enjoys, and all he has ever known. Becky knows this.
Bob started in the woods in the early 1970s and has done every job there—set chokers, felled trees, removed crowns in a dangerous maneuver called "topping"—as well as rafting, scaling and grading logs. He strayed only once, building houses until the contractor ran out of work.
Bob learned to climb tall trees when the climber on his crew was hungover and let Bob go up. He learned to rappel with a rope and saddle from a tree surgeon.
He never feared heights, never minded slipping, and never doubted his spurs the way most first-time climbers do. At 5 feet, 3 inches tall, weighing 130 pounds, Bob is compact and muscled "built for climbing," said his part-time boss at Danger Tree Removal, Tim Hill.
Topping trees—the riskiest job in the woods—is one of Bob's favorite tasks, and he would climb every day if there was enough work. When a fellow climber who moonlighted in a lumberjack show asked Bob to join him, Bob did because he thought it would be fun.
For 20 years, Bob and Becky and their six daughters packed the family trailer and traveled to shows. Bob has scurried up trees in speed competitions at fairs and exhibitions in Virginia, North Carolina, Michigan, Missouri, and Oklahoma. Folks at the DuQuoin State Fair in Southern Illinois refer to him as "the human squirrel."
Just to practice, he once set poles in the field across the road from his house in rural Rosburg. He and a friend were so competitive they trained with weights and clocked one another. Bob broke one ankle in a show at Disneyland. He broke an arm bone during a performance at the Mason County Forest Festival up by Shelton, Wash. The worst accident, when he fell and crushed his heel, happened during practice.
"That was a dumb one," Bob said.
"And it wouldn't have happened if he had listened to his wife," Becky said.
"I don't remember that part," Bob said.
He stopped speed climbing competitively two years ago because younger guys were beginning to shimmy up—and down—a 100-foot-tall pole in less than 30 seconds. Bob's best was 31 seconds. He still performs but not as much. These days he prefers spending the Fourth of July with relatives instead of strangers.
Becky would like to see him get into a safer line of work, but she won't nag. Few can do what Bob does. He has cut giant trees quivering over houses and apartments, and trees dangling over telephone lines. He has rescued three stranded cats and, as of Sunday night in the dark, one human.
It helps that his body heals well "Just like that," Becky said. "He's tough."
Bob won't complain and dodges pain medicine. Becky spent the first years of their marriage convincing him Advil was okay. When the doctor sent him home from his last injury, Oct. 11, she gave Bob a prescription for 12 pain pills. He took four the first few days before switching to ibuprofen, for swelling.
* * *
Not long after Bob disappeared down the trail at Ecola State Park, Becky rolled down the truck window. She could hear rescue workers talking but couldn't make out what they were saying.
Hill had sawed two smaller trees out from under the big spruce to get a better view of Charles Phillips, the emergency room physician from Portland suspended from the tree's last sturdy branch. The Cannon Beach Rescue and Fire squad sent one man up the tree but he climbed only 30 feet before coming down.
Lt. Mark Morgans, a squad volunteer and forester by trade, had suggested Danger Tree Removal. Morgans hired Hill and Saari when he worked for Willamette Industries and needed someone to top trees over a stream flush with endangered salmon. Morgans was impressed with Saari's skills on trees 100 feet or taller.
The U.S. Coast Guard considered trying to retrieve Phillips with a helicopter, and Becky heard it take off. She could see only its searchlights, and it looked like a space ship hovering around the tree. The workers below, wearing miner's helmets with lights, made her think of aliens.
Bob took one look up the tree and knew what to do: climb to a limb above Phillips, walk out on the limb, drop Phillips a line to tie to his glider harness, slip Phillips a knife to cut himself loose from his glider, then let the rescue workers pulley him down.
Bob was too high on adrenalin to feel any pain when he started to climb.
On the ground, Morgans and the rescuer workers watched him in awe.
Bob was in position, handing Phillips the line, in 20 minutes. Phillips had been dangling for more than five hours.
Becky, who couldn't see her husband in the tree, was not surprised when he returned to the truck an hour or so later, having rescued Phillips. She was not surprised Bob had reached Phillips and casually asked, "How ya doin'?" And she was not surprised to see the pinched look on Bob's face telling her he was in pain.
When he tried to climb into the truck, the way he sucked in his breath told her. She told him he'd better take a pain pill when they got home.
They arrived back at their house around 1:30 Monday morning. Bob had a doctor's appointment the next day, physical therapy later in the week, and was tired. He crawled into bed.
"Did you take your pain pill?" Becky asked.
"No," he said.
"Do you want me to get it for you?"
"No," he said. "I'll get up and get it."
And this time, he was just sore enough from the rescue to do it.
"What is stuck in the tree?"
"Who?"
"Doing what?"
When Bob Saari hung up and told her he was off to Cannon Beach to rescue a paraglider hanging 140 feet up a spruce tree, Becky didn't flinch. It was after dark Sunday, and they had just walked in from youth group at Naselle Assembly of God, but she understood why Danger Tree Removal in Astoria had called.
Becky knew without doubt her husband could rescue the stranded man.
But she also knew that Bob, a professional tree climber, was injured.
"I'll go with you," she said, "in case you need me to drive back."
They arrived at Ecola State Park two hours later, around 10:15 p.m. The rain had stopped, but the wind that had punched the paraglider into the tallest tree on a ridge was still blowing, and fog clung to the forest floor. Bob gathered his gear from the back of the truck—climbing belt, spurs, flip line, and hard hat—and Becky scanned the dark woods for the dangling paraglider.
She saw nothing but searchlight beams shooting up an enormous spruce.
After 27 years of marriage, Becky knows the risks Bob takes every time he scales a tree. She's rushed to the emergency room more times than she cares to count; she's tended seven broken bones and, four times, legs torn open by a chain saw.
This night, she stayed in the truck because it was dark and muddy, and she had on her good white tennis shoes.
Before Bob walked away, Becky kissed him. "Be careful," she said.
And as he disappeared into the darkness, she did what she always does when he leaves for work—she prayed.
Bob Saari's most recent injury happened not quite two weeks ago. He was working near his home in Southwestern Washington, falling trees for Seal River Logging, Inc., and he'd just refueled his chain saw.
Bob, who turned 52 Wednesday, took out the tree but didn't know it had grabbed another that snapped back up, downing a rotten snag. The dead tree, maybe 25 feet tall, slammed Bob from behind, cracking his plastic helmet and knocking him unconscious.
He awoke 20 or 30 minutes later. A coworker came over to check on him because he hadn't heard the whine of Bob's saw in a while. The crew put Bob in the truck and drove him to the emergency room in Longview, Wash., where he was treated—in Bob's opinion—as if his injuries were worse than they really were. The impact bruised his sternum, twisted his hip so severely it hurt to walk, bruised several ribs on his left side, scraped his shoulders, and cut his chin so it required seven stitches.
Doctors brought out morphine when they saw Bob's misfigured thumb. But Bob's thumb was "fine": It's been that way for years from a previous accident.
Becky met Bob in the emergency room.
"I want you out of the woods," she said.
Here he was again—barely a week after a tree limb had swiped him hard enough to bruise his back—but she said nothing more. Working in the woods is what Bob does, work he enjoys, and all he has ever known. Becky knows this.
Bob started in the woods in the early 1970s and has done every job there—set chokers, felled trees, removed crowns in a dangerous maneuver called "topping"—as well as rafting, scaling and grading logs. He strayed only once, building houses until the contractor ran out of work.
Bob learned to climb tall trees when the climber on his crew was hungover and let Bob go up. He learned to rappel with a rope and saddle from a tree surgeon.
He never feared heights, never minded slipping, and never doubted his spurs the way most first-time climbers do. At 5 feet, 3 inches tall, weighing 130 pounds, Bob is compact and muscled "built for climbing," said his part-time boss at Danger Tree Removal, Tim Hill.
Topping trees—the riskiest job in the woods—is one of Bob's favorite tasks, and he would climb every day if there was enough work. When a fellow climber who moonlighted in a lumberjack show asked Bob to join him, Bob did because he thought it would be fun.
For 20 years, Bob and Becky and their six daughters packed the family trailer and traveled to shows. Bob has scurried up trees in speed competitions at fairs and exhibitions in Virginia, North Carolina, Michigan, Missouri, and Oklahoma. Folks at the DuQuoin State Fair in Southern Illinois refer to him as "the human squirrel."
Just to practice, he once set poles in the field across the road from his house in rural Rosburg. He and a friend were so competitive they trained with weights and clocked one another. Bob broke one ankle in a show at Disneyland. He broke an arm bone during a performance at the Mason County Forest Festival up by Shelton, Wash. The worst accident, when he fell and crushed his heel, happened during practice.
"That was a dumb one," Bob said.
"And it wouldn't have happened if he had listened to his wife," Becky said.
"I don't remember that part," Bob said.
He stopped speed climbing competitively two years ago because younger guys were beginning to shimmy up—and down—a 100-foot-tall pole in less than 30 seconds. Bob's best was 31 seconds. He still performs but not as much. These days he prefers spending the Fourth of July with relatives instead of strangers.
Becky would like to see him get into a safer line of work, but she won't nag. Few can do what Bob does. He has cut giant trees quivering over houses and apartments, and trees dangling over telephone lines. He has rescued three stranded cats and, as of Sunday night in the dark, one human.
It helps that his body heals well "Just like that," Becky said. "He's tough."
Bob won't complain and dodges pain medicine. Becky spent the first years of their marriage convincing him Advil was okay. When the doctor sent him home from his last injury, Oct. 11, she gave Bob a prescription for 12 pain pills. He took four the first few days before switching to ibuprofen, for swelling.
Not long after Bob disappeared down the trail at Ecola State Park, Becky rolled down the truck window. She could hear rescue workers talking but couldn't make out what they were saying.
Hill had sawed two smaller trees out from under the big spruce to get a better view of Charles Phillips, the emergency room physician from Portland suspended from the tree's last sturdy branch. The Cannon Beach Rescue and Fire squad sent one man up the tree but he climbed only 30 feet before coming down.
Lt. Mark Morgans, a squad volunteer and forester by trade, had suggested Danger Tree Removal. Morgans hired Hill and Saari when he worked for Willamette Industries and needed someone to top trees over a stream flush with endangered salmon. Morgans was impressed with Saari's skills on trees 100 feet or taller.
The U.S. Coast Guard considered trying to retrieve Phillips with a helicopter, and Becky heard it take off. She could see only its searchlights, and it looked like a space ship hovering around the tree. The workers below, wearing miner's helmets with lights, made her think of aliens.
Bob took one look up the tree and knew what to do: climb to a limb above Phillips, walk out on the limb, drop Phillips a line to tie to his glider harness, slip Phillips a knife to cut himself loose from his glider, then let the rescue workers pulley him down.
Bob was too high on adrenalin to feel any pain when he started to climb.
On the ground, Morgans and the rescuer workers watched him in awe.
Bob was in position, handing Phillips the line, in 20 minutes. Phillips had been dangling for more than five hours.
Becky, who couldn't see her husband in the tree, was not surprised when he returned to the truck an hour or so later, having rescued Phillips. She was not surprised Bob had reached Phillips and casually asked, "How ya doin'?" And she was not surprised to see the pinched look on Bob's face telling her he was in pain.
When he tried to climb into the truck, the way he sucked in his breath told her. She told him he'd better take a pain pill when they got home.
They arrived back at their house around 1:30 Monday morning. Bob had a doctor's appointment the next day, physical therapy later in the week, and was tired. He crawled into bed.
"Did you take your pain pill?" Becky asked.
"No," he said.
"Do you want me to get it for you?"
"No," he said. "I'll get up and get it."
And this time, he was just sore enough from the rescue to do it.
