The 12 pound splitting maul swings so gracefully in his hands I never think about the weight of it until he begins the descent of the arc and with a thick whump the big wedge of steel lodges itself into a chunk of fir as tall as my knee and big enough around for us both to have a seat.

Three summers ago he sold firewood that he had split, nearly fifteen cords of wood that took him four months working every day to split and stack and shuffle, and his neck and back and chest and shoulders turned into those of a bull. He is frighteningly accurate with swinging heavy things.

He knocks the handle sideways and it doesn't budge so he reaches into the woodshed for the 8 pound sledge hammer. Again the arc, and again the descent, his strength aided by gravity, a clean swift motion and the black steel rings bright against steel, a spark, the maul head settles in an inch deeper.

He rises and falls, true each time, an eye and a motion and the wood creaks, cracks, groans and with four strokes, and on the fifth it splits wide open, cloven in two. The wood is pink inside, a stark contrast to the dull grey of the seasoned exterior, and the clean smell of fresh-cut fir permeates the air. He grins at me, his hair culry and wild in the cold damp air and sweat on his forehead and eyes all twinkly.