A Forest and A Family
Part of a three-generation clan of loggers, Trench writer Danette Polzin reflects on the forest industry’s proud past and its transforming future.
Haul in the family — A scene from a Hollywood set or everyday life for Kitchener B.C.’s Polzin family? In 1983, the story’s author, at age two, held by one of her grandparents. Her young mother and father are at the far right. The family have been foresters for more than 60 years.
It was one of those warm spring days that stirs excitement for summer.
I was at the shop, where my brothers were wrapping up after-work projects — fixing hoses and welding machine buckets. The shop itself tells the story of years of hard work: sweat, blood, beers, tears, and laughter etched into every corner. It’s common for the guys to gather here after hours, but this evening was different. We were sitting down to reflect on the near 50-year journey that took my dad from a worker in logging, mining, and pipelining to owner of his own logging and milling outfit, and eventually president of our family’s business bearing my father’s name, Rick Polzin Contracting Ltd.
My dad is a man who has a vision, mission, and passion for doing forestry differently. And this is our story.
I grew up a backcountry kid, mostly in Kitchener, B.C., not far from where I now live with my two sons. When I reflect back on those early years, it’s not so much the logging itself that I remember — it’s the life that came with it. The backroads we explored, the camping trips, the remote forests accessed by foot or ATV, the scent of sawdust and chainsaw oil on my dad’s clothes — a smell I still wish came bottled as cologne or air freshener.
With that backcountry upbringing, what experiences we had; I remember my grandma and aunties bottle-feeding a fawn that wouldn’t have survived without help. At my grandparents’ cabin, a resident bear and I would sit nose-to-nose, separated only by a window. I had a pet squirrel, as did many of my family members — at least in the logger households, where nests from fallen trees were often rescued.
I was the oldest of three children, quite a bit older than my two brothers, Chad and Jesse. I remember as a young child, Chad idolized our dad. He’d do anything Dad would do. Dad ate sardines, Chad ate sardines. Dad wore jeans, Chad wore jeans. Dad was a logger, Chad was a logger — a decision he’d made by age eight. As a child, I saw my dad as this strong, stoic, immovable force with an often inappropriate, but always formidable sense of humour, a heart of gold, and the drive of someone who truly lived by the motto ‘work hard, play hard.’
And even though I was the only one in our home who didn’t follow the logging footsteps laid out for us, I was gifted an incredible appreciation for the beauty, complexity, and force of this great planet we stand on.
In my early twenties, I was visiting friends in Creston and met a guy I didn’t know. He struck me as a young hippie, the type who might have a ‘Save the Whales’ or ‘Hug a Tree’ bumper sticker. He started talking about logging. I braced myself. I knew where this usually went. Then he surprised me. Pointing to a logging block on Mount Thompson, he said, “I don’t know who did that logging up there, but that’s exactly how logging should be done.” We all looked up.
That logger was my dad. And that was the moment I really realized that he was up to something. Something different than our communities and hometown’s surrounding forests had grown accustomed to.
Logger’s life — A common scene from the ‘90s … the kids on the CAT.
Paycheque lost, foresting niche found
Twenty years ago, our family’s business was featured in Interior Trucker & Logger Magazine. In that piece, Dad said he never wanted the company to grow so big that he couldn’t stay involved in all parts of it. And while it has grown, it’s still run by just my parents, my brothers, and a handful of employees. Today, the core logging crew is dad and brothers Rick, Chad, and Jesse, alongside Rick Chilson, my uncle Danny Polzin, and occasionally former employee Tyler Powell, who still helps out on his days off from the mine. In the past, grandpa and great-uncle, Ron and Jim Polzin, also worked with the business. My mom, Carleen, runs the office, with Teresa, Danny’s wife, helping out and managing safety.
Dad’s first job was doing cedar salvage work in the Creston area with his own father, making shakes, posts, and rails. He also remembers riding in machines while his dad land-cleared for pipelines and roads. He left school in grade nine or ten to focus on cedar salvage, then worked for other contractors in logging, mining, and pipelining — often away from home.
His first local logging gig came from Jim Roberts. Jim was hesitant at first, with my dad being only about 20 years old, but he begged for a chance.
“Jim sat there all day watching me,” Dad remembers. By the end of the day, Jim was impressed. Dad joined the crew.
