“Damn. I know the place.”
“Then you know how special it is.”
“I thought Bowen Gulch was still under roadless area review.”
“No, they finished that almost a year ago.”
“Hmmm. This is not good.”
“The day after the roadless review staff at the regional office released Bowen Gulch for timber production, the local ranger at the district office assembled a project team and started planning the sale. They intend to go in as soon as possible and gut the place.”
“How large is the sale?”
“It’s big. Ten million board feet, and that’s just for starters.” He explained that the language of the sale called for multiple entries. Bowen Gulch would be re-logged in ten years and again after twenty. Pinecone heard a whistle over the line.
“How come nobody appealed it? What about the folks at the Colorado Environmental Coalition?”
“They slipped it by them. The CEC are spread thin like the rest of us. Too many things to stay on top of.”
“Yeah, I know. Same old story. And too few people to cover the bases. Well, the bottom line is, we can’t let them do it.”
“I agree.”
“Over my dead body.”
“That’s what I said and a guy broke my nose.”
“What?”
He told Newsome about the incident at the Nugget.
“I’m sorry to hear about that.” There was a long silence on the other end. “My sense is, we need to jump on this. Right away. Where are you based?”
“Granby.”
“That could be helpful.”
“What are you thinking?”
“We need to set up a meeting with the ranger who’s pushing the sale.”
“That’s my former boss. ‘Dougie’ Bennett. I know him well.”
“So, you know him. What do you think the odds are of persuading ranger Bennett to drop it?”
“Try a snowball in hell. He’s a timber beast. I ought to know. I worked with him for three years.”
“Then, it’s gonna be a fight.”
“Yes.”
“OK. But we still have to observe the formalities. The sooner we pay your old boss a visit the better.”
SIX
Tom fixed his supper alone, marveling at the slow pageant of shifting light. The day was winding down, the sun in grand retreat.
She was in his thoughts.
He ate in silence watching the mountain valley compose itself for night. Slowly the shadows lengthened as the veil of dusk settled over camp. But the light show continued higher up, along the rocky ridge that jackknifed skyward above camp. As dusk slowly scaled the heights, the grand finale played out all the more brilliantly in rosy reds, lavenders and, finally, in shades of pink that lingered on the highest point, then faded into night.
From his site near the edge of camp Tom could hear the men moving about in the gathering darkness, their laughter and idle talk.
There’ll be a fire tonight.
He stepped inside his tent and pulled on a heavy cardigan; then, pausing, he removed Tallie’s still unopened letter from the pillow, turned it over in his hands and ran his thumb along the top edge as if to confirm it was real. He snapped on his flashlight and for a moment spotlighted the return address. San Francisco. He lifted the scented letter to his nose and inhaled deeply. The smell of her was like ambrosia.
Intoxicated, he set the letter back on the pillow, grabbed an apple and headed for Red Callahan’s.
By now, cavernous night had swallowed the logging camp. The bon fire was blazing up with garish effect. Illuminated by the flames, the broad surfaces of tents and campers stood out in sharp relief. Man’s last line of defense against...what? Absolute nothingness.
A half-dozen loggers stood around the fire like refugees or maybe fugitives. The flickering faces were spectral masks, lit up from below, the eyes lost in shadow. The bony contortions were a parody of human features. The drift of small talk was subdued.
Dipstick Dugan lifted a hand and proffered the remains of a six-pack dangling from its plastic yoke. “We got more Bud here. Who wants one?”
“I do,” croaked Kermit Johnson.
Dugan slipped a can from the plastic ring and passed it over. “Who else? One left.” He shoved the beer at Tom who waved it off and took a bite of his apple.
Charlie McCoy stepped out of the shadows into the circle of light.
“What say, Charlie?”
“Somebody talking to me?”
“Hell yes somebody’s talking to you,” said Dipstick. “I’m talking to you.… You mangy piece of shit.” A ripple of laughs moved around the fire. Charlie was stroking a three-day beard.
“McCoy, you’re one ugly hairy fucker. Don’t you think he’s ugly?”
“Course he’s ugly.”
“One ugly fuck.”
