A Hurricane Sandy White Oak in Princeton: A Lesson in Physics and Patience
Everyone has a story about something going wrong in their woodworking. If you’ve spent enough time around wood, tools, gravity, and confidence, something eventually steps in to rebalance that confidence.
One of my favorite stories happened in Princeton, New Jersey, several years after Hurricane Sandy.
The storm had blown over a massive white oak tree. But by the time we got to it, this wasn’t some freshly fallen, leafy giant. It had been sitting there for five years. No green. No leaves. No life left in it at all. Just a long, weathered trunk stretched across a rocky hillside, its root ball frozen in the position the storm had left it.
The bark was rough and dry. Sections had grayed where the weather had worked on it. It looked less like a fallen tree and more like part of the landscape — as if it had slowly become one with the rocks it was resting on.
We weren’t dragging the whole tree. We had already cut it into sections. On this particular day, we were pulling one large log section, still massive, still white oak, but manageable in theory… This particular section was resting across several boulders, just high enough off the ground to make things interesting and just settled enough to make things difficult.
We wrapped a chain around the section and secured it with a quick link. It was clean. Straight. Brand new. The kind of hardware that looks small but carries itself with confidence.
We started pulling. At first, there was the slightest shift, just enough to make us think we were winning. Then it stopped. Not dramatically. Not violently. It just… settled.
No rolling down the hill. No sliding free. No cracking loose from the rocks.
The log section simply sat there, dry and stubborn, pressing its full weight into the stone beneath it like it had been there for a decade, which, practically speaking, it had. So we gave it more pull. The truck strained. The chain tightened. You could hear that low metallic hum that says tension is building somewhere important. The log section? Didn’t move. Not an inch. It didn’t rock. It didn’t twist. It didn’t even pretend to cooperate. It just stayed planted across those rocks like it had signed a long-term lease.
Eventually, we stopped and walked up the hill to see what was going on.
That’s when it became obvious. This wasn’t a snag. This wasn’t a minor hang-up.
The section was fully supported by solid rock underneath it. Five years of sitting there had let it settle perfectly into place. The hillside and the oak had come to an agreement.
And the quick link? Well… it was no more.
Instead of the log giving way, the threaded end of the quick link had bent open. The body had bowed just enough to say, “I tried.” It hadn’t exploded. It hadn’t snapped in dramatic fashion. It had simply yielded. The oak section hadn’t shifted. The rocks hadn’t shifted.
But that little piece of steel had sacrificed itself in the name of optimism. We stood there looking at it. Half impressed. Half annoyed. Fully humbled.
Because that’s the thing about woodworking, especially when it starts outside, long before anything sees a planer or a jointer. You can calculate weight. You can estimate force. You can cut a tree into manageable sections and think you’re being smart about it.
But when five-year-old white oak has settled into a rocky New Jersey hillside, sometimes the only thing that moves… is the hardware.
We repositioned. Cleared some rock. Changed the angle. Did the smarter thing we probably should’ve done first. And eventually, the section came free.
But I’ll never forget that image, a weathered oak log sitting perfectly still across stone, and a bent quick link lying there like a tiny metal white flag.
Woodworking teaches patience. It teaches physics. And sometimes…
It teaches you that the smallest part of the system is usually the first one to lose the argument.
In the end, the tree gave some absolutely beautiful woodworking cabinetry.
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