NSummer

by Never Summer (retail) (epub)

  Then the conversation took off like a fireball out of hell. It was straight ahead no-bullshit politics. These folks had an attitude and were not a bit bashful telling you about it. They were unanimous in their disapproval of “those lame liberal politicians” who were “even worse than used car salesmen and corporate attorneys.” And why? Simple. Because “In the clutch a lib’ral will betray you, every time, stab you in the back and leave you to twist slowly.” Lib’rals were “incapable of right action, each one with his own sorry excuse.” And: “Count on a weak-kneed lib’ral to blow over in the slightest breeze.”

  Tom was by now feeling something bordering on sympathy for these folks he did not know from Adam. He had never thought about it all that much, but he knew he was no “lib’ral.” Some of the stuff he heard put him off a little. Several of the activists were brash to the point of being reckless. Even so, he knew that somehow he liked and trusted them. At any rate, he welcomed their no-nonsense attitude, which he found refreshing. Their blunt honesty was like oxygen.

  Having ranged through general themes the conversation now turned to particulars. They discussed tactics. The group was obviously accustomed to a type of democratic process. It did not take them long to reach a consensus. The issue at hand was quickly decided. They would make a stand at the Forest Service gate near the roadless area boundary. From a tactical standpoint the gate was more than a gate. It was a potential bottleneck. If they could hold the gate they might prevent Dorfman’s crew from reaching the work site. The other objective was to block the logging trucks. They estimated that come morning, first thing, Dorfman would send out one or more loads. The drivers usually arrived for work shortly before dawn; which explained the ungodly hour. They would beat the drivers to the gate, secure it, and lock them out. Someone did a time check. It was 3:30 a.m.

  They figured they could probably hold out for the better part of a day, maybe longer if enough support in the way of warm bodies materialized. They would hit them in waves. Everything depended on numbers. This group was the tip of the spear and would lead the action. However, at that very moment other activists were mobilizing in Denver, Boulder, and in other Front Range towns. Reinforcements would arrive later in the morning, though no one knew exactly when or how many. The action would end when they ran out of troops, cannon fodder; volunteers ready and willing to go the full nine yards. They joked nervously about the good time they were going to have in the county jail.

  “We’ll have a party!”

  “Yeah, a victory celebration!”

  This made Tom edgy. He was not sure he was ready for jail-time. He had no experience with civil disobedience and had never been arrested in his life. It felt like a big first step. The possibility, even the likelihood that in just a few hours he was going to be incarcerated made him think. He visualized himself stepping out of an airplane into the wild blue yonder, dropping while he prayed for his chute to open. The prospect was unnerving. Frankly, it terrified him.

  Am I ready for this?

  As the discussion moved forward he searched within. For what? He was not sure. For the wherewithal? Courage. Yes, and for strength. He was still searching when Steve Gaylord turned off the highway onto the secondary road to Bowen Gulch. Gaylord pulled to a stop and killed the engine. The talk died with the motor. They waited in silence in the darkness, listening to the storm lash the roof. A hard rain was, indeed, falling.

  They did not have long to wait. Two other vehicles appeared. The headlights turned as one slowed and pulled alongside. A pickup. The other was a van. Gaylord rolled down the driver window and spoke with someone in the other rig, then rolled it back up and restarted the engine. The two other vehicles led the way, accelerating up the access road. Gaylord followed. It was a winding road and at some point Tom knew they had left the pavement. The feel of tires on gravel was unmistakable. It was too dark to see out the van’s back window, but through the windshield he caught glimpses in the headlights of trees along the road of a wall of conifers.

  Fifteen minutes later they reached the gate and emptied out. The scene was crazy with so many flashlights; twenty activists trying to get organized in the pitch dark and pouring rain.

