Timber-mill worker Blake Marsh, and his wife, Ashleigh, a housekeeping supervisor, both 33, are competitive woodchoppers. They’re also parents to Harrison, 6, and Scarlett, 4.
Blake: We met at the Sydney Royal Easter Show about 14 years ago. She had a boyfriend at the time, but I thought she was hot – I liked her smile and she has very cute dimples – so I added her to Facebook. A couple of years later, we saw each other again in New Zealand, where there’s a competition every day from Boxing Day to New Year’s Day. We really connected.
Ashleigh’s one of the best woodchoppers in the world. She won the Women’s World Championship Underhand title in 2024 [competitors stand on a log and chop it between their feet; the winner is the fastest to cut through it]. She has great coordination and hits with power. She’s played hockey her whole life and is pretty good in the gym. She’s well-built for this sport.
We talk a lot about woodchopping, especially during the summer months; the NSW season is the Wimbledon of woodchopping. We go away every weekend and train every afternoon. The axes weigh about three kilos and for 40 long seconds, you’ve got to be really, really fit. We talk about how to shave off time. She’s really cool about taking advice. In this sport, you can’t afford to be cocky. Ashleigh’s weakness is overthinking, telling herself she’s got to beat this person or that, instead of just focusing on what she’s got to do. You gotta keep it simple.
We’ll often bicker about the axes – it’s my job to keep mine and hers as sharp as razors – but our biggest argument wasn’t about chopping wood. It was at my dad’s 50th 10 years ago at a pub. She was drunk, I told her to ease up and she threw a drink in my face. I can’t remember what I said to her, but we stormed out and had a massive row at home [in NSW’s Hunter Valley]. The next day, we had a big talk and resolved it. She barely drinks now.
She’s a great mum. She’s already teaching Harrison woodchopping. He’s got a little axe – a miniature version of the ones we use. Sharp. He wears chainmail socks and stands on his log and chops away. She’s a good teacher but impatient. If he doesn’t listen and mis-hits the wood, she gets frustrated. I agree with her, though: if you don’t listen, you could get hurt. It’s a dangerous sport.
Ashleigh’s fit, but she still eats too much junk food. I’m at one end of the table eating grapes and she’s at the other eating frigging chocolate biscuits. Sometimes I’ll pull her up on it: I don’t get a very friendly response.
It annoys me how easily she gets sidetracked. We’ve just renovated and there’s one wall in the house that’s about a metre wide that’s still not finished. I’ll say, “Can you just paint it?“. I can’t paint to save myself. She’ll tell me she’s going to get on to it and then just does something else.
The unhappiest I’ve ever seen her was when her pop died three years ago. He was very old and just about ready to go. She’d just won her first world title, which she wanted him to see before he died. They were very close and she took it hard.
We bicker a lot, but I love her to bits: she’s my best friend.
Ashleigh: What did I like about him? He didn’t take himself too seriously. We’d hang out after each event in New Zealand, jet-boating and spending evenings at the bar with the rest of the woodchoppers. We didn’t kiss until the night before I left to go home to Westport [on the South Island]. He made the first move. He kissed me, then asked me if I wanted to go behind the bakery with him. I said no.
We stayed in contact – him in Australia, me in New Zealand – for the next six months, flying back and forth to each other. And then he was in a bad car accident not far from his home in the lower Hunter Valley. His mum phoned me and that’s when I realised, “Holy shit! I think I love him.” A few months later, I moved to Australia to be with him.
Blake’s great at keeping the mood light while I’m busy overthinking everything. The world titles are stressful and I can put a lot of pressure on myself. He’s good at humbling me, reminding me that I’m just cutting a block of wood in half. It’s not a big deal.
He’s a good coach. Most afternoons after work, we’ll chop logs together and he’ll help me with my technique. His number one tip is, “Keep it simple, stupid.” I’m pretty proud of him and the way he woodchops; he has a very fast swing, both into the wood and out of it.
Blake’s happiest when he’s being a dad. Harrison loves getting out there with an axe. A real sharp one, too. I’ve got videos of Harrison chopping a log and Blake is calling him through [telling him where to hit the log next]. I’ve just been round at my in-laws’ and Harrison’s been on the ride-on, mowing the lawn by himself. He can even drive a digger. He’s quite handy for a six-year-old.
Whenever I compete, Blake’s on the sidelines, supporting me, yelling at me to go faster and to put my drives in, those final hits when the log’s about to cut through. There’ve been times when I’ve literally stopped chopping, either because the log’s too hard or I’m just too unfit. He gets pissed off if it’s a competition he thinks I could’ve won and made some money.
‘We talk a lot about what gear we need to buy. It can cause arguments because he always wants to buy more axes and they’re not cheap.’
Ashleigh Marsh
We talk a lot about what gear we need to buy. It can cause arguments because he always wants to buy more axes and they’re not cheap; each one costs about $900 and he reached his quota for the year in April. He’s pretty good at telling me when I need to stop spending money, though.
It’s annoying the way he says he’s going to do something and it’s still not done two weeks later and I end up having to do it myself – like tiling the splashback in the kitchen and putting the door handles on the cabinets. I get sick of asking him.
Blake’s such a man’s man. He has no care in the world about what he looks like. He won’t get a haircut and lives in work boots, shorts and a polo shirt. And it’s not a nice polo shirt: it’s a filthy friggin’ thing that’s always covered in fuel and tree sap. He drives me nuts, but I still love him lots.
Stephen Lacey – Zealous cyclist, keen student of design and style, and purveyor of fine drinking experiences. Once stepped into the ring with a man of the cloth and copped a cracked rib for his trouble – all in the name of getting the story, of course.Connect via X or email.From our partners
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