McCoy looked up. “Yah, Dip, almost as ugly as your baby sister.” More laughs.
“Them’s fightin’ words mister.”
“Uh-oh. Now you done it. You frosted him.”
“Look out.”
Dipstick had his dukes up. “See this? This here’s your face.” Dipstick slammed his knuckles into the palm of his other hand.
“Scary guy.”
“Take that bug out of your ass,” Charlie said, “and hand me a beer. OK?”
For a moment Dugan stared as if in disbelief. He detached the can from the plastic. “Hokay, boss,” he said. “Last one.” But instead of passing the beer across he heaved it. Charlie was ready, though, and caught the missile inches from his face. He shook it hard and as he popped the cap he pointed it back at Dipstick. A spray of frothing beer arced across the fire. Dipstick ducked but could not escape a bath of foam. He stood shaking his arm while Charlie sniggered. The antics produced more laughs all around.
“Much obliged,” Charlie said with a nonchalant wave of the frothing can.
Someone taunted Dip not to settle for seconds. But the horseplay had run its course. The laughter subsided. The mood turned somber. The only sound was the crackling fire. A voice said, “What happened to your boot there, Jimmy?”
“OOOWEE!”
“Let me see that. Son of a bitch.”
“Fuzzy had a close one.”
“Had a slip-up today,” Thurston said as he lifted his muddy boot onto a rock by the fire. The men crowded around for a closer look. It was true. The toe of the leather boot was gone, sliced clean away. Firelight danced on the wriggling toes.
“Will you look at that.”
“Slick as a whistle.”
“Jimmy likes to clip his toe nails with his Homelite,” Charlie hooted.
“Yup, they say the sweet meat’s close to the bone.”
“Atta boy.”
“SUU-ee! Bet he hasn’t changed that sock in a week.”
“Lucky for Thurston he’s got retractable toes,” another one chirped, amidst titters of laughter.
“You’re righter than you know,” Thurston said, laughing with the rest. “When it happened they tucked up tight and headed for cover. I didn’t know for sure if I still had ‘em until I looked.”
“Ha. Jimmy got his GRE. He can count to five.”
“That’ll teach him respect.”
“Laugh all you want, boys,” said Sourpuss Malone with mild reprove. “But I guarantee you won’t be laughing when it happens to you. And believe you me, loggers, it will happen. Matter of when, not if.”
“Make way, there,” Red Callahan said as he stepped into the circle with an armful of wood and chucked it onto the ground. Then, crouching on one knee he fed the blaze. A shower of sparks climbed into the opaque night.
“Ever had a close one, Sourpuss?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” he replied. Then, he added, “Sure, mon. Who hasn’t?”
“More times than you want to remember, right Malone?”
“Got that right. Had one last year, in fact. One green logger dropped a big yellow pine that damn near took
my head off. Coupla cunt hairs the other way an’ I wouldn’t be here telling ya.” More laughs.
Now, the fresh fuel began to catch. The flames leaped higher and the circle of men brightened.
“The most dangerous thing in the woods,” Charlie said, “is a goddamn green guy with a chainsaw. Green guys and saws don’t mix. No way, no how.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
“Amen to that.”
Someone passed Tom a pint of Johnny Walker. “Here, kid. Live a little.” Tom took a slug and moved the bottle along.
“I dang near killed a fellow once, myself,” Charlie said.
“Oh?”
“How’s that, Charlie?”
“We was clearing timber along a road two three years back. As I recollect, a big right-of-way contract. They was going to widen the road. But it wasn’t a major highway or nothing. It was that gravel road west of Red Feather Lakes, up in the boonies.”
“Oh, I remember that job. On the North Fork of the Poudre River, right Charlie?”
“That’s right. Kermit knows. He was there. ‘Member how we didn’t have no flaggers, Kerm?”
“Yep, I recall.”
“Right. Because it was a back road and there wasn’t very much traffic. Anyway, I was working the uphill side of the road, see? Just finishing my cut through a twenty-inch fir, when, guess what, along comes this Volkswagen bus out of nowhere tooling up the trail. Well Jesus H. Christ what could I do? I mean shit, it was too late to call a stop, and too late for damn sure to hold back that tree. So there she went, over and” – Charlie whistled and motioned with his arm – “FWACK! Down on the guy’s windshield. I kid you not.”