  It was decided that an Earth First! affinity group of ten would lead the action, the first wave. They were gender neutral: five men and five women. Together they swung the steel gate closed and padlocked it shut. Pinecone pulled a handful of cables out of a knapsack. Each of the ten proceeded to lock themselves to the closed gate, each one separately. When they were locked in securely they made themselves as comfortable as possible, and settled in to wait. Other activists draped them with blankets and ponchos to keep them warm and as dry as possible.

  The cold rain came down in buckets.

  The rest, including Tom, would provide support, whatever was needed, and also serve as witnesses when the police came and began making arrests. One of the women in the group began to sing a folk song, one Tom had never heard:

  I have dreamed on this mountain

  Since, first, I was my mother’s daughter

  And you can’t just take my dream away…

  She had an amazing soulful voice and sang so beautifully that when she finished the rest began howling like coyotes. Someone flashed a beam on the Forest Service sign near the gate. It read:

  ROAD CLOSED TO MOTORIZED USE

  LOGGING TRUCKS ONLY

  Several others now also focused their beams on the sign as two men draped a sheet over it and somehow attached it from the back, or maybe the top. The sheet turned out to be a home made sign. When they finally unfurled it the new sign proclaimed in big bold letters:

  THE ROAD STOPS HERE

  EARTH FIRST!

  There was a wild cheer and more yipping.

  “That’s an improvement!”

  “Right on, sister.”

  They were ready. There was nothing now to do but wait. It was miserable in the cold rain. They covered up as best they could but there was no relent. Some of the activists began stamping their feet, to drive out the numbing cold. One of the women handed out oatmeal cookies. Roberta Hoss appeared with a large thermos and began handing out paper cups of steaming coffee. The cookies were chewy and sweet. The hot coffee was heaven sent.

  Tom’s thoughts were in disarray as he moved away from the group. He needed to be alone to think. He was still trying to sort out the disquiet in his soul, still searching for the intestinal fortitude that he truly doubted he possessed. Something else was bothering him as well. He needed to get his bearings, some perspective. Something about the place just did not look right. It bugged him that he did not recognize the gate, the site of the action. He had driven this road the day he walked the gulch. But nothing looked familiar in the dark and it troubled him. He moved to the fence at one side of the gate. Reaching through the strands of barbed wire, he set his cup of coffee on the ground. Then, he spread the strands apart and, bending down, ducked between them. He got through OK without snagging his poncho or trousers on the barbs. He retrieved his coffee, then, started up the road to the logging site, away from the protesters.

  It was too dark to see much of anything. He swept his beam back and forth. This side of the gate, the road abruptly narrowed into a logging track, about half-mud. The gravel ended at the gate. There was no shoulder, just deep forest on both sides. The road climbed steeply. Stopping, he now had his fix. He knew exactly where he was. It was weird how things looked so different in the darkness and rain. He knew that the landing, where Jacques had parked his office trailer, was at the top of this same hill, less than half a mile away. The two disabled skidders were probably still parked there too, where Jacques had left them.

  That was when he noticed the tire tracks in the mud. He knelt down and studied them with his light. He could see they were fresh, despite the rain. Several vehicles had already gone through, up this very road, shortly before the protesters had arrived. The group had missed the tracks on the other side of the gate, probably because of the gravel. No mistake,
Dorfman was a shrewd operator. Evidently the man had anticipated some type of action this morning and intended to outmaneuver it, to beat the protesters at their own game. Tom now understood.

  The logging trucks are already on site.

  Dorfman probably meant to send out one or more loads before dawn. This could happen at any time. He wheeled around at the closed gate which was now about fifty-sixty yards behind him. He understood.

  Jesus!

  Even if the driver of the first rig out was paying attention he would probably fail to see the protesters in the rain.

  Or if he is going too fast!

  The gate had been wide open when the drivers came through. They probably did not even notice the gate on the way in.

  They sure as hell won’t be thinking about it on the way out! On this steep slope they won’t be able to stop. Not in time! Not with a full load! Not in the rain! Not with the mud! If the driver brakes too late he’ll skid right on through the gate and...!

