He followed Pinecone to a derelict house on the outskirts of Granby. The overgrown yard was wall-to-wall tents and campers. The driveway was a parking lot back to back with vehicles. Tom finally found a parking space down the block. Pinecone was waiting for him on the driveway, and escorted him into the backyard where the meeting would take place. People were talking and milling around. He and Pinecone found two vacant seats at a large picnic table, one of several in the yard.
It turned out that Pinecone was a biologist, and also owned an advanced degree in Natural Resources Management. After picking up his masters he had joined the Forest Service where he worked for a half-dozen years, but had become increasingly disillusioned. Pinecone explained that he was the biologist on a team that prepared timber sales and had watched in dismay and with mounting anger as agency staffers paid lip service to ecological principles while they proceeded to push logging roads into one roadless area after another. His persistent attempts to change the extractive policy from within the agency were frustrated at every turn. When he could not take any more, he finally cut bait.
“What’s the purpose of the meeting?”
“A strategy session. You’ll see.”
All of the tables were now fully occupied, and several people began bringing folding chairs from the house and setting them up. From the backyard, Tom could see what appeared to be a traffic jam out on the street as numerous drivers searched for parking places.
A steady stream of people now flooded into the yard. Most of the folks were young, but not all. Some were middle-aged. Tom noticed a few elderly couples. One old man sported a t-shirt with “KEEP IT WILD!” emblazoned on the front in bold green letters. An elderly man and a woman each had posters. One read, “STUMPS DON’T LIE!” The other said, “SAVE YOUR MOTHER!”
The atmosphere was friendly but from the tone of the conversations taking place all around, emotions were pitched. Tom overheard a woman say, “And when they finish with Bowen Gulch it will look like every other place in the state they’ve trashed.”
“Exactly right,” said the man sitting beside her.
“The only thing the bastards understand is ‘take the money and run!’”
The backyard was filling up and still they came. The crowd already numbered over a hundred people.
Now, there was a palpable feeling of anticipation. Two individuals up in front unfurled a large banner that read: SAVE BOWEN GULCH!
Finally, a woman rose with a microphone. “Can everyone hear me?” she said. “How about you in the back?” There was a loud squawk, then a commotion as several people hustled to adjust the sound system. “There. That’s better. Thank you, Earl, and Chuck. Can everyone hear me, now?” Heads nodded in the rear.
After introducing herself, the woman welcomed everyone and thanked them all for coming. Tom did not catch her last name. Leslie something. She was, she said, the spokesperson for a broad coalition calling itself the Ancient Forest Rescue, an umbrella group made up of local, state and national environmental organizations. Leslie began to introduce the steering committee. As she named each one they rose and said a few words about their organization and how they were contributing. The committee had about a dozen members. Some of the national environmental groups were represented, including the Sierra Club, the Wilderness Society, and Audubon. Leslie herself was with the Sierra Club. Yet, it was evident that the coalition was largely a grassroots effort. Nearly all of the members were Colorado residents, with Denver and Boulder well represented. But folks had also come from many other parts of the state; and from a show of hands there were even a few from neighboring Wyoming and Utah.
“In a minute,” Leslie said, “I will turn the meeting over to the man who started it all, Dr. Mickey Newsome, and, folks, let’s hear it for Mickey, we owe him and his coworkers a huge debt of thanks.” There was an enthusiastic round of applause, which went on for awhile, then, slowly subsided. “However, before we hear from Mickey I need to make an announcement. I have some breaking news that is very positive and exciting. Each and every day we are growing in numbers and support and gaining momentum around the state; and there has just been a major development that shows we are close to critical mass. In case you did not hear, earlier this week, the Boulder City Council passed a resolution officially endorsing a statewide boycott of wood products made by Western-Pacific. The resolution will go into effect if the company proceeds with the Bowen Gulch timber sale.” More cheers. “As you probably know, the Boulder County Commissioners have already endorsed a boycott. So, this latest decision shows our growing strength and is a wake-up call for W-P. We have begun to hit them where they live – in the pocketbook. For the first time, W-P has an obvious financial incentive to cooperate, and abandon the sale. So, let’s hear it for the Boulder City Council.” There was another enthusiastic round of applause.