After years with various contractors, he felt a growing pull to step out on his own. Tired of the big-company grind, he was working for Crestbrook (later taken over by Tembec, and now Canfor). In 1998, my parents bought a small sawmill, planning to run it part-time on our property. They drove all the way to Oregon to bring it home.
The plan was for Dad to keep working at Crestbrook while easing into his own small-scale sawmill operation. But shortly after they returned, Crestbrook restructured. His job was cut, without warning.
“When Crestbrook cut Dad’s job, we were kind of shitting our pants,” Mom recalls. They’d just bought the sawmill and leveraged their house as collateral.
“I didn’t think I’d ever put something against our house like that,” Dad adds. “But we never did it again.”
It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The layoff pushed Dad to fully commit. He’d felt the industry’s smalltown heart and soul was draining away as big companies took over.
“You’re just a number,” he started to tell friends. Sure enough, not long after the corporate acquisition of a bunch of local mills, logging rigs were literally numbered. “See, there it is,” he said. “They used to know people by name. Now, they’re a number.”
But folks adapted to the new corporate landscape, and it was in that same year of the mill purchase, 1998, my parents started to find opportunities in B.C.’s Small Scale Salvage Program, where mom and pop outfits bid on timber blocks filled with mostly dead trees. Dad began milling full time — selling logs to builders, and sawing custom orders for clients including CP Rail and YRB. Today, both my brother Jesse and I live in homes built with timber our dad sawed.
Aside from the sawmill, the first ‘machinery’ my parents owned was the family-famous “green beater” truck, an old tractor, and a skid steer. My dad also rented a skidder — which drags logs to a landing where they’re processed and loaded onto trucks — but quickly learned that relying on rentals and other contractors was, in fact, unreliable. So, Dad made his first big machine purchase: the 518, a used skidder from a longtime friend and business contact.
“I remember when you first got that skidder because it was dropped off at Danny’s and we were driving it around in the back,” Jesse says. Too short to see over the dash, he and Chad team-worked the foot pedals and steering the first time they rumbled around in the big rig.
“You remember smashing your head?” Chad asks.
“Which time?” Jesse says. We all laugh — Jesse hit his head A LOT as a kid. “Dad had me moving the skidder up Kidd Creek and you were riding with me. Dad showed me how to shift and said just leave it in second. But I wanted to try third, so I shifted without letting off the throttle, and Jesse smashed his head off the screen.” Jesse started hollering. Chad apologized, with a caveat.
“Just don’t tell dad,” he pleaded. “I was supposed to leave it in second.”
Chad always knew he wanted to be a logger. By eight or nine, he was working summers full-time.
“The first summer, all I did was carry the saw out to dad, hold the tape, carry the saw back, and gas it up. I got $20 a day if I stayed awake and $10 if I napped on the truck seat. I made $360 that summer.”
“He slept a lot,” Dad laughs.
Over time, the salvage program began to shift. It still existed but became harder to access. More paperwork. More costs. And no guarantee of getting the job, even after investing the time and effort. After 2013, stumpage rates — the fees loggers pay per metre to harvest wood from Crown land — began to rise so high it wasn’t worth it anymore.
And it was through this transition that the company started taking on more work for the Creston Community Forest (CCF).
Bridging gaps — Up a forestry road outside of Yahk, B.C., in 2019, the Polzins place a bridge they built.
21,000 hectares and a community’s better interests
The CCF is a living, breathing example of community forest stewardship. It’s a non-profit organization managing over 21,000 hectares of land in the Creston area. With a focus on sustainable forestry, they also put large efforts into public education, trail building, wildfire mitigation, watershed protection, and wildlife habitat restoration. Our community forest is part of the British Columbia Community Forest Association, which represents upwards of 50 community forests across the province, with at least six of those located within the Kootenays.
CCF aims to balance logging, the local economy, conservation, and recreation. With science and community interests in hand, the CCF aligns forest management with local values and environmental integrity to foster resiliency and sustainability, ideally for generations.
The vision of the CCF has always mirrored my dad’s approach to forestry. So, it was no surprise he eventually started working with them. He initially got in the door because other contractors would underbid on Community Forest jobs to win contracts, but often failed to finish them. Some lost money and bailed. Others only took the jobs to fill downtime from their large contracts, then dropped them the moment bigger work called.
