Of the solo trek he told no one, not even Tallie. The tramp into the deep forest cut too near to the bone to share, even with her, for it was more than a hike; it was a journey on seldom used pathways into his own shadowy hinterland, to poorly known places and parts within himself where, if luck was with him, he might render up some meaning, if not personal redemption, out of the reliquary of his own private purgatory.
From the landing he worked his way up through the lower sale units. The going was rougher than expected. For awhile he followed the yellow ribbons. The girth of the trees was astounding. Some of the shaggy-barked spruces were at least four feet across. He had never seen trees of this size. He knew they had to be incredibly old. The ancient trunks were covered with curlicue-shaped yellow-green lichens and moss of various kinds. He crossed a little creek, left the flagging behind, and wandered at whim.
On every side enormous spruces and smooth-skinned firs receded into shadows. He saw no yellow bellies but this was not surprising. He knew he was at least ten thousand feet in elevation, too high for Ponderosa pine.
As he moved deeper into the old growth his thoughts fell away and his senses awakened to everything around him. The air was rich with the pungent smells of decay. Here nothing was wasted. Everything was recycled. He began to feel the wildness of the place.
He continued up valley for about a mile, heading generally west, and re-crossed the stream several times.
Here and there he paused to examine individual trees. Each had its own story, if a man had an eye to read it. One huge bole had been shattered up top, its uppermost crown blown out long ago, probably during a lightning storm. The event had been recorded in a long vertical scar spiraling down the trunk all the way to the ground. Despite the damage, a leader had sprouted from just below the high gash and now pushed skyward – an indomitable act of bright green defiance.
Another ancient tree was festooned with mistletoe, its upper crown a crazy quilt. Seven feet off the ground a bear had once sharpened its claws on the trunk, an enormous paw judging from the width between the deeply etched grooves. This was no black bear. It had to be the centuries-old mark of a passing grizz, long extirpated from these parts. The tree was marked for cutting, probably because of its extreme age and decadence. A chainsaw was about to erase a last piece of natural history, just as the long rifle had the bear.
A Stellars Jay squawked loudly at him from a low branch as he studied a column of ants ascending up another nearby ruff-barked trunk. Their count was inestimable but had to number in the tens of thousands. Craning his neck, he followed the slowly moving caravan up to the limit of his vision. What their business might be in the high crown he had no idea. Another mystery.
He was amazed by how lush everything up here was. As he climbed higher there were scattered patches of snow.
Presently though he found himself traversing a slope with a drier southern aspect and he noticed fire scars on some of the trees. He paused to admire a large spruce that was nothing if not a masterwork of biological art. Some ancient conflagration had worked its will upon the tree. The trunk had been gutted, completely hollowed out. The fire-blackened cave, open to the south, now held court on a profusion of forbs and wildflowers. Stepping inside the garden cave he looked up through the bore and saw blue above, open sky. Except for the chamber at its core the spruce appeared to be in perfect health, sound enough to last for centuries. But he saw few other fire-scarred trees. Most of Bowen Gulch was too wet to burn.
He worked his way up the edge of the high valley until he came to a spring, in a kind of natural grotto. Thirsty from the hike, he knelt and drank his fill. The clear water was very cold and pure. Suddenly hungry, he pulled out the cheese and tomato sandwich he had packed along. It was delicious.
The grotto was a peaceful spot and he lingered. He was sitting on a rock in a contemplative mood when he heard a noise and looked up, in time to see an orange-brown blur come sliding down the mossy slope behind the spring. The next moment he was face to face with the most formidable creature he had ever encountered in a coat of fur; a full-grown badger not more than ten feet away.
Too close!
The badger had come down for a drink belly-first, riding his fur like a toboggan. Without a sound the critter lowered its nose, bared its teeth, and stared him down with beady eyes of steel that left no doubt who owned the spring. Tom rose slowly and backed away without ever taking his eyes off those fearsome teeth. He did not doubt that discretion in this case was the better part of valor. Chalk one up for Mister Badger.
Buddy, it’s all yours...
There was more snow now as he pushed up the draw and came to a wet meadow. Here, water was everywhere on the move. The ground was a broad sheet of fast-moving snowmelt. He searched for solid footing, some way around, but there was none, so he slogged ahead through muck and mire. When he reached the far side he stopped. An empty Coors beer can lay on the ground at his feet.
Right. Just what the world needs.
He picked it up, crushed it and stuffed it in a pocket, then, moved on.
It was the deepening snow that finally stopped him. When he reached a snow-bank that was up to his thighs, he turned and started back. At some point, he reached the flagging for the skid road, and followed it down valley. He lost track of time.
*****
As a member of the State Board of Agriculture, Tallie’s uncle, Bernard Holloway, had known the late Dr. Nolan Leadbetter. “I knew him well,” Bernard told him. “Nolan and I were good friends. We went way back to the days when he was a graduate student, before he made a name for himself. I was working on my doctorate in those days.”
“In zoology?”