The woman said a few more words, then passed the mike to Dr. Newsome, a math professor at the University of Colorado. Tom was surprised by his appearance. Newsome had long hair and looked more like a flower child than a professor. Yet, only weeks before, Newsome and several others had launched the Bowen Gulch campaign by organizing a 24-hour vigil on the steps of the state capitol in Denver. Tom already knew the basic story from a flier someone had passed around. The demo at the capitol had been billed as a memorial service for a 600-year-old spruce tree, a huge log that Newsome brought in for the occasion in the back of a flatbed truck. Someone had attached markers to the tree rings, one of which supposedly showed that the spruce was already 100 years old when Columbus discovered the New World. That night, eight activists, all now legendary, had slept on the capitol steps. The embryonic event had attracted a surprising amount of media coverage around the state.
After the demo Newsome and company took the campaign on the road. Starting from Denver, for the next four weeks he and a few others trucked the huge spruce log from one end of Colorado to the other, visiting just about every town of any consequence in the state. The roadshow turned out to be a brilliant strategy from a publicity standpoint, because it generated almost daily news coverage. This kept the controversy over Bowen Gulch alive and in the public eye. The press increasingly reported Newsome’s travels. As the media coverage steadily expanded it came to include educational sound-bytes, even occasional interviews with distinguished scientists who explained the ecological need to preserve the last remaining stands of ancient forest.
When the professor stood up to speak he was drowned out by applause and cheers. He had to wait for at least a full minute. When the crowd finally quieted down the professor thanked everyone for coming. Then, he tossed gasoline on the fire: “ninety-five percent!” he roared. “I’m a math professor, and I know the numbers. That’s how much of the old growth they’ve already logged. Folks, it adds up to 70,000 acres a year nationwide that we are losing and I’m mad as hell about it! I’m here to tell you I’m not going to take it anymore!” His booming voice cut to the chase. “Are you with me?”
A wave of sympathy swept through the crowd and they shouted back, “Yes!” and “We’re mad too, madder than hell!”
Newsome went on. “We in the United States have a long history of liquidating natural resources, especially ancient forests. We are very very good at it. We have become efficient liquidators and the reason is not hard to understand. We’ve had plenty of experience! 200 years of practicing cut and run. In fact, we have succeeded so well that we are now down to the last 5%. Meanwhile, by contrast, our scientists only began studying ancient forests about twenty years ago; and because ancient forests represent a vast storehouse of knowledge, hardly any of which we have figured out yet, you can see why the last remaining 5% is absolutely critical. If we do not have the sense to stop, now, if we mindlessly liquidate the small amount of ancient forest that remains it will be the equivalent of destroying the library before we’ve had a chance to read the books. And folks we mustn’t, we can’t allow that to happen!”
He paused during another round of applause. At length, he raised his palm to q
uiet the audience. “So, my friends, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, time is short. The truth is, nationwide we have only a few years to turn this thing around. In the case of Bowen Gulch we have only a couple of weeks, possibly even days. So, time is of the essence. What you and I do in the next 48 to 72 hours may prove critical...”
After more cheers, Newsome’s tone modulated. “My friends,” he said, “we also need to keep in mind that loggers are not our enemy. They are just working people like you and me. This is not an abstraction. I know from personal experience. I know a number of loggers very well and how they think because, heck, I’m one of them. My dad worked in a mill for most of his life. I speak their language and I am convinced they can change. Folks, believe it or not, loggers do have the capacity to change. The Forest Service, we can change them too. Even Western-Pacific. They can change the way they do business. If there’s enough of us we can make them change. But here’s the deal. It is going to take a strong push to make it happen, and we are the ones who will have to do the pushing. It’s up to us. We are the catalyst for change. Are you with me?” Again, deafening applause and cheers.
