When the crew had done making short work of the ribs, Bill Nelson produced a guitar and one of the southern boys appeared with a fiddle, which he proceeded to tune up; and suddenly there was music by the fire and lively dancing. Linda and the other woman, whose name was Carol, danced with their boyfriends for awhile; then, Linda grabbed Tallie by the arm and swung her around. The two danced cheek to cheek, making it up as they went along. After awhile, though, they split up and danced with the men, even the southerners, who welcomed the opportunity to cavort with beautiful women, even if they were lesbians.
Before the evening was over, Tallie and Linda had danced with them all, everyone that is, except Tom, who had been in a sorry state since that lone kiss the previous evening. Unable to sleep, he had laid awake for hours with his hands beneath his head contemplating all manner of things, a slip-stream of thoughts and emotions that did not play out until shortly before dawn when his eyelids finally closed. All day at work, he stumbled along in a stupor, hardly conscious of what was happening around him. Fortunately, by now, the moves were second nature. He planted on autopilot most of the day and did well enough except that, one time, he missed the turnaround at the edge of the parcel, marked by bright flagging, and continued in a straight line onto the adjoining property. Fortunately, one of the planters shouted him back. No harm done.
Tom had been with women before but labored under the illusion that he knew something about the opposite sex. Now that he had been rudely awakened to the reality, he was in a muddle. Once, when he saw Tallie smiling at him he thought “Oh my God if she comes over I’ll probably lose it completely.” He had no idea what he would say to her. He worried that if he opened his mouth and said one word, he would start babbling like an idiot. He was tongue-tied and star-struck both.
Yet, Tom had never been so happy.
When the dancing played out, they sang songs around the fire for awhile, then, told jokes and funny stories. The feeling was mellow, with laughter and kidding around. The fault line between the new age folks and the southern contingent had softened. Linda and Carol snuggled with Ned.
One of the southerners said, “You sure don’t look like…”
“What? Like what?”
There was a pause. “Never mind.” Someone guffawed.
The evening ended after midnight when everyone said their good nights and drifted off to tents and trailers. Tallie and Linda left hand in hand.
Conyers was well satisfied.
Little did he know that his “big happy family” was about to crash and burn.
Next day, Conyers moved the crew seventy-five miles south to the swampy outback west of Daytona where cypress forests were being “reclaimed” and converted to pine plantations. The sites were so soggy that it was necessary to first prep them at considerable trouble and expense. Standing water had been drained and raised beds of soil mechanically dredged up to prepare the ground for treeplanting. In this way the owners evidently figured to bring “marginal land” into loblolly pine production.
They soon wrapped up two big contracts; after which, Conyers moved the crew again, this time across the state to the Suwannee River country on the Gulf coast where they established a new base camp along the edge of a pine plantation. The company had four separate parcels under contract; two of them in a nearby section, totaling several thousand acres, all of it bare ground.
The land had been clear-cut the previous year. There were stumps everywhere and the charred remains of slash piles which had been burned only a few weeks before the planting season.
Next morning, the crew completed the smallest parcels nearest the highway before lunch, then, moved to a more remote tract, miles from any road. Tom and Bill Nelson were now the two lead planters, and traded back and forth. One would lead for awhile, then step aside and let the other one take it. Planting steadily in this fashion, matching tree for tree, they reached the parcel’s northern boundary about mid-afternoon, where they noticed several men digging with shovels on an adjoining piece of ground.
Tom and Bill halted for a breather at the boundary. There was no fence but the line was apparent because the abutting forestland was still intact. But it was a different forest, with some other type of pine. A posted sign read:
FINDLEY NATURE RESERVE:
No Hunting!
Violators will be prosecuted
Tom and Bill struck up a conversation. “Hey there. Hello.”
“Hello,” one of the men said. The two other men also halted work and came over, shovels in hand. They were smiling.
“Always happy for an excuse to knock off,” one said.
“We know how that goes. What are you digging?” Bill said. “Looks like a ditch.”
“No. Not a ditch. We’re making a fire line.” The man leaned on his shovel. Tom and Bill leaned on their hoedads.
“You expecting a wildfire?”
“No. No. We’re getting ready to stage a burn later this winter. Prescribed fire. We burn this ground every four to five years.” The other man approached.
“Hello,” he said, extended his arm to shake hands. “Name’s Will Hatcher.”
“Pleased to meet you. What kind of pines are those?”
“This section,” the man said, indicating the forest behind him, “is the largest remaining stand of longleaf in Dixie County. And over there in the swamp along Black Creek – you can’t see it from here – is some fine bald cypress. Only a remnant.”
“Longleaf pine?”
“That’s right. It used to be the main timber tree hereabouts. Originally. By that I mean at the time of white settlement. In those days, longleaf was the dominant softwood species on the coastal plain. Longleaf forests extended over thousands of square miles.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Given how little of it survives, it’s hard to appreciate how vast that original forest was. At one time, it covered ninety million acres and was continuous from Virginia to Florida and as far west as Texas. Today, only small fragments remain. Like this one.” He motioned with an arm. “This isolated stand behind us is a part of the two percent that remains.”