  A horrifying image of mangled bodies flashed before his eyes.

  He heard the low rumble. There was no mistaking the sound of a diesel engine. A logging truck had just left the landing, no doubt fully loaded. He heard the engine accelerate. The truck was coming...

  Oh shit!

  He turned back to the gate and tried to think what to do. It was all happening too fast. There was no time to return and warn the protesters. They would never get all of the activists unlocked in time. Not a chance. He had to do something. But what? He waved his light frantically, screaming, “Open the gate! Open the fucking gate! A logging truck is coming!”

  None of the protesters looked up. They could not hear him in the rain. It was apparent they had not heard the truck either. Now he understood why.

  They are expecting trouble from the other direction.

  The activists were unaware of the danger behind them. Their attention was focused the other way. Tom fought off panic. He turned uphill again and now saw the headlights blinking through the dark forest. The road curved away as it climbed. The logging truck was coming around the bend. It was still out of sight except for the headlights peeking through the forest. He waited, listening, hoping to hear the sound of gears. Truckers normally downshift for safety before they start down a steep hill, especially with a full load.

  What he heard next sent a chill through him.

  The driver is picking up speed.

  He was accelerating! The idiot was coming way too fast. He was cannon-balling.

  Tom dropped the coffee and began running uphill toward the truck, away from the gate, as fast as he could move. He knew time was short. He slipped in the mud and went down cursing in a heap. He got up and started again. He was already out of breath. Now, the headlights were sweeping around the curve. Another second and he would be in both beams.

  But running was useless, he knew. He stopped in the road frantically waving his arms and his light. The truck was coming really fast now and still picking up speed. He knew he had to stay in the headlights to the very end.

  Suddenly, the rig was upon him. The cab towered over him. He knew that the driver had not yet seen him. The truck was still accelerating. He stood flailing in the beams. They say time is relative. In the next moment all of Tom’s hopes and fears coalesced into an eternal blink. The last thing he saw was the horror on the trucker’s face. Tom surrendered to fate, threw himself away from under a huge wheel. The left front tire clipped his boot as he went down, before he hit the road. As he rolled the enormous rig passed in a blur of mud and stones. After another eternity he heard a loud screeeeching sound. To Tom it was like a sonata from heaven. The driver had awakened at last to the closed gate and the calamity looming ahead of him. The huge rig lurched, lurched again, then, still again, as the driver worked the brakes to avoid a lock-up. Almost imperceptibly, the logging truck began to decelerate. But the odds seemed too great. The distance too short and the speed ... oh the speed.

  Suddenly more screeching and the engine roared – RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT

  Then, the sound of an idling diesel.

  When Tom reached the gate the driver’s door stood open; the driver was already out and talking animatedly to the protesters. The logging truck had come to a dead stop less than a foot from the gate. The air had an acrid smell and a sound of hissing steam.

  “Thank God for the Jake brake,” the driver said, smiling. “First time I ever had to use it.” He seemed weirdly energized by the close call.

  The protesters looked stupefied. Unable to escape due to their cables, they had been helpless, like deer in the headlights.

  Tom pumped the man’s arm, full of admiration. He was surprised by how the guy took it all in stride. “What? Oh hey, no big deal. Was that you in the road waving your arms? Buddy, that extra few seconds made the difference.”

  Was it all a dream?

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time the deputy showed up, shortly after 8:00 a.m. The scene was chaotic. By then the access road was backed up with vehicles. A dozen irate loggers were waiting for the gate to be cleared, so they could get in and go to work. There were heated words, but not much really happened. Nobody wanted to fight in the rain. It was a Mexican standoff. The loggers mostly stood around smoking and gawking at the women protesters, some of whom were “real purty.”

  About 9:30 a.m. the press arrived with a camera crew and started doing live interviews.