A few people began to chant, “Save Bowen Gulch! Save Bowen Gulch!” It spread until the whole backyard was rocking together.
Newsome was done. He had come to fire up the crowd and he had succeeded. Now, as he moved to the side he handed the microphone to Pinecone. Tom was surprised. He had been listening so intently that he did not notice Pinecone get up and move to the front of the crowd.
As the chanting continued the two men exchanged words. Then, the professor stepped back and Pinecone waited for quiet. But the crowd was worked up and did not calm down for a couple of minutes.
Pinecone turned out to be a compelling, even inspirational, speaker. He explained the Bowen Gulch timber sale in detail, and spoke about the biology of the place. “What they are proposing,” he said, “is one of the highest elevation timber sales ever contemplated in the Rocky Mountains. If the Forest Service timber sale planners have their way, about 640 total acres will be cut, mostly Engelmann Spruce and Subalpine Fir, including the largest trees I have ever seen in Colorado, some of them up to five-feet in diameter. And all of it is higher than 10,000 feet in elevation. One of the sale units actually extends above 11,000 feet. This means they will be logging at timberline, which is totally unacceptable from the standpoint of responsible forestry. At that elevation it is questionable whether forest regeneration can even occur. I’ve talked with scientists who oppose the sale for this reason alone. They think it is too risky. They tell me the sale amounts to a large-scale experiment. Folks, I agree with the scientists. We should not be playing roulette with our forests.” Pinecone had to stop again and wait for the applause to quiet down.
“Beyond the ‘repro’ question, there are obvious concerns about strip-mining one of the last remaining stands of ancient forest in the Rockies. Folks, this high valley is so special, it has to be seen to be believed. I am not asking you to take my word for it. Later this evening, here at the house, we are going to show a documentary film about Bowen Gulch. All of you are invited. And for those of you who have not yet visited Bowen Gulch I want to encourage you to do so, at the first opportunity. There are free maps on the table, over there, by the door. We have found that when people see the place with their own eyes, see the incredible forest that we are in danger of losing, they come away enthusiastic about our campaign. Seeing is believing. It’s also why we have been leading free public tours into Bowen Gulch. We’ve been doing about one tour a week, and if I am not mistaken another one is scheduled for this coming weekend. Is this correct, Cynthia?”
A woman seated at his left nodded in the affirmative.
“Good. So, those of you who are interested please sign up after the meeting. Cynthia has the list. She is organizing the next group hike. Cynthia, would you please raise your hand so the folks will know who you are? OK. So, see Cynthia. She will fill you in. Thank you, that’s about it…”
Pinecone was done and handed the mike to a woman from Denver who talked about a letter-writing campaign in the public schools which, she said, had already generated more than a thousand letters to the governor and the Forest Service, most of which had been written by young school children. She also talked about the next phase of the campaign, direct action; in other words, civil disobedience, should this become necessary. Training sessions in non-violent protest had been happening for several weeks and another was scheduled for the next morning. She emphasized that the training was mandatory for anyone who intended to participate in actions involving the possibility of civil disobedience.
There followed a lively debate about the forms that direct action would take, especially civil disobedience, and about what was and was not acceptable. There was no consensus. Some defended tree spiking, even the destruction of private property, or “ecodefense”, while others adamantly opposed such tactics. The discussion became quite heated with strong views on both sides, and continued after the meeting broke up into smaller groups.
EIGHTEEN
The footpath obviously had not been used for years. She picked up the old trail at the edge of the meadow and followed it toward the forest. The meadow was thick with wildflowers and along the way she paused to investigate delicate bluebells, asters and purple lupine. Momentarily she lost the trail in the high grass; but she knew where it led, quickly found it again and went on.