“What happened to the rest of it?”
There was a silence.
“You men are not from around here, are you?”
“No. I’m from Colorado,” said Tom.
“I’m from Wisconsin,” said Bill. Three more treeplanters now arrived and joined the group.
“The longleaf forests were creamed off,” said Will. “Logged around the turn of the century. Today it’s the most endangered forest on the continent.”
“You mean in all of North America? That hardly seems possible.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but it’s true.” The men who were with him nodded assent. “Until last year the land you are now planting was also longleaf; originally part of the same stand – but, unfortunately, in the wrong ownership. You may have noticed from the stumps that the site included some very large trees. Surviving longleaf pines of this size are quite rare today and for this reason are extremely important to the red-cockaded woodpecker. The bird used to be common, but with the sharp reduction in habitat, the species is barely hanging on. The birds need large old trees in which to excavate their nests.”
The other man interrupted, “There was one hell of a fight to stop the sale, let me tell you, but unfortunately we lost in court.”
“That’s right. Will here is a biologist from the Tall Timbers Research Station up in Tallahassee. I’m Richard Doolittle, with the Nature Conservancy. At your service.” He put his arm around the shoulder of a shorter man standing beside him. “And this fine fellow is Mr. Bo Findley. He’s the owner and chief steward of this boot-strap operation.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Well I was wondering,” Tom said, “and uh ... I think maybe you’ve explained why the pine stands around here look like corn fields, in neat rows.”
“The loblolly plantations are not true forests. They don’t have the composition
al or genetic diversity. They are fiber farms, pure and simple. Agro-business by another name. Loblolly is not even native to these parts. It’s a transplant species from up north.”
“But if longleaf is superior why are we planting loblolly?”
“For one reason only. Loblolly grows faster. The timber companies get a quicker return on their investment.”
“So, why do you burn the stand? You said, every four or five years.”
Will paused and gave his colleague an inquiring look. “Richard, want to take a crack at that one? No? Come on, help me out here.”
“Help? Why?” Richard said. “You’re doing fine.”
“OK. OK. Nominated by default. Well, guys, it’s a long story. If you have an hour I’d be happy to run through it.”
“What we’ve got is ten minutes,” Bill Nelson said. Someone laughed. More treeplanters had gathered around.
“We’re on break, y’see.”
“OK, well, I’ll try my best. Start with this. Gotta start somewhere.” He swept his arm around. “Just to look around here you would not know at a glance, or even guess, that fire is and has always been the most important factor in this ecosystem.”
“What! Fire? Really?”
“Yes. Most people think Florida is a wet place. And it’s true. We are sub-tropical. We have many lakes and swamps and rivers. We also get a lot of rain – anyway, most years. Here in Florida the summer is our wet season, just opposite out West. But with the sandy soils that we have here things dry out fast. Real fast. Within a day of rain we can have wildfire. And this is also true of much of the coastal plain. In the days before the white man in his great wisdom began to suppress wildfire, lightning-caused fire was the dominant factor on this landscape. A site like this would have burned, oh, every one to three years...”
“Wow. That often?”
“Yes. There is no place in North America with a more frequent fire interval. You see, a single dry lightning storm can produce hundreds of strikes. And every one of them is a potential source of ignition. Once started, a lightning caused fire would easily spread over tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands, of acres – until it reached a river or some other natural barrier. But in those days the fires tended to stay on the ground and they were almost always beneficial. Longleaf pine tolerates this type of fire extremely well. In fact, it and the other plants native to this area actually need low intensity fire to regenerate. Each native species has its own unique adaptations. The end result was an open and park-like forest – a wonderful place – with wire-grass and many different kinds of herbs and forbs dominating the ground layer. And the key element, the thing that maintained the entire system, was wildfire. The native ground cover provided the seeds and food for the many kinds of birds and animals that were part of the longleaf community. The Native Americans who lived here for who knows how long understood all of this, and they made use of fire. But for some reason our European ancestors were convinced that fire was bad, probably because, and this is my opinion, they were afraid of it. After about 1910 wildfire was effectively suppressed in Florida, and the result is what you see. Today, the entire ecosystem has collapsed.”
“Collapsed?” one of the planters said, plainly shocked. “You must be kidding. Florida is so green, man, and wet...”
“Yes, but it’s an illusion. The average person has no idea of the magnitude of the calamity we are now facing, because of how radically we have altered this landscape.”
“Will’s right,” his colleague added. “Most people do not understand the ecology, especially the role fire played, even local residents, people who’ve lived in Florida all of their lives.”
Will continued, “You see, when we excluded fire, plant succession began to drive the system. Brush and hardwoods from nearby hammock communities invaded the pine stands, moved in and took over. This happened very quickly, within as little as fifteen years. This is why today you see so much palmetto. The native plants and animals were driven out. Yet, and I cannot emphasize this enough, the altered structure and species composition does not change the fact that this ground wants to burn. Indeed it will burn. It’s not a matter of if, only when. And when it does our worst fears about fire come true in a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
A voice interrupted. “So what’s the answer?”
