He walked the line with me. He looked at the stumps. He looked at the fence. He pulled out a worn measuring tape he keeps in his truck and checked two reference points he apparently still remembers from when this area was surveyed years ago. He looked at me and said, “Those trees were yours.” He said it plainly, the way a man says something that does not require debate.
I thanked him and asked him to write down what he saw. He did it right there standing in the field in a small notebook he keeps in his jacket. Date, time, his observations, his reference measurements. He signed it. That was the first document. I went back inside and I did not call the Varners. I did not go to their door.
I had already decided in those first calm minutes that I was not going to handle this with a conversation. I had handled things with conversations before in my life. I knew how that went with certain kinds of people. They apologized just enough. They offer nothing real. Time passes. Nothing changes. These trees could not grow back.
Whatever was said at a fence line would not change that. So, I was not interested in a conversation. I was interested in a record. The first call I made was to my county extension office. I know that sounds unusual. Most people would call a lawyer first, but I had a specific reason. I wanted to establish the value of what was taken before I did anything else.
Timber trespass, which is what this was, is calculated in part by the value of the trees themselves. In many states, the law allows for double or triple damages when timber is cut without permission. But you need a baseline number. You need someone qualified to provide it. The extension office gave me the name of a certified arborist who did rural property assessments in the county.
