From A Loggers Old Diary. Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

Sunrise paints the frosty air,
Through snowdrifts deep, a weary prayer.
To reach the trees, a silent trek,
With saw and axe upon my neck.

Rough cabin walls, my simple home,
On straw I sleep, no fancy dome.
No running tap, no glowing light,
Just fire's warmth through darkest night.

Two-man saw, a steady pull,
Or axe that bites, to make it full.
The branches fall, the bark is peeled,
A heavy load, the forest yield.

Bread and bacon, prim so sweet,
A hearty meal, to help me meet
The next long day, the work renewed,
With weary limbs, but spirit good.

The horse awaits, a trusted friend,
To pull the logs, until the end.
To rivers cold, where waters glide,
The timber's journey, side by side.

Then spring arrives, the ice breaks free,
A hurried dance, for all to see.
Down rushing streams, the logs will ride,
A dangerous path, with naught to hide.

Through years of toil, the work was done,
Beneath the moon, beneath the sun.
A logger's life, so strong and true,
In Norway's woods, for me and you.