  Deputy Joe Ramirez looked frustrated and a bit overwhelmed. When the Sheriff finally showed up the deputy walked over to greet him. “Did you bring the cable cutters?” he wanted to know. He had called in the request two hours before. The poker-faced sheriff just nodded and motioned to the back seat. Ramirez retrieved the tool and returned to the gate. After that, it only took about fifteen minutes to take the ten protestors into custody. They were cuffed one at a time and walked to a waiting police van. A few minutes later, they were taken away. The deputy cut the padlock, opened the gate, and waved the big rig through. He played traffic cop until the snarl of vehicles was sorted out. The loggers climbed into their trucks and drove on through to work. Finally, the deputy noticed the protest banner, and pulled that down too.

  The sheriff ordered the remaining protesters to disperse. Immediately. He warned them that if they were not gone when he returned in ten minutes, he would arrest every last one of them. Then, he and the deputy climbed into his patrol car and followed the loggers up the hill to the site, apparently to check things out at that end.

  Twenty minutes later when the cops returned, they found the gate barred and locked shut, all over again. Ten more tree huggers were cabled to it, Tom among them. The second wave had struck. The sheriff and his car was on the wrong side of the gate, locked in. His face was beet red as he got out of his rig and shouted at them. “Open the damn gate!” he demanded. “Now!”

  The activists refused to budge. They were hunkered down, ready for anything; whatever. Bring it on.

  “I order you in the name of the law to open this gate!” the sheriff roared. “Pronto!”

  No response. Not even a kumbaya. The top law enforcement officer in Grand County began pacing with his hand on his pistol, swearing under his breath. He looked pissed off beyond all measure. The deputy, meanwhile, got on the radio and called for another paddy wagon.

  While they waited, another backup unit arrived on the scene, lights flashing.

  Eventually, the cops brought in a mini-bus to handle the second wave. However, it did not arrive for more than an hour. By then, the sheriff was so angry he was speechless, apparently aggravated because he had missed his breakfast.

  Finally, Ramirez and the other deputy started cutting the cables and making arrests. To speed things up they backed the police bus up almost to the gate. They had processed about half of the protesters when the third wave showed up, two more vans-full led by Pinecone, about twenty more tree huggers. Earlier, Pinecone had returned to Granby to ferry more in.

  “You’re all under arrest!” the sheriff
screamed at them.

  At that moment, the cop driving the bus said, “You got a call, chief.”

  The sheriff half-turned. “What now?” he said angrily.

  “It’s dispatch. They want to talk to you.”

  “You take it. I’m busy.”

  “I did. But…”

  “Ask them what they want.”

  “I did, chief. They won’t talk to me, they want you.” The sheriff shrugged and stepped around the side of the bus. By that point, the two deputies had just finished arresting Roberta Hoss and were cutting Tom free from the gate. They roughly hustled him into the bus. Only two protesters remained.

  The sheriff returned with a mask-like expression, a look on his face that words cannot describe. But take ‘disgusted’ to the nth degree and you might come close.

  “Let ‘em go,” he said wearily.

  The two deputies looked up. “What?” said Ramirez.

  “You heard me.”

  “Chief? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Joe, let ‘em go. Western-Pacific just halted the sale. They agreed to a buy-out, or some damn thing. I don’t know the details.”

  “But we can’t just turn them loose. These people broke the law. Hell, they are terrorists.”

  “The Forest Service is not going to press charges,” the sheriff said wearily. His gruff voice was full of resignation. Plainly he was exasperated. “I can’t hold them if they won’t charge ‘em. There’s no point even booking ‘em.”

  “But boss...”

  “That was the governor on the phone, son. You want to backtalk him too? Let ‘em go, I said.”

  A cheer went up. Activists began shouting and jumping up and down, dancing with one another and with the deputies, even with some of the loggers who were caught up in the contact high of so much excitement. Several men clapped the sheriff on the back and called him a “Good old boy!” Others lifted their arms, fists high. One of the activists pulled out a flask and started passing it around.

  “What do you have, there?” one of the women demanded.

  “Brandy, Jill. Have some...”