“Did you kill the guy, Charlie?”
“Yeah. What happened?”
“Lucky for him I was on the uphill side of the road. Because the high bank broke the fall. So, nothing much happened. Only a few top branches hit the car.”
“What’d the guy do? Get out and stomp your ass?”
“You’re kidding me, right? Hell no, that guy never stopped for nothing. He kept on trucking. The only thing that som’ bitch stomped was the gas. Should’ve seen the way he dragged out of there. Ha-ha-ha. I mean, you could hear his foot hit the floor.” Charlie paused amidst laughter. “Must of scared the living shit out of him. In fac’, I know I did because I got a look as he was going by. The guy’s face was white as a sheet, like he’d just seen the boogie man.”
The men chuckled and passed the Johnny Walker.
“What about you, Tom?” someone said. “Ever had a close one?”
“Hell, he don’t even have whiskers. Just peach fur.”
“Yeah, did you?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “Once.”
“Only once?”
“Shut up, pea brain,” said Red. “The man’s a scholar. Let him speak.”
“Tell us.”
When Tom spoke he appeared larger than his five-six frame. “Yeah, I did have a close call, my third day on the job.”
“Didn’ you say you worked for that old-timer over in North Park. What’s his name?”
“You mean Carl Olsen,” Red said.
“That’s right. Carl lined me out.”
“Cantankerous old Swede.”
“No, the old boy’s actually Norwegian.”
“He’s into posts and poles, ain’t he?”
“Yep.”
“There’s a world of difference.”
“Oh,” Sourpuss said. “I think I know who you mean. You talkin’ about that old hunting guide from Walden who’s been all over everywhere?”
“That’s the one. Old battery acid.”
“I heard about him. They say he’s got a sixth sense.”
“You heard right,” Dipstick said. “One of my brothers hunted with him, once, few years back. Says the guy’s a spook.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He ain’t guiding no more, though. The old boy packed it in.”
“Dead?”
“No, no, retired. He don’t hunt no more.”
“Well, dead or alive, he’s one salty fucker.” More laughter. Then silence.
“But Tom was gawn’t tell us...”
“Yeah, I want to hear ‘bout that close one.”
“I was in a stand of Engelmann Spruce,” Tom said. “A kind of boggy place. You know how Engelmann likes wet ground.”
“That’s the one with the shaggy bark.”
“Yup. Yup.”
“See, what happened, I made some dumb-ass moves that nearly got me killed. It was late in the afternoon and I was tired. Dead on my feet. If I’d known better I would have called it a day. But I didn’t have the sense to knock off. It was a big spruce. Must have been, I’d say, thirty inches across, breast height. OK, so I made my back cut too low, for starts. Then, for some reason I let my saw cut drift down at a bad angle. Oh and I also forgot to use my wedge.”
“OOOOO,” a voice said. “Not good.”
“It was inadvertent, but...”
“What’s that mean?” said Kermit.
“What’s what mean?”
“That word he said, in-at-ver-dant?”
“It means he fucked up.”
“Go on, Tom.”
“Like I said, three wrong moves. So there I was, just finishing my back cut when that big spruce settled down on my bar. The tree was cut clean through. But I didn’t know it yet. The trunk was just sitting there perched on that stump, balanced, maybe a ton of dead weight on the bar of my saw.”
“Ho-lee fuck.”
“There was no chance to squirm it free.”
“Nope. Waste of time.”
“Forget it.”
“No way. She was stuck like the sword in the stone.”
“No wind, eh?”
“Nope. No wind. If there’d been a breeze she’d have gone right over. But the woods were totally calm. No breeze at all. I didn’t know that the stem was cut through. I...”
“Why didn’t you wedge her over?”
“Yeah, what about your wedge?”
“Said he forgot.”