That’s when the Community Forest started calling my dad to clean up the mess. Over time, he became one of their main contractors. As part of that role, since roads had to be built to access the logging blocks, he naturally moved into forest service road building and maintenance. The company also started working with BC Timber Sales, taking on road and bridge maintenance. As trust built, my parents started bidding on bigger and bigger contracts.
Back at the shop table, I ask Dad what sets their company apart.
“Well, I’m better looking,” he laughs. Versatility, he adds. Being able to do everything — log, build roads, bridges, or anything else — Mom adds. And a commitment to selective, sustainable practices.
Both of my parents remember when Simon Fraser University students visited. From the front deck of their home, which overlooks a logged mountain, my dad pointed to a block logged by his crew a year or two earlier. The students were convinced it hadn’t been touched, and were shocked to learn it had. Especially when they saw the stark difference between his block and one right next to it, cleared by a large contractor.
That contrast is everywhere — and often highly visible, particularly due to the increasing amount of lesser-regulated private land logging. High-visibility cut blocks on privately owned property are one of the reasons many people wrongly think all logging is destructive.
“When people complain about logging,” Dad explains, “they find pictures of clear cuts and the worst blocks out there and use that as the example for the entire industry. And they’re not even doing that on purpose. They’re just not educated to see the differences.” A selectively logged site can look untouched within a year. In truth, thoughtful logging protects watersheds and manages wildfire risk. The real problem, say forestry watchdogs and long-time loggers like Dad, is that the industry is strictly run for profit. Rules are in place, but they aren’t always followed. Enforcement is often nonexistent.
Take replanting, for instance. Tree species are supposed to be replanted in the same ratio they were removed. But that’s not always what happens. Contractors choose the cheapest species, and no one checks. Over time, this threatens biodiversity and the regenerative strength of our forests.
And the industry is also steeped in politics. Major forestry corporations have the money and power to lobby urban politicians — many of whom have never set foot on a logging site. Meanwhile, small contractors and workers raising alarms are silenced. Mismanagement from the top down continues to cause serious damage.
Another hot-button misconception in the industry is old-growth logging.
“A lot of the old growth is wood that is rotten or diseased,” Jesse explains, “or in a state that it’s going to be prone to those things.” These trees aren’t valuable. If they’re cut, it’s often to help the forest regenerate or prevent disease and wildfire.
The definition of old growth is murky at the government level, and what gets labeled as such can be misleading. Some truly ancient forests need protection. But other “old growth” areas are filled with fuel. Wildfire risk in these protected zones is alarming because selective logging isn’t allowed. What happened in Jasper is a prime example. Hiking through Elk Lakes Provincial Park last summer during a storm, surrounded by hundreds of dead standing trees, I shuddered at the thought of a possible lightning strike.
“I don’t remember ever logging a place that hadn’t been logged before,” Dad says. “Even if it was 80 or 100 years ago. Back then, they just took the big trees. What we’re logging now were weeds in their way.”
“It’s like a garden,” he surmises. “Do it once, do it selective, do it right, and you can do it again. There’s not enough common sense in the industry any more. You can’t just have people in offices writing up stuff when they’ve never worked in the industry or have only been trained in a classroom. It just doesn’t work.”
“You need a balance,” Dad says, “and we’ve lost that.”
Hard work, heavy loads — In the early ‘80s, Rick and bulldozer, during a gig mining Elkford’s Eagle Mountain.
Danger, love, and legislation
After more conversation around the shop, the conclusion is that logging itself isn’t the issue. It’s the layers between government, corporations, and the people on the ground. And the challenges don’t end there.
Strict provincial safety requirements have created new barriers. Dad and his crew have always made safety a priority — what matters most is that everyone gets home at the end of the day. But not all operators are the same, so safety standards have become far more rigid. It’s a catch-22, essential for protecting the lives and wellbeing of workers, yet tough on operations.
“You can no longer run a skidder and hook chokers when you’re 16,” Jesse shares. (Workers now must be 18 to log in B.C.) My brothers started young, working under Dad’s wing. But now, my sons want to do the same and the rules are different.
“It’s the same for farmers as it is for loggers,” Dad says. “When kids were young, they used to help and learn that way. Now the government says you can’t. They’re killing the industry. I understand why the rules are in place, but at the same time, I’d never let anything happen to my sons or grandsons out there.”
