The assembly exploded with cheers and a few catcalls.
Newsome continued. “There are times, precious moments in life, when friends have to level with one another. We call it ‘tough love’ because the truth can be painful. Hey, isn’t that what true friends are for?” More applause.
Tom finally looked at the flier. As he read through it he muttered, “Holy crap!” Night before last, somebody had torched a dozer and road grader. The St. Clair brothers were now out of the picture. W-P had ripped up Jacques’ contract and brought in a new boss with a different crew. It was a local operator, Dorfman Logging. Tom already knew about Jacques, but had not heard about the latest ecotage. Someone had totally destroyed Dorfman’s bulldozer with a thermitic charge, melting the engine bloc. Dorfman’s road grader had also been destroyed. Someone had torched all of its tires and everything else on the machine that would burn. The tires had been reduced to smoking drek. There had also been another round of civil disobedience. Early that morning, a half-dozen tree-sitters had been arrested at Bowen Gulch. Things were heating up.
The speaker changed course. “For the record, I’d like to apologize to Mr. Dorfman, owner and operator of Dorfman Logging. Is he with us here, today? Anyone know? I don’t see him. OK. Would somebody with the press, one of you, please take my apology to Mr. Dorfman. From today’s paper, it appears that yesterday Mr. Dorfman’s bulldozer and road grader met an unfortunate end.” He paused. “I was sorry to learn about this because Mr. Dorfman is not our enemy. I happen to know the man. He is a nice guy. He’s not making a big policy decision, here. He’s just trying to make a living.” Another pause. “I want him to know how I feel about it because I believe it’s important for us to be straight with one another, and to go on record. Now that I’ve done that, I also need to tell you that if Mr. Dorfman’s dozer and road grader had not been trashed, they would have pushed that logging road into Bowen Gulch, yesterday afternoon, and by now the fight to save the big spruce trees up there would be about over. So, I also want to thank the brave someone who took history into his own hands.” He was interrupted by loud cheers and clapping. “But for him, or whoever, there would be nothing left to rally for, here today. That is a fact. You may not like it. But it’s the truth…”
The crowd was agitated. The professor waited for calm. “Folks, we’ve been hearing the ‘terrorism’ word a lot in the press, lately. They like to throw it around, and they mainly direct it at us. I call it the ‘T’ word. How come, I would like to know, we never hear the word mentioned when our military napalms a village, or when our Central Intelligence Agency overthrows some foreign government? Can somebody please explain that for me? Heck, we carpet-bombed thousands of square miles of precious tropical rainforest in Southeast Asia, not to mention using a toxic chemical by the ton, Agent Orange, and I never once heard the ‘T’ word, then. Not even once. Nary a peep. Can one of you folks with the press please explain this for me? Help me out, here.” He paused, waiting. “What? Nothing? Nor do we hear about it from you reporters when Western-Pacific violates the Clean Air Act, as they’ve been doing every day for more than a year!” Newsome was interrupted again by loud cheers. He raised his voice in an effort to talk above the crowd. “Folks, if you ask me, this is the real terrorism!”
Apparently on cue, several young people in the crowd unfurled a large banner, obviously meant for the press. Several journalists from one of the Denver TV networks were in the crowd, with cameras. The banner read:
LOGGING BOWEN GULCH = PLANETARY TERRORISM
Suddenly, she was standing beside him. Tallie placed her hand in his and smiled at him in that way that made him feel so alive. “My aunt dropped me off,” she said breathlessly. He nodded, squeezing her hand. Her face was red. “You got some sun,” he said.
The demonstration continued for about another twenty minutes. There were more speakers and some announcements, after which the demo played out. When the crowd began to disperse he walked with her to a small cafe and bought her lunch.
She had been at her cousin’s place in Denver when he called from the Kawuneechee Lodge, and so, had missed the round-the-clock mushroom fiasco at the logging camp. She was eager to hear the story, how Jacques’ logging crew had been transformed into a bunch of besotted fungus eaters. He spun it out from the beginning, including the part about Wolfe and Bobby. She listened without comment, plainly enchanted. As he got deeper into the telling he warmed to it. The story was quite a yarn, after all, spiced with plenty of humor in the madcap details and the incongruities. He found himself chuckling all over again. He could not help himself as he described the crazy scene in camp and how Jacques St. Clair went ballistic.
Her eyes grew large as he told of the manna’s strange disappearance on the third stuporous morning when an ever-widening sweep through the timber failed to turn up even a single fruiting body. The “food of the gods” had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. Where, before, one needed tramp only a few yards through the forest to collect mushrooms galore; earlier they had picked bagfuls, in the end, only a few half-eaten stubs remained. Nature in her caprice had withdrawn the treasure. Judging from the tracks, wild animals had come in the night and grazed them down to the nubbins; an entire year’s crop gone in a single night. Other species, it seemed, relished the magical mushrooms as much as humans.
He described the crew’s shock and bewilderment as collective euphoria turned to deep disappointment. Nor did Jacques St. Clair succeed in regaining control of his crew. He described the confused and angry showdown on the landing when Jacques’ brother Paul arrived from Durango with the second crew: how the two brothers had argued, first with one another, then with the Western-Pacific attorney; and the subsequent near fist-fight on the logging deck. Neither Paul nor the company lawyer could fully grasp what had happened. By this time, most of the crew had already dispersed to the winds chasing a psychedelic rainbow, in search of more mushrooms. She was fascinated as he described the mushroom’s aphrodisiacal properties, how the love bug had infected everyone, and how it made them horny as billy goats. But her face darkened at the rest of the story.
“Bobby had Wolfe figured right,” Tom said, and related how the cop heard a muffled scream as he was about to leave the camp, then returned to one of the campers where he found Wolfe in the act of violently sodomizing the Preacher.
“Bobby got his Arapaho justice. They figure he’s looking at five to ten. ” Her buoyant face had deflated. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
THIRTY NINE
The next twenty-four hours were a blur. It all ran together like a dream. Late in the afternoon, after he dropped off Tallie, Tom doubled back to the derelict house for a training session in non-violence. The group was an even dozen and a mix of ages, and also equally split gender-wise, half male and half female. A women named Roberta Hoss led the training. She had them sit around her in a circle. Then, as she went around, she asked each to give his or her name and explain why they had come. After the introductions, the actual training started.
It was very straightforward. Roberta emphasized that although the Ancient Forest Rescue coalition was committed to non-violence there was nothing passive about what they were trying to do. “Civil disobedience is a very active and aggressive form of political resistance,” she said. At that point, she introduced a term, Satyagraha, the importance of which, she stressed, would be impossible to exaggerate. She explained its meaning. The term had been coined by Mahatma Gandhi, the great soul who had famously led the Indian nonviolent resistance against the British imperialists. The word was a composite of two Sanskrit words: “Satya,” meaning “truth,” and “Agraha,” meaning: “to hold onto.” The composite meaning, therefore, was “holding onto the truth.”
Roberta presented her interpretation, emphasizing that it was essential that protesters maintained self-control at all times, no matter what, even in the face of extreme provocations by the authorities. She believed they were likely to face police violence at Bowen Gulch and that the c
hances of it happening would increase as the campaign to stop the logging intensified. She said she expected things might get very ugly before it was over. “And this is why,” she said, “it is essential for each one of you to remain inwardly calm at all times. You have to find your own personal center of gravity, and hold onto it. You need to ground yourselves and live in that place. We view this as mandatory,” she said. “We can’t have anyone losing control, flying off the handle. If you feel that you are not able to do this, you had better leave now. Self-control is a prerequisite.”
There were additional instructions. She cautioned that once the action started they should avoid making any abrupt moves or gestures, anything the cops might interpret as a violent escalation. For example, they should always walk, and never run. She also cautioned them never to shout at the cops, or make insulting remarks. For obvious reasons.
“It’s also best,” she said, “to try to maintain eye contact with the police, if possible. If you choose to engage in civil disobedience and are arrested, you can either go limp, or you can cooperate. It’s your choice. But you need to be aware that if you go limp and are carried away to jail in a paddy wagon, you might be charged with ‘resisting arrest.’ The courts do not rule consistently on this. It will depend on the judge.”
Needless to say, alcohol and other drugs were banned. No exceptions.
They finished the training with a song, which they sang while holding hands. It was a rendition of Amazing Grace, an old standard that Roberta said came out of the political struggle in England to ban the slave trade at the turn of the 19th century. She said that the struggle to preserve ancient forests was a continuation of the “good fight” for a better world waged by the best people of every generation, right up to the present day. “We should feel proud,” she said, “that it’s our turn to carry the torch in this great time-honored tradition.” She led it off:
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…
I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind but now I see…”
Tom thought everything he heard was logical and perfectly obvious. It was easy to appreciate the emphasis on discipline. Even the singing served a purpose. There was no way to remain unmoved, emotionally inert. By the time they finished the training they were joking and laughing with one another. A bond of trust was already forming among them. They were becoming an extended family. “It’s all good,” someone said.
One of the activists explained another reason for the training. It served, he said, the practical function of helping to unmask agent provocateurs. Paranoia about government spies ran deep among the activists and for good reason. Provocateurs were known to be afoot. One likely case had been unmasked a few days before. The individual, a self-proclaimed Vietnam vet, had arrived talking trash. The man always took the most extreme position on every issue, the initial red flag that made people suspicious. When he started talking about explosives and blowing things up they showed him the door. The guy was invited to leave and told not to return.
As the session wound down they could hear people gathering in the large adjoining room. From the clatter in the kitchen it was evident that some kind of meal was being prepared. Just about the time they finished, someone announced that dinner was ready. They opened the doors wide and two-dozen hungry activists filed through the kitchen as volunteers handed out bowels of vegetarian chili and cornbread served with butter, and mugs of iced tea.
Two women went out the front door with a tray to feed the Granby cop parked on the street. The policeman had apparently been ordered to watch the house; though, thankfully, he was always gone by nightfall. The activists had by now grown accustomed to his presence. They waved and greeted him with friendly hellos. Some even chatted with him. He was a nice enough guy, just doing his job.
They packed in to the large living room. Someone turned on a television so they could watch the evening news while they ate. The group was eager to hear the latest about Bowen Gulch. They were not disappointed. A Denver news channel carried a breaking story that glued them to the screen. Earlier that day, a major home developer in Boulder Country had announced that he would no longer purchase lumber milled by Western-Pacific if the company went ahead with the Bowen Gulch timber sale. In a taped interview the developer and his wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Ralph McGee, of McGee Homes, explained why they were supporting the boycott. “We just decided,” Mrs. McGee said, “that as responsible builders we can not justify making wafer-board and small dimensional framing lumber out of 600-year old trees. It just makes no sense to us. So, when we got the call from Jan, with the Ancient Forest Rescue, we told her we were proud to join the boycott.” A collective cheer rocked the house.
“This is sooo huge!”
“Can you believe it?”
“That’ll increase the pressure on W-P.”
“I never thought we’d get this far…”
“Things are moving our way!”
Then came the bad news. It arrived in the person of Pinecone Peters who now stood in the hallway facing them. He had come straight from Bowen Gulch. “They’ve started logging,” he half-shouted. “Dorfman sent his loggers in about mid-afternoon. They worked until dark, dropping trees. Looks like they’re going after the biggest trees first.”
There was a stunned silence, then a collective moan that was probably heard two blocks away.
“What about Susan and our tree sitters?” Roberta wanted to know.