“No, my boy. Electrical engineering. Both of us were members of Alpha Kappa Lambda. But the frat house was just a passing phase. We soon outgrew the Mickey Mouse club, the rah-rah business, the food fights and the hazing. All of that adolescent nonsense. We moved on. Nolan had a love for learning that I found inspirational. Truly. The man was brilliant. I have never known anyone so excited about his chosen field…”
“He was the best professor I had at state. By far. The only one in four years I truly respected.”
“I’m not surprised to hear it. Nolan had a flare for teaching. He was a natural. I think some people are born with the gift. He had the bug and he was contagious. Even in the early days it was obvious that Nolan would go far. It’s why people were so shaken by his tragic suicide. It was just...so unexpected. I was shocked too, of course, like everyone. But I must say I wasn’t surprised. No, not really.”
“No? Why not?”
The man paused for a moment, as if to choose his words. “You see, Nolan felt that he’d been upstaged, and well, he just couldn’t handle it.”
“Upstaged? By whom?”
“By his wife, of course!” Bernard said. “Who else?”
Tom was speechless. “But...how?”
“That’s my question for you, Tom. How well did you know them? I mean the two of them.”
“Very well. At least, I thought I did. I worked with Leadbetter and spent a lot of time in the zoology lab. He was my adviser for two years.”
“How well did you know his wife?”
“Henrietta. I knew she taught psychology.”
“Did you know about their competition?”
“What? No.”
Bernard stared into space, as if remembering. He sighed, then, continued. “Nolan and Henrietta had one of the strangest relationships. I knew them both quite well, you see. I was Nolan’s best man at his wedding in ’58. We were drinking buddies in those days. Nolan and Henrietta had a kind of weird competition going between them. Oh, I imagine it started innocently enough. Good naturedly. But I think gradually it changed into something else, something unhealthy and horrible that killed my friend. There was a kind of strange antagonism in their relationship. An undercurrent. Both of them were professionals and I can tell you they did not marry for love. I know this for a fact. I suppose you are aware that Le
adbetter published a book about the mammals of Colorado. But did you know about Henrietta’s?”
“Didn’t she publish a book on psychology?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know it was such a big deal.”
“Oh it was a big deal, alright, a very big deal, from Nolan’s standpoint. Did you know that his wife’s book became a standard college textbook?”
“No.”
“It did. In fact, the book is still in wide use. By contrast, Nolan’s volume about the mammals was poorly bound and edited. It was full of typos. He was very dissatisfied with it. The book soon went out of print. Nolan was his own worst critic. I just didn’t know the degree of his unhappiness. Instead of publishing the definitive work in his field, which had been his intent, he flopped, or felt he had; and knowing Henrietta as I do, I’m sure she never let him forget it, not for one moment. Looking back, I’d guess that Nolan was clinically depressed toward the end. A good marriage, Tom, can bring a man the greatest happiness on this earth, but a bad one can destroy him. The good Lord just never intended for husband and wife to compete.”
“But he didn’t seem depressed.”
“Oh, he masked it quite well. But understand, Nolan was all about achievement, and on the level that mattered most, he felt that his career, hence, his life, had been a dismal failure.”
“But he was a great lecturer. How could he think that?”
“Oh, I know. I agree. Nolan was a genius. But what good was that to him? Did that save him? No. What the man needed was a counselor, someone to confide in, and talk to. Unfortunately, that option was unavailable to him. He could not confide in his wife because of the competitive nature of their relationship; and because her domain was psychology he felt constrained. A therapist was out of the question. They were both so territorial, very turf conscious, if you know what I mean. Nolan was also proud. There was more going on than you knew, Tom, more, I’m afraid, than you could possibly have known...”
*****
He gaped at the enormous carcass at his feet. Someone had just dropped a huge spruce tree, at least thirty inches in diameter, even bigger on the butt. The cut face was raw. A pile of fresh sawdust and shavings lay beside the stump. The air was fragrant with conifer.
He stared at the fallen giant like a man under the influence.
A thousand times he had dropped trees no different from this one. How many times, during the last year, had he heard someone say, “Working in the woods is the best work there is, Mick, the best an honest Joe will ever find.” He had heard all manner of men say that and a dozen similar things, yes, more times than he could recall. He had heard it from the likes of Wolfe Withers, and from mental midgets like Shorty Dibbs; but he had also heard it from regular fellows, men with attractive wives and adorable children. He had heard it from snot-nosed loggers who liked to pack a cheek-full of Skoal up against the gum, and from guys who were in the habit of fingering the waxed end of a handlebar mustache while they bullshitted about nothing in particular during lunch break. He had heard it from men who agreed on nothing else and he had listened to them all.
Well, why not?
Why not indeed? Was it not God’s own truth? Were not such men the salt of the earth? Surely they were at least as honorable as the lawyers and car salesmen and bankers who screwed people for a living, and the professors who put you to sleep in the name of higher learning. Men who could not even change their own car oil, who would be lost trying to fix a faucet, who would likely pound their own thumb into hamburger if they attempted the simple task of driving a nail.
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach...