“The old days were a lot of fun, there was just something about it,” Chad shares. Jesse agrees. “It’s safer now, and easier. But there’s something to be said for line skidders, and hand bucking and hand falling. It was a lot of physical work. But it was rewarding and there was a different camaraderie.”
Logging has always been dangerous — it’s known as one of the most high-risk jobs for a reason. “Dad dropped a tree really close to me once,” Chad recalls. “We didn’t tell Mom for years. I knew I’d never be allowed to go again.” Another time, a small tree top snapped and hit Dad’s legs. Everyone ran. “You don’t worry about saving saws,” my dad says. “You just run.”
Finding qualified workers is one of the biggest challenges today’s logging companies face. As seasoned workers retire, hiring new ones isn’t easy. Times have changed, and the things that the family loves about the work tend to push new workers away.
The lifestyle demands motivation and grit — up early (sometimes 1:30 or 2 a.m.), no stopping all day, and laser focus. It’s a mindset.
“You’re always watching and looking out for each other,” Jesse says. “You don’t want to let anyone down. You’re not just pulling a pay cheque.” One person calling in sick or not showing up can shut down the entire operation.
Jesse shares what he loves most. “The ever-changing office. A literal mobile office where it always looks different every couple of weeks or months. It’s also nice running the processor, because my dog fits.” Chad and Rick Chilson chime in at the same time that their favourite part is “beer after work.”
“I remember breakup parties,” Chad grins. “The last day of work on spring breakup, we’d quit early and head to the bar or someone’s shop to celebrate.”
A logger’s life is one shared with the land and with wildlife. That often leads to unforgettable moments. The crew has paused operations for calving grounds and watched elk bed down under machines at night. Over time, animals have learned that machinery and people can offer protection from predators. And provide food.
“There’ve been jobs where the skidder’s dragging the trees away and the elk are following it, getting a meal to-go,” Jesse says, adding that the ungulates love unexpected access to lichen in the winter months.
Roots — The Polzin family and crew in 2025. Left to right, Jesse, Cameron, Molly, Chad, Jackson (upper row), Rick Chilson, Rick, Carleen, Teresa, Danny, Danette (lower row). Nicole Leclair Photo
Steady work in unsteady times
There’ve been milestones in the family business. Buying the first skidder, going mechanized with a processor and buncher, the first brand-new machine. Another huge moment came when the company hit seven figures in the corporate account. But easy come, easy go. Expenses quickly absorb celebration in a family-owned business.
Through it all, Dad has remained independent. He’s never signed on with any other major corporate player. And that created its own hurdles. Bankers often wanted to see five-year contracts to feel their loans were secure.
But as my mom says, those contracts provide false security because they can be cut at any time without notice. The flexibility of the family business has paid off. Their current banker agrees, confident in their stability and never worried about their future.
Work has been steady.
“Most of the time, I don’t go look for work,” says Dad. “People usually just phone us. We have never advertised.” Along with the Community Forest, the family business works with Kalesnikoff in the West Kootenay, BC Timber Sales, mining and exploration companies, BC Wildfire Service, Ministry of Forests, BC Parks, YRB/Ministry of Transportation, and they complete a lot of logging for private land owners.
Dad counts his blessings. As for the future, it’s uncertain.
Competing with mines and oil and gas on wages is near impossible. The industry needs to become more accessible and enticing for young people — there’s no opportunity for them to fall in love with logging early on.
Political pressures, land rights issues, and environmental concerns are squeezing the industry tighter. And a lack of education and understanding at all levels — from government to public — is shaping policies that make logging harder without improving forest management or regeneration.
More education is crucial, too. When done right, logging is essential and sustainable. Alongside fishing, it’s one of the few truly renewable industries in the province. Logging isn’t just about lumber; nearly everything we extract — rocks, sand, gravel — depends on it. Selective logging is also key to wildfire mitigation. Leaving forests untouched means more frequent fires as a part of the natural regeneration cycle. The current strategy of preventing both sustainable logging and small fires contributes to the massive, uncontrollable wildfires we’re now facing.
It’s a complex industry facing deep uncertainty.
And with that, I ask Dad if his grandsons should become loggers.
“They sure should.”
~ Danette Polzin
Find this full-length story and more in The Trench’s Summer/Fall 2025 edition: