Lay of the land

Loggers still wear flannel, but many more also sport some gray.

A study being conducted by the University of Idaho shows that nearly two-thirds of all loggers in the Inland Northwest are 40 years or older.

It’s not entirely clear what’s keeping young people from going to work in the woods – top causes are believed to be globalization in the timber market, the high cost of insurance and fewer timber sales on federal land – but the change could have huge implications for rural communities in Montana, Idaho and Washington. Last year alone, logging jobs accounted for nearly $102 million in wages for Idaho’s five northern counties, according to data from the state’s Department of Labor and Commerce.

The UI logger study is believed to be the first of its kind, said Travis Allen, the graduate student conducting the research. He hopes to have all the data crunched this spring from surveys mailed to 1,200 loggers in Eastern Washington, North Idaho and western Montana. With no previous formal tracking of logger age in the Inland Northwest, it’s impossible to claim a trend, Allen said, but follow-up surveys are expected to take place every five years.

Along with gathering age data, Allen also asked loggers to describe the challenges facing the local logging industry. The leading constraint was a lack of timber sales. Next was a lack of skilled employees. Allen used one word to summarize the additional comments offered by loggers who answered the survey: “Frustration.”

Longtime Priest River, Idaho, logger and millworker Dave Ehrmantrout said he struggled for a long time with the question of whether to encourage his three sons to make a living in the woods. The business has changed dramatically since Ehrmantrout picked up a chainsaw in the early 1970s, and many loggers are struggling. But Ehrmantrout said his sons – now in their late teens and early 20s – feel the same way he once did.

“There’s easier ways to make a living, but North Idaho is their home. This is where they wanted to stay,” Ehrmantrout said. “We can’t stop change, but we don’t necessarily have to give up our way of life.”

So Ehrmantrout helped his sons purchase a piece of specialized logging equipment from Canada capable of cutting small-diameter trees. The spindly trees are increasingly targeted in wildfire fuel reduction projects. Sometimes, the Ehrmantrouts might cut 1,000 small trees a day, yet only fill a single logging truck. To make any profit, a high volume of trees needs to be processed – the goal is one tree cut every 35 seconds.

“That’s a lot of decisions to make,” Ehrmantrout said. “The Scandinavians even did a study that showed in an eight-hour period, a harvester-operator will make more decisions than a fighter pilot does.”

The work seems to be more like landscaping than old-fashioned logging, Ehrmantrout joked, but demand is high.

“I see a real future and a real need for what the boys are doing,” he said. “They’re supplying a service for what others aren’t willing to do.”

Ehrmantrout said there’s simply too much competition anymore for jobs that focus on cutting large trees. Some operators bid on projects where they can’t possibly make a profit, but the money might be enough to make next month’s payments on their expensive equipment, he said.

If the number of loggers dwindles, it could be even harder for sawmills to obtain logs at competitive prices, said Peter Griessmann, district forest manager for the Stevens County, Wash., Conservation District. Griessmann conducted a local study several years ago that showed each truck full of logs supported at least two or three other local jobs, such as mechanics and equipment sales.

Without enough loggers and sawmills, wildfire fuel reduction projects become prohibitively expensive, Griessmann said. That’s already happening in the southwest.

Griessmann said he and others in northeastern Washington have been trying to encourage more young people to enter the timber industry – even going so far as starting a big-tree competition at the county fair, where young people can sell prize logs, much like their friends can make extra cash by growing the fattest hog.

One problem has been cuts to high school programs that offer training for natural resource jobs, Griessmann said. Colville had a legendary high school FFA forestry program, which was cut not long ago. The program has been started again, but Griessmann, who is 47, said there’s a growing sense of urgency to find other ways to encourage young people to enter the industry.

“We’re trying desperately to bolster those programs,” he said. “Most, if not everyone, I talk to now (in logging) is a good 8 to 10 years older than myself.”

Part of the problem is getting the message to young people that logging is still a viable profession, said Shawn Keough, an Idaho state senator and executive director of Associated Logging Contractors. The wages are also decent – according to state data, fallers make an average wage of more than $15 per hour. and equipment operators make upwards of $21 per hour.

“We need to help people understand the industry is not dead,” Keough said.

But Keough acknowledges the signs of trouble are hard to ignore. Next month, the Atlas Mill in Coeur d’Alene will saw its last log and shut its doors after 96 years of operation. The closure is blamed on growing competition from foreign mills, as well as consumers using vinyl, not wood, for their decks and house siding.

“Certainly, when a mill closes like that you’ve got a problem,” Keough said. “And we do have logging contractors that aren’t working. It’s hard to beat the drum to get younger members in.”

As Keough sees it, the biggest hurdle is uncertainty. Obtaining loans to pay for expensive pieces of machinery is not easy when it’s impossible to predict what the market will be like even a year from now, she said. But the Inland Northwest needs to find a way to hold on to the industry through these uncertain times.

“Southern Idaho grows potatoes,” Keough said. “We grow trees here … there will be a need to harvest those trees. Americans demand those wood products.”

The southern part of Idaho has already had to rely on migrant workers for logging jobs, Keough said. These workers usually leave the state and take their wages with them. “It definitely does not reinvest in your community.”

Logger Travis Kiebert of Hope, Idaho, said he’s managing to stay in business the old-fashioned way: by doing most of the work by hand. He said his focus on quality, not quantity, has helped him find work on the growing number of North Idaho’s small forested parcels. Kiebert’s family has a long history of working in the woods, but it’s getting harder and harder to make a living, he said. His earnings haven’t increased much in 15 years, while insurance costs have skyrocketed.

“In order for somebody to stay here and maintain a heritage of some sort, it gets to be a pretty major struggle,” said Kiebert, who was named Idaho’s logger of the year for 2005. “I try not to think about it too much. I guess everybody is fed and warm. That’s the main thing.”

Kiebert, who has four daughters, said he might be the last of his family line to cut trees. Although he said women can work as loggers – “It’s a lot more brain and reflexes nowadays compared to busting your butt for eight hours with a chainsaw,” he said – Kiebert said he thinks his children might have a brighter future out of the forest. His oldest daughter is a high school senior now.

“I’m encouraging her towards environmental law,” he said, laughing.

Ehrmantrout of Priest River still worries over his sons going into logging. But there aren’t many other decent ways to make a living in far northern Idaho.

“Sometimes I wish they would have become doctors and lawyers, but then I go out and look at a piece of property they finished and I’m real happy,” he said.

The job also has some valuable perks, Ehrmantrout said. “There’s nothing better than to be sitting on the hillside watching the sun come up and you realize, ‘I’ve got the best office in the world.’ “