“I was getting to it but I was moving too slow I guess. Before I could think what to do that big old spruce, uh, I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. She didn’t fall away clean. Nosir. That spruce slipped off the stump, still vertical, and buried itself in the duff a couple inches from my boot.”
“Lord A-mighty!”
“I stood there in shock. I couldn’t believe it. Thing is, it slipped off without a waver and stayed vertical. It was only after, I’d say, another four or five seconds during which I watched my whole life pass before me that she finally began to tip a little. Then she went over. Now, I’m quick on my feet. But that slip happened so fast off that stump I never saw it coming…”
“Fuck-in-A. If it had landed on your boot it would have pinned you to the spot...”
“She would have come down right on you.”
“Couple of inches t’other way…”
“You’d of been in a world of hurt.”
“Crippled up.”
“One dead monkey.”
“Crushed like a bug.”
“I got weak in the knees when I realized what’d happened. Had to sit down an’ think about it...”
“Asshole puckered up too, I’ll bet.”
“Hah! Tom shit his pants!”
“Well, he ain’t the first an’ won’t be the last.”
“You was one lucky bastard.”
“Dang, Tom, if you didn’t have a close one.”
Someone passed him the Johnny Walker. “Kill it, bub. You earned it.”
SEVEN
Jacques St. Clair stepped up to have a word with the driver, then backed away and gave him a curt wave. The driver nodded. The big rig’s powerful diesel engine gahoomed, pumping smoke out of both stacks as the driver inched the fully-loaded truck forward across the landing, barely serviceable now because of the mud. Fortunately, it was not deep enough to require chains. The driv
er paused briefly at the edge of the pavement, then, after checking both ways slowly pulled out onto the Poudre River highway, after which, he accelerated down the road, pipes snaking black soot.
Good bye and Amen.
Jacques glanced at his watch.
It was the sixth load out this fine July morning. More would follow in the afternoon. The drivers would return again in the morning and continue the process. Jacques was still playing catch-up, but the huge mountain of logs on the landing had visibly shrunk. Within another week, ten days at the most, they would haul away the last of it, and he would wrap up the job or, at any rate, his part in it. Already the state engineer and survey team were swarming over the high valley laying out the earthen-work dam to be constructed later in the summer. The headwaters of the Poudre River was an excellent site for water catchment in a state where agriculture is heavily depended on irrigation. The week before, the state boys had brought in the big earth movers and graders that would be used to construct the dam and shape the bottom of the planned reservoir. For the moment, the heavy equipment stood idle beside the highway. By then, of course, Jacques would have moved his operation across the Divide to the next big project, to log a place called Bowen Gulch.
The double whammy of the big wind followed by the early snow the previous fall that dumped three feet of the white stuff on the Rockies, forcing an early shutdown before Mike Garity was in the ground, even before Jacques could begin cleaning up the windfall mess, had put him in a foul temper all winter. Jacques had passed much of it consoling Anita, Mike’s widow. It was hard living with the death of a man like Garity, a good friend who had worked for him for ten years. Jacques knew he himself was blameless; it was after all a cruel business. Still, he second-guessed himself constantly about it because he felt responsible. He couldn’t help it. Nor was Garity his first employee killed on the job. Two years before, he lost a driver named Jerry who had never handled a chainsaw nor even set foot in the woods. The driver had arrived for a load of logs but had to wait his turn. The guy operating the cherry picker was still loading the truck ahead of him. Jerry paused to have a smoke and was casually bullshitting with the other driver when the operator dropped a log on his head. The man standing next to Jerry had not even been touched.
Go figure.
The worst part was encountering Garity’s widow about town, and the two kids who would never see their father again. Jacques had been covering the family’s rent to help out and did not mind a bit though he was under no legal obligation to do so; even though his own finances were strained at the moment because of that damn penalty clause in the contract. It had been costing him all winter, for every month the right-of-way project dragged on past the deadline. Stipulated deadlines were supposed to create an incentive. Such contracts usually involved a bonus. But Jacques thought the incentive system was a bunch of crap, just plain stupid. He did not need an incentive to work; he was self-motivated. He hated leaving projects unfinished about as much as he hated playing catch-up.
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