“I’m getting to that. With the altered conditions, wildfires now burn hotter, with longer flame lengths, and they tend to be much more destructive. Yet, even so, and this is something many people find hard to understand and even harder to accept, it is still best to let wildfires burn when human structures are not threatened. Because in this kind of ecosystem the outcome of any fire will favor the most fire resistant species, the very species that are in the most trouble.”
Richard chimed in, “Yes, and what we are trying to do here, in this reserve, and in a number of other places, is simply to hang onto the pieces, the various components of the original ecosystem – which are in danger of being lost – in the belief that one day people will come to their senses, and recognize the wisdom of returning to Nature’s original blueprint. Whether or not restoration is even possible in Florida at this late date we can’t say. No one knows. But we prefer to think positively about it. As somebody once said, negative thinking has no survival value...”
THIRTEEN
Two days later, droughty weather compelled Ed Conyers to halt the planting. Pine seedlings have very tight requirements and just cannot make it when air and soil moisture drop too low. For a week the crew was reduced to idle boredom. They passed the long hours reading or playing card games. Some tossed a football around, others a frisbee. Still others just lolled about camp with idle hands in their pockets. Frustration became the order of things. There was nothing to do but wait – and pray for rain.
Leave it to working-men to gripe. Even when things go right men will find something, a boot that does not fit properly, indigestion, aching muscles, a splinter under a finger nail, issues with wives or girl friends, high taxes – if not one thing, then another. A certain amount of complaining is actually a healthy thing as it affords men a safety valve, a chance to vent and blow off steam. However, when down time is prolonged the valve works in reverse. Delay becomes corrosive and breeds every kind of trouble for a crew boss. So it happened with Conyers’ crew.
In mid-January the work resumed after a lightning storm brought heavy rain. But the damage was done.
A boss walks a fine line between the respect of his men and their contempt, and the balance can shift with astonishing swiftness. Worse, once respect has been lost it is very difficult to recoup. Conyers was not responsible for the dry weather, but some of the crew resented him anyway.
There was grumbling in camp.
A number of the planters supported large families back home, and because of the work stoppage had missed home or land payments. Dire financial straits can drive even good men to do things they would never otherwise contemplate. Trouble was brewing.
Conyers was sympathetic. He knew some of the men were in financial trouble, and he tried to commiserate. “Boys, I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there myself.” He described his own personal troubles back in Arkansas. Yet, Conyers was powerless to deliver the necessary rain. That evening the continuing dry conditions compelled him to announce yet another shutdown for the next day. He tried to placate them with the latest weather report. A big winter storm was working its way north through the Keys and was expected to dump heavy rain on central Florida within twenty-four hours. The boss was reasonably certain they would be back to work within a day or, at most, two. But he could not promise them anything. There was no way to be sure.
The crew did not take the announcement well. There was muttering. The tension in camp was palpable.
Tom never knew how or where the trouble started. Shortly after nightfall there was a loud commotion in the kitchen area. By the time he got there Jamie Watters had Sid Ferman pinned against a pickup. Others were standing around.
�
��Asshole!” Jamie screamed.
“What’s going on?”
“I caught him.”
“Ain’t true,” said Ferman.
“You know it is, you dirty thief. He was robbing the kitty. Stealing.”
Now, Conyers arrived. “Is that right, Sid?”
“Hell no! I didn’t take nothing. I swear it.”
“You did. You stole from us! I saw him.”
Later, Conyers realized he should have intervened immediately. But hindsight is 20-20. For some reason he hesitated to separate the two men, not for long, only for a few seconds but they were seconds he later wished he could take back.
Suddenly Ferman came up with his knee and caught Watters in the crotch, hard, lifting him off his feet. As Watters doubled over Ferman grabbed him by the shirt and an arm and flung him head first into the camp kitchen. Pots and food went flying as Watters fell through the portable table, loaded with plates and other kitchen-wares.
Everyone stood by flatfooted as Ferman pounded Watters with a cast iron frying pan. Even Conyers was too shocked to move.
Blood was streaming down Watters’ face as Ferman pummeled him, again and again, until finally Bill Nelson pulled him off.
“Stop it, man!”
But now Watters twisted free and lashed out with a kitchen knife. Bill staggered back, his face a bloody mess. It happened so fast. Watters had cut Nelson from forehead to chin. Nelson was incredulous as he wiped blood from his eyes. Watters came at him again, evidently so blinded by blood or rage that he didn’t know who he was attacking. He lunged to kill.
Bill evaded the thrust, grabbed the man’s forearm and wrenched it around with such force he snapped the arm above the elbow. There was an eerie crack, then, a ghastly scream as the knife fell away. Another second and it was over. Bill picked up the blade and threw it into the brush with obvious disgust, then staggered off with Linda to try to staunch his bleeding face. Tallie and several others attended to Watters who was laid out, half-conscious.
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