Early on the morning of Aug. 21, 1910, Ranger Ed Pulaski emerged from the damp darkness of a mining tunnel on the West Fork of Placer Creek.

He entered a post-apocalyptic world.

The ground smoldered and smoked; burned-out trees lay uprooted and bare. The once-verdant forest was lain to waste, blowtorched by a vicious and unstoppable wildfire that would eventually be known as the Big Blowup.

As Pulaski's crew stumbled from the tunnel - saved only by the quick thinking of its brave foreman - the ranger surveyed that dreadful scene. He saw the desolation, the sheer destructive force of the inferno. Surely, he must have noticed the entrance to the mining tunnel, his fortunate refuge, its exterior timbers blackened and charred from the boiling heat.

Now, nearly 100 years later, Pulaski's story endures. At the end of the two-mile Pulaski Tunnel trail (which begins just outside Wallace), hikers can still peer into the murky aperture that saved the ranger and his men. They can imagine the flames, the despair and the valor.

But something's missing from that legendary tunnel: Those beefy timbers that once guarded the cave and burned over during the blaze.

Enter Hal Payne, the Wallace artist and craftsman who's recreating the wooden supports in a workshop at the Civic Auditorium. He's carving, torching and sawing thick white pine logs, and when he's finished, a helicopter will transport the replica timbers up to the Pulaski Tunnel. There, workers will position the new supports right where the old ones burned in 1910.

And when the Big Blowup centennial rolls around this August, the tunnel will look better than ever.

Payne hopes to complete the project in a few weeks. All told, he'll spend roughly 100 hours in his workshop.

"Now that I've worked out my techniques, it's just time-consuming," Payne said. "As I go along the logs get easier to do. They go faster."

He has never crafted faux burned-out timbers before, so Payne was experimenting with different methods from the outset. He designed and built a large workbench-like platform for the heavy logs, making it easier for him to move the raw lumber (each log is 10-12 inches in diameter). He also picked up a burnt piece of wood from an old slash pile to use as a model.

Before starting a cut, Payne studies 1910 photographs of the fire-scarred Pulaski Tunnel. His goal is to replicate all seven timbers that appear in the photos, down to the smallest detail. He shapes every bulge and knot with a chain saw, cuts long gashes with his circular saw's whirling blade, and carves each tiny crevice with a hammer and chisel - much the same way a Native artist carves a Pacific Northwest totem pole.

Payne has the rare ability to fashion almost anything from a blank piece of material.

"I've been an artist all my life," he said. "I've done woodworking for a good portion of that time.

"I enjoy things that are a challenge and a new experience. I enjoy the sculpting. The medium doesn't really matter to me, it's the process. And I like projects that are new to me."

Once the chiseling is complete, Payne chars the wood with an acetylene torch, giving it that burned-out look and blackened color. To preserve the finished logs, he'll apply a coat of high-quality stain and install Bor Rods every foot or so. The rods are made from a crystalline material that dissolves as soon as water enters the log, protecting the wood within. With safeguards on both the outside and inside, the timbers won't rot anytime soon.

"I'm hoping they last at least 25 years, and I think they will," Payne said.

Each log is a masterpiece of its own, a real work of art. All seven will stand proudly at the Pulaski Tunnel, adding to the history and mystique of the ranger's tale.

Payne is excited about the project and thankful for the opportunity. He doesn't care about profiting from his work; he's just happy to be creating something special and unique.

"I wanted to be an artist from the day I was born," Payne said, recalling how, as a boy growing up in Texas, he used to idolize Rembrandt and van Gogh. "I never considered the fact that they both died in abject poverty. It's always been the art that's been important to me."