Due to the near-record snowpack and the unusually wet spring, the woods had not opened up until after the 4th of July. His men were still slogging through deep mud. Fortunately, the job was nearly done. Another ten days and he would be caught up, and the next project would save his bacon. It was a high volume timber sale at a place called Bowen Gulch, near the south end of the Never Summer Range. The site was remote. Jacques had not yet walked it but had been told that most of the sale units included exceptionally large diameter old growth spruce. This was welcome news because it promised a substantial payday. The sale might even put him over the top and make his dream of early retirement come true sooner rather than later.
The boss looked at his watch, then waved to several of his loggers as they strolled by. With a sigh he glanced at his foreman, Francis Delacour, standing nearby. Whenever he thought about it, which was not often, Jacques knew he was fortunate to have in his employ a ramrod as able as Delacour. The man could tear down a skidder and reassemble it with his eyes closed. In addition to being a wizard mechanic and a talented heavy equipment operator, Francis was, thankfully, also soft-spoken and loyal without question. Best of all, he required no supervision. A word, a wave of an arm, sometimes just a smile or a nod, was all the direction the man ever needed.
Like Jacques, Francis was of French Canadian ancestry. Five years before, he had abandoned logged-over New England and come west in search of his fortune. St. Clair hired him on the spot and never once had cause to regret it.
Francis now stepped up to have a word with the boss. One of the skidders had a broken drive shaft and a decision had to be made about acquiring replacement parts as soon as possible. But when he saw the expression on Jacques’ face he changed his mind and stepped back. It would have to wait. Part of his job was staying on the chief’s good side, and that meant knowing when to speak up and when to hold his water.
St. Clair was not a difficult man to work for. Despite his moody ways and occasional white-hot temper, the boss played fair with his men. Most importantly, he paid on time. Jacques was honest and, as bosses went, one of the best. Francis had worked for far worse. But he also knew from experience that when the chief had that look it was best to stand back. Turning, he headed off in the direction of skidder number two. The chief would come around when he was ready to talk.
Jacques never noticed his foreman leave. A moment later, he turned and strolled across the landing to the small trailer that served as his field office. He went in, removed his tin hat and hung it on a hook, then moved to the cabinet along the far wall and poured himself a mug of scalded coffee from a discolored pot on a propane burner. The brew was rank. He made a twisted face as he set the cup down on his desk.
For a moment he stood deep in thought, rubbing his temples. Opening a desk drawer, he pulled out the contract for the right-of-way project and plopped it down on the desktop which was piled high with unfinished paperwork; unfinished because Jacques dreaded this end of the business almost as much as he hated government red tape, to which there seemed no end.
He settled his large frame into the swivel armchair, snapped on the battery-powered desk lamp, opened a second drawer, fumbled under some papers until he found the Tums, removed the bottle cap and popped three pink pastel pills into his mouth. He washed them down with a bitter slug of coffee, tossed the plastic bottle back in the drawer, and produced his reading glasses. Flicking them open he slipped them over his ears. With the glasses riding low on his nose he slumped back and began to study the contract for the umpteenth time, poring over the fine print, searching for a loophole.
EIGHT
The showdown with the Forest Service happened the following Monday, bright and early. Mickey Newsome and two associates were on time for their 8:00 a.m. appointment at the Sulfur Springs District office. A smiling secretary greeted them as they entered the front lobby and promptly led them into a conference room. She assured them that the ranger would be right with them and graciously offered coffee, but there were no takers.
A few minutes later the district ranger bustled into the room followed by three of his staffers in single file. The ranger immediately turned, as if he had forgotten something, and whispered to a woman who hurried out. After handshakes all around the staffers took their seats along the far side of the table. They were dressed in freshly pressed green-on-green Forest Service uniforms.
For a moment each side silently faced the other.
Newsome had come with low expectations. The chances were slim to none that a spur-of-the-moment meeting such as this would accomplish anything of substance. Ranger Bennett had probably agreed to it only as a courtesy. After all, his planners had completed the scoping process for the Bowen Gulch timber sale months ago. The deadline for public appeals had come and gone; and, regrettably, the environmental groups had missed the boat. After a public offering the sale had been duly awarded to Western-Pacific. The Forest Service was in possession of a signed contract. The timber sale was a done deal. End of story.
Despite this, Newsome was not discouraged because he was not the sort to be intimidated by long odds. He had come expecting a fight.
The ranger fiddled with his tie and said “Alright, we might as well get started. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Doug Bennett, district ranger hereabouts. Sitting on my left is Bill Noonan, my very capable chief timber sale officer.” The man nodded. “And to my right is Greg Hansen, team leader for this project … and, uh, just to be sure we are all on the same page, it’s my understanding you are here today to discuss the Bowen Gulch sale. Is that correct?”
Newsome nodded and heard a snicker from across the table. With his long hair and beard Newsome looked more like a hippie than a university professor. He let it pass, however. “Ranger, I want to thank you for agreeing to meet with us. I am Mickey Newsome, chair of the Rocky Mountain Chapter of the Sierra Club. Sitting at my left is Enda Kiley Mills, and to my right is my old friend Skip Martin.”