“They cleared out the last of them about two this afternoon. All arrested. That’s when Dorfman sent his cutters in. They started with the lowest unit.” Collective mayhem drowned out Pinecone’s last words. The outrage in the room was incendiary. Everyone understood that time was up. Some of the faces showed despair.
“We’re screwed.”
“Shit. Those bastards…”
“Wait! It isn’t over, not yet!” Pinecone shouted at them. “We’re a long way from done.” That is when he noticed Tom sitting quietly in the corner. “Well, well, well.” The hubbub continued. “Hey! Listen up. Quiet down! I want all of you to.… Hey! Come on! Cool it!” He waited a moment. The noise dropped a decibel. “Friends, this is a special moment. Guess who’s with us? He’s been sitting here among you, and you didn’t even notice him. The man of the hour.”
“What are you talking about?’
“Allow me to introduce...”
“Who?”
“Man of the hour?”
“By now, all of you know what happened to Right of Way Inc.? Right? Well, I want you to meet the man who pulled it off. The guy who shut down the whole friggin’ operation – took out an entire logging crew with one fell swoop.”
The room was finally quiet. Pinecone had their full attention. He motioned with his arm. The room of faces turned toward Tom.
“Stopped ‘em dead in their tracks, a hero I tell you, and none of you recognized him...” Pinecone laughed.
Tom was uncomfortable in the spotlight. He knew he should say something. “Heck, it wasn’t my idea.”
“That’s not the way I heard it.”
Tom was confused. How did Pinecone know about the mushrooms? Surely not from the loggers. “You don’t know Bobby?”
“Course, I know him. Grew up with the bastard. Crazy Indian.” Pinecone was laughing as he moved across the room. He had to wade through a sea of bodies. Tom got to his feet. “Man, that was a nice piece of work. I figure you bought us two days.”
A woman looked up. “Two days? How?”
Pinecone laughed. “Magic. Right Tom? With a capital ‘M.’”
“Magic?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mushrooms,” Pinecone said, laughing. Some of the faces lit up. But others were still blank. They did not get it.
“It wasn’t much.”
“Yeah. Right. Look at him. Mr. Aw Shucks. Two precious days he bought us.” Turning, he addressed the room. “Tonight is the night, folks. We are going to need all of you. Every last warm body we can muster.
We are at the tipping point.”
FORTY
After Pinecone left they cleared the big room for another training session. Fresh recruits were still arriving. The house was stuffy and someone began opening windows. The green chili fart-fest was underway. “Open them up quick!” someone cried, “Before the place explodes!”
Tom was happy to step outside. It had turned cold. There was a sharp bite to the night air that felt good against his face. It was beginning to drizzle. He went to his pickup, parked out on the street. He was thankful for the camper shell; but the back was stowed with gear. So, he had to move his saw and other stuff into the cab to make room so he could spread out his bedroll. He lit the lantern. He was wide awake and thought he might read awhile. He had several books from Mary’s library, including Thoreau’s essay, On Civil Disobedience. However, he kept staring at the page; he had too much on his mind; Tallie, for one thing, and the things she had told him over lunch. Finally he gave it up, doused the light and lay in the sack listening to the rain on the roof.
It was coming down much harder now, a steady drum beat to his thoughts.
He had come a long way in a short time. He was in flux. Everything seemed to be happening all at once. Ten days before, he had been dropping big trees without a thought. Ho hum. Just another day on the job.
He recalled the hike into Bowen Gulch on the morning after the mushroom free-for-all.
Failing to reach Tallie by phone, he decided the time had come to see this place that everyone was talking about with his own eyes. By then he was losing interest in mushroom mania in any event, especially the group-think that never held sway with him. He was too much of a loner to follow some bemused pied piper up or down a yellow brick road in search of nirvana. That was so much nonsense in his view, pie-in-the-sky. Let the others do whatever they wanted, great, fine, but it was not his style. He went his own way.
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