The trail entered the lodgepole forest and began to climb. She knew it was not far to the top. She loved hiking to her favorite spots and to places she had never been. Along the Maine coast she had often wandered alone from the forested headlands down rough unmarked trails to the rocky shore where the breakers roll in from the Atlantic. Parts of the Maine coast were still semi-wild and she had often spent the best part of a day climbing over the craggy rocks and exploring the tidal pools, often without meeting anyone.
The previous winter, while in Florida, after the treeplanters had headed off to work each morning, she would go on long solitary walks through the surrounding Loblolly pine plantations. A few times she wandered deep into the cypress swamps. Unlike the two other women, she never worried about snakes, alligators or losing her way.
The trail now became steeper. She clambered up the last part over bare rock, already feeling the old thrill. A moment later she stood atop the summit of the ridge. Through a break in the trees the heights of Trail Ridge and the Colorado high country dominated the Eastern sky. The snow-capped peaks made her ecstatic. The view from her aunt’s house was good but this was even better.
She turned when she heard some honking and watched as a flight of Canadian geese flew over. They were headed north.
After awhile she kicked off her shoes and sat down with her legs crossed, like she always did. She removed her sunglasses and shook her pony-tail back over her shoulder. The indirect sunlight here under the pines was gently dappled and not a problem for her eyes. She had been feeling so much better and was having another good day.
She tossed away her thoughts and opened to the pine-scented woodland and the clear blue sky. She allowed herself to go deep into just being in this old familiar place. For the next few minutes the world and everything was simply grand.
Then, she remembered the cookies in the oven.
Oooops.
She got up and retraced her steps, but she did so without haste. She was still in “explore mode” and paused to study a shooting star here, a spider web there. Nor did she bother to put her shoes back on before inching down the smooth rock surface. One shoe dangled from each hand. She was a barefoot kind of person.
The highway south out of Granby ran straight for several miles across a broad valley. Tom was still grappling with himself about the letter. Her curious choice of words had taken him back to the difficult period after the separation when over the course of many weeks he had reviewed every aspect of the affair. There had been no shortage of time in which to reflect. At the crux of his ferment was the question, had it b
een real, or, a wild fling that was best forgotten?
During that period he had tipped like a seesaw first one way and then back the other, as he weighed his feelings and, increasingly, his doubts. Emotionally he had been all over the map. But reason ran deep in him and as the months passed, his doubts increased and the rational side of him gradually gained the upper hand, though not without a tug-of-war. As the affair receded further into memory, he began to harbor a deep skepticism about her.
Eventually, he had concluded that the affair was unrelated to his present mode of life; and the passage of time only sharpened this perspective. Past was past and it was best to leave it that way; in other words, behind him. He had moved on. Let it go. Keep moving forward. Best forget about her. Such had been his state of mind, before the letter.
The address led to a line of mailboxes. He slowed and turned to the right onto a country lane, which he followed along an irrigation ditch brim full of fast-moving snowmelt. After a turn, the lane crossed a wide pasture. Within a half-mile he came to a wooden gate. He got out and unhooked the latch. The gate was made rigid by a pair of diagonal pole braces and it opened easily. He closed it behind him and continued across a lush pasture. Four quarter-horses and a young colt were grazing the high summer grass. The horses lifted their heads and flicked their ears as he passed. They were curious, yet wary. The frisky colt bolted and pranced off kicking its heels. The others moved away as well but soon lowered their heads, back to browsing.
He topped the rise of a broadly sloping meadow and the log house came in view. It was a handsome two-story gabled affair with a large stone chimney and a bright red metal roof. Several outbuildings flanked the house, including a greenhouse and a barn. There were large cottonwoods around the place and a stand of ponderosa pines at one side. He slowed to a stop. He needed a moment to think.
This time he would keep his feet firmly planted on terra firma. No more living in fantasy land. He would tell her in plain language that he had moved on. From the note he guessed she had done likewise. They would sort things out together. A reunion would be therapeutic for both of them. They would laugh at themselves and at how silly and immature they had been in Florida. Everything would be well.
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