Newsome was by now well aware that he was dealing with three hard-core timber beasts. He knew the type. The snicker and the smug faces told him there was no point trying to engage these men in a serious discussion about ecological principles. It would be a futile exercise; so much wasted breath. During his many years of tracking the Forest Service Newsome had yet to meet a district ranger or a timber sale planner who had the proper respect for ancient forests. Sure, many of them talked the talk, but they invariably embarrassed themselves when it got down to cases. The meeting was moot, anyway. The Forest Service was holding all of the cards. The men sitting across from him knew this, and two of them already had that bored look. One was yawning. Another was absent-mindedly clicking his ballpoint pen. But Newsome had a card up his sleeve. He had watched them closely as he introduced Ms. Mills and was certain they had not recognized her. He nodded to the dignified-looking matriarch sitting beside him.
Enda acknowledged his nod. Her cue. She had silver hair and looked to be about seventy. “I also would like to thank ranger Bennett for meeting with us, today,” she said. “It’s a pleasure meeting you. To be quite frank, I am here for one reason, to tell you that my father Enos Mills, who as I’m sure you know was the founder of Rocky Mountain National Park, had always intended that the incredible spruce forest in Bowen Gulch should be included within the park boundary.”
Upon learning who this woman was, the surprised men across the table sat up straight and for a delicious moment squirmed in their seats.
She continued, “This was my father’s wish. Please believe me when I tell you that the political decision to leave Bowen Gulch out of the park was one of the biggest disappointments of his life. So, I’m here to ask on his and my behalf that you withdraw this ill-considered sale. It should never have been proposed in the first place.”
The ranger cleared his throat. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Mills. Your father was a remarkable man. Truly inspirational. He is one of my own personal heroes and I’m sure my colleagues here with me feel the same way. However, I mus
t also tell you that I do not have the authority to make policy. My job as district ranger is simply to follow the law as written.” He held up a voluminous document and waved it in the air. “I’m afraid you have come too late to the table. The appeal process has already been concluded for this project. It’s done. We have a signed contract and it’s my job as district ranger to implement it. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”
It was the old familiar dodge, Newsome observed. The ranger was hiding behind his uniform. “So, that’s the contract for the Bowen Gulch sale?” he said, motioning with his hand.
“Yes.”
“I understand Western-Pacific was the lone bidder and got it for a song. Is this correct?”
“No comment,” said Bennett.
“Ten million board feet of high value straight-grain old growth timber for pennies on the dollar, a pittance. So, tell me, ranger Bennett, when did the Forest Service go into the business of subsidizing preferred timber companies like Western-Pacific, at taxpayer expense?” It was obviously a rhetorical question. He continued, “Man, how can you even pretend to hold your head up? Shame on you.”
“Now listen here…” the ranger started but he was interrupted by Skip Martin, the third environmentalist who had been listening quietly up to this point. “Do you mind if I examine the contract?” Skip said. “It is a public document, is it not?” Martin was an imposing individual, well over six feet tall, with enormous arms and hands.
“Yes, it is,” the ranger said, irritation in his voice. “By law anyone may see it.” Reluctantly he passed the contract across the table.
The file was at least a half-inch thick. Martin flipped through it briefly, then, held it up with his big hands and ripped it in two with no apparent effort. He tossed the shredded document onto the table before the ranger. “So much for your signed contract,” he said with a wry grin. “Back to the drawing boards, gentlemen.”
With that the meeting broke up in noisy disarray.
Later, Newsome and his comrades re-grouped at a local tavern. Pinecone Peters had joined them. “I only wish I could have been there to see the look on Dougie’s face when you ripped up the contract,” he said. “If I sound like I’m gloating it’s because...well, I am.” He laughed. “It’s personal, y’see. I could tell you stories about my old boss, believe me. Too bad none of you had a camera.”
“It was a hoot,” agreed Skip. “But the only thing that matters now is how do we stop this damned timber sale.”
“Yes, how?” said Enda. “They have awarded the contract to W-P. What legal options do we have left?”
“I’ll have to check with our attorneys,” said Newhouse. “However, my guess is that, at this point, we have none. No remaining legal options.”
“So, then, it’s over?”
“I didn’t say that. Hell no; I believe we can turn it around. We can still win this fight. We have to. Not through a legal challenge, but in the court of public opinion. Swing the public to our side and we’ll win. My sense is that the citizens of Colorado would be outraged if they knew the facts, what the Forest Service is planning to do.”
“I agree,” said Pinecone. “The way to win is to tell the story of Bowen Gulch. That’s what I’ve already been doing, or trying to.”
“But how do we reach the public in time?”
“Obviously, we have our work cut out for us,” said Newsome. “Folks, I can’t speak for the rest of you, but in all of my life I’ve never backed away from a fight. Provided I felt the issue was important enough...”
Skip chimed in, “Right. So, how do we feel about Bowen Gulch? Is this place worth fighting for?”
“Absolutely,” said Pinecone.
“Yes, definitely,” said Enda.