What could be more natural or right than dropping a big one for love or money? Was it wrong for loggers to take pride in their work? Was it wrong to enjoy watching the big trees fall? And if logging was the best paying work an uneducated man like Shorty Dibbs would ever find, so? What of that? Who had the right to say it was wrong? Sure, it was about money. Of course it was, but the same could be said of any other trade. Was not logging just another way for a man to feed his family? A man had to take care of his family. Besides, did the country not need timber? Wood for boards and beams to make homes so people could realize their dreams. People needed timber for joists and rafters and processed doors, and veneer and plywood. The country needed paper too, cardboard, furniture and a thousand other things. Did not wood products keep the economy humming? Was it not timber as much as oil that made the wheels go ‘round? All true. So what was special about this particular spruce tree? Why did this downed tree feel like a violation?
Pathetic…
Tom looked around. The tree was not marked, nor was it even within a sale unit. He saw no yellow flagging.
So why drop it? Why would someone hike into a roadless area with a chainsaw?
He did not like the answer.
Probably for no reason at all. Probably for the hell of it, just to watch it fall.
What finally brings a man to the point of change? What tips the balance in the end? Is it fear, or love? Certainly it is not money. Do the songbirds sing a bit more sweetly on such a day? Is the sky more blue, the sunlight brighter? Is it something in the water or the air? Or is it something in the man?
Tom found himself listening to a woodpecker as he drifted with his thoughts. He loved that drumming sound. Looking around, he could not locate the bird. The woody was back there in the timber somewhere.
Just as all things have a point of origin, so too when a mind at the end of its tether unaccountably snaps its cord and sails into parts unknown, a new idea alighted in the cavity between Tom’s ears, like some downy woodpecker. It was a novel thing, this contemplative bird, and all the more surprising because apart from the space in his head it had no other home.
He found that he was staring down at the stump. Clear sap was still oozing out over the raw face, seeping up from deep below ground.
Dead. Yes. Dead. But the tree doesn’t know it, yet...
Things were all mixed up, a mess of disordered impressions.
Suddenly, he wanted to strangle the stupid son of a bitch who for no reason at all had dropped this big spruce. He wanted to shove the guy’s face down down down, into the sap and show him the stupid thing he had done, to make him see, make him understand what a damned fool he was. The next moment was the worst.
It might have been me.
Was he so different from that guy? Was he any better? No, in the final analysis, he was pretty much the same as the dumb bastard who had dropped that tree.
For an agonizing moment Tom was bereft. Self-loathing turned to shame such as he had never known.
Where does a man turn for solace in such a dark moment? Where does he turn for strength? If he has an ounce of sense, he goes within.
Tom’s hands had tightened into hard fists. There was no point in dithering. He turned to go.
He had not gone 200 feet before he nearly tripped over a surveyor’s stake. Without a thought he pulled it up and heaved it back into the forest. He did the same for two dozen more as he worked his way down to the landing. He also collected every yellow ribbon that he saw, and stuffed them in his pockets.
That was when he noticed the springy feel of the duff under foot and his own light step. He began to hum and sing an old Johnny Paycheck number. He remembered only a few lines and kept repeating them over and over:
Take this job and shove it! I ain’t workin’ here no more.
FORTY ONE
He was awakened by sharp knocking on the canopy window. He thought of Tallie, but this was different – very insistent.
“You Tom Lacey?”
“Pinecone?”
“No,” said a voice. “Steve Gaylord.”
The tail door flew open and the next moment the man was shining a bright light in his face.
“Pinecone sent me. Chop-chop. Shake, rattle and roll. We leave in five. Bring a flashlight and dress warm. It’s supposed to rain all night.” The guy moved on to the next vehicle, a camper whe
re he rousted another warm body. Tom found his long johns and slipped on an extra pair of socks. He dressed in layers, grabbed his poncho, and went out the back. It was coming down hard now, in sheets, a cold driving rain. The night was pitch black but he could see his breath. He covered his head with the hood of his poncho. A van was parked in the street with the parking lights on. The motor was idling quietly. He opened the rear door. It was warm and steamy inside. Two faces stared back at him.
“Hey,” said one.
“Morning,” said Tom and climbed in. “What time is it?”
“Don’t ask,” a woman said.
“What the fuck difference does it make?” the other face said, a man with a ragged beard.
He found his spot. The rear door opened again. Four more climbed in. Two he recognized from the training. Then, the front door opened and slammed again. The driver was back. He looked over his shoulder.
“Everyone alive?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Alrightee. Next stop Bowen Gulch.” Steve Gaylord popped the clutch. The vehicle lurched forward.
It was dark in the van. The only light was the pale green glow of the dashboard. Tom’s eyes adjusted. They were packed in, six bodies on the floor in back, two rows of three facing one other – plus the two in front, a total of eight. They bounced and swayed together as the van made a sharp turn out onto the highway. The driver picked up speed. They rode in silence. Apart from the engine the only noise was the flapping of the wipers on the windshield. It was easy to imagine they were soldiers on the way to the front. One of the other activists also picked up the vibe, a free-floater, because a voice said, “It’s a good day to die.”
“Right on,” said another. “Today, we take no prisoners.”
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