“Then, I’m all in,” said Skip.
“Alright,” said Newsome. “It’s decided, then. We agree. The campaign to save Bowen Gulch starts here and now.”
“I was up there the other day,” said Pinecone. “There’s still two feet of snow in the woods. It’s going to be too wet to log at that elevation for another month. The woods probably won’t open up until August.”
“That gives us at least a month.”
“Not much time.”
“Delay is our friend.”
“We’ll be ready.”
“We’ll have to.”
NINE
The wind-storm that shut down St. Clair’s right-of-way operation on Cameron Pass the previous October was – well, there are no words adequate to describe it this side of hell.
The project amounted to a huge 350-acre clear-cut preliminary to groundbreaking for the new catchment reservoir at the headwaters of the Poudre River to back up snowmelt.
“It’s a big state job,” Jacques had told his crew. “Stage one, that’s us, was suppos’ to be done last month. But with the breakdowns we’ve had, an’ one thing and another, we’re running behind schedule. I figure ‘bout two months.”
The boss laid it out. In order to catch up he wanted them to work straight through, seven days a week until completion, “or until ‘old man’ winter drives us out of the woods. Whichever comes first. You never know. With a bit of luck we might git’er done. Some years we work into December.”
He had no trouble bringing them around. The boss spoke their language. His men were looking ahead to the winter layoff, and the promise of a big fat paycheck just before the holidays, including a $200 bonus for each man was too good to pass up.
“It’ll make things go easier with my wife,” said Kermit.
“You mean your ex.”
“Hah! With the child support he’s paying he’ll be lucky to see a dime.”
The valley was heavily forested, but access was good because the site paralleled the adjoining Cameron Pass road. Jacques instructed them to start at the northeast end, the narrowest point and the site of the future earthen dam. No sweat. In short order they cleared the area of trees, then began working methodically up valley.
At that point Jacques brought in his cat and began to construct a landing. Meanwhile, Francis went to work with one of the skidders.
For many weeks the mountain weather had been favorable. The early October nights were cold, with hard frosts every morning; but in the afternoons the temperature climbed into the fifties, some days into the sixties. In short, the brisk mornings and balmy afternoons were ideal for autumn logging.
A chainsaw is a powerful instrument in the hands of man who knows how to use it. A dozen experienced cutters can make short work of a stand of timber under contract of the saw. Within a week the crew had ripped the heart out of the stand; whereupon, they fanned out to work the perimeter, flagged by yellow ribbons. Each day, the men descended on their timber allotments like a horde of hungry defoliators.
By week’s end, the forested valley resembled a moth-eaten tapestry. The clearcut sprawled over at least 140 acres and was expanding by the hour. It was the largest stump field Tom had ever seen.
Jacques was pleased with the progress.
Then one morning they awakened to a red dawn, the first hint of a possible change in the weather. By noon the sky had clouded over, and the following day they never saw the sun. The next morning, Tom was making ready for work in the cold predawn when Mike Garity appeared with his saw slung over one shoulder. He needed a lift.
“Sure,” said Tom. “Hop in.”
“About froze my ass off, last night,” Mike said as he stashed his gear in the back. He paused to consider the overcast. “Looks kind of grim,” he said as he slid into the cab.
“Yep, something’s brewing.”
“Boss’s gonna be hell on us if we don’ get ‘er done before the snow flies. Lord knows I need the cash.”
Tom pointed to the far ridge, a swathe of fall colors that ranged from brilliant yellow to orange to red. “Check it out. The aspens are peaking.”
“Nice. You hear a forecast?”
“Nu-huh.”
Garity clicked on the radio and worked the dial. There was plenty o
f country music but no weather until the top of the hour.
“It’s twenty til.”
“Screw it.”
“Where do you want out?”
“The main landing.”
“Isn’t that your blue Chevy?”
“Yeah. It wouldn’t start, last night. Got a plugged fuel line I reckon.” Mike removed his gear from the back. The logger’s face loomed large in the rider’s window. “Thanks, kid. Appreciate the lift.” The man banged on the door, two times. “Hey, don’t work too hard.”
“So long.”
Tom doubled back to his allotment. The work was routine, until about mid-morning when a faint breeze rustled through the forest. It was no more than a whisper in the treetops. Tom was too busy to notice. But the zephyr-like breeze soon gained in strength and, quite suddenly, boughs were rustling all around him. The entire forest seemed in motion, trees swinging and swaying, this way and that.
The breeze was now a hard wind and still rising.
Shortly after dawn, the stationary high that had prevailed for many weeks over the Rocky Mountain Front had begun to move eastward when a trough of low pressure, which had been developing 100 miles east of the Rockies, reached a critical threshold.
At that point an ocean-sized mass of air suddenly began to shift as one across thousands of square miles, gathering above the state’s northern cordillera, the high granite peaks and red stone mountains, above the highest summits and deep snow-fields and along the crested divides. The great tide of air came howling down through the mountain passes and rugged defiles, pressing eastward, rushing to fill the zone of low pressure out on the high plains. They say Nature abhors a vacuum. Believe it.
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