They'd kept their plan quiet, not wanting to alert the logging company, but they'd told a reporter, swearing him to secrecy and hoping for coverage. It all felt serious—the strategy, the secrecy, the meeting in the chill predawn. There was the chance of danger; it seemed like war.
The reporter hadn't shown up, but they hoped he'd meet them there. Steven went with Cusack, heading out onto the dark roads. Once they were on the highway, Steven turned to Cusack. “So, have you done this a lot?” He was ready to hear the stories. But Cusack did not smile or look at him. Eyes on the road, he shook his head. “Never,” he said. Fuck, thought Steven.
After the highway they took smaller, narrower roads, finally jouncing slowly over the dirt logging trail. The trail ended deep in the woods, in a rough open circle, the ground hugely torn and rutted. Around it towered the great Douglas firs. Their shadows shifted and fled from the beams of the flashlights. Faces, lit weirdly from below, became those of strangers. They stumbled on the uneven ground, the chains they carried clinking faintly. They felt the great shadows of the woods all around them.
They each took a tree, Cusack directing. Steven walked his chain twice around the huge trunk. Snugging the cold links up against his chest, snapping the padlock, gave Steven an odd flicker of excitement and fear. The bark against the back of his head was rough, and links of the chain dug in at his hip. There was no easy way to stand. The discomfort felt sacrificial, daring. They were at risk.
At first they called back and forth, laughing, but after a while the darkness and silence of the forest settled into them, and the voices stopped. The trees, reaching loftily overhead, became larger in the stillness. They could hear the high limbs shifting in the faint wind. It was still early, before daylight, and Steven began drifting in and out of a waking sleep. It was impossible really to sleep, standing up, chained against the trunk, but it was also impossible really to stay awake, in that lightless stillness. His mind drifted, freewheeling; he was not asleep, but he seemed to be dreaming. Great animals moved slowly around him, and something was not right, was there a storm in the offing? An eruption, an earthquake? The landscape was apocalyptic, full of dangerous lights and dread. He waked in darkness, confused, his neck stiff.
The light came imperceptibly, at first merely a shift to grayness in stead of blackness. Silhouettes and outlines became visible—or did they? Nothing was certain. They vanished in the dimness, then reappeared, finally taking on substance. Slowly the scene took shape: the huge shaggy trunks, standing all around him. Tiny fir cones, scattered on the rough needle-carpeted floor of the forest, and on the rutted open ground. There were faint twitterings, high up. Woodland birds, maybe warblers. Colors came last: the needles were rusty brown, the torn earth dull ocher.
Like the light, the sound of the approaching trucks arrived so subtly that Steven heard it before he knew he was hearing it. When he realized what it was—the loggers were coming—Steven felt something shift in the pit of his stomach. He felt excitement, and something else.
The sounds grew slowly louder, and the trucks appeared. Four pickups, loaded with equipment, pulled into the open area and stopped in a semicircle. The drivers got out of the trucks and drew together into a group, all looking at Steven and the others. It was not quite daylight, the air was still dim and gray. The protesters had propped big signs up against their trees, with hand-painted slogans: CLEAR-CUT IS CLEAR
MURDER, and THINK OF THIS TREE AS A CITY: YOU'RE COMMITTING
A CAPITAL CRIME. None of the signs was as brilliant as they'd wanted. Steven's said TREES MAKE OXYGEN. PEOPLE BREATHE OXYGEN. ARE
WE CRAZY?
The loggers wore battered hard hats and jeans. There were five of them, and they stood together, talking, looking at Steven and the others. One, in a yellow helmet, set his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly. Their stances—belligerent arm-crossing, scornful hands on hips—suggested anger, and at that, pride reasserted itself. Steven was proud to be here, confronting an angry enemy, making a declaration. He felt excited and triumphant. His heart began to pound.
Yellow Helmet turned his back and began talking to the others. They all watched him. One of them laughed; Steven felt a small shock. What could be funny? This was serious. He wondered what they were saying. The back of the truck held chain saws.
Steven began to feel uneasy at their laughter, their casual stances, their saws. The loggers seemed to be in charge of this situation, whatever it was. They seemed practiced, experienced: they knew the forest. They ruled here.
The logic of the protest no longer seemed so clear. Was it foolish? Was it sensationalist, misguided? The back of Steven's head was chafed and raw against the bark. The chain now embarrassed him. It seemed silly and theatrical, with its evocations of imprisonment, religion, torture. But if not now, when did you take a stand? All heroic gestures seemed
foolish at the time, didn't they? It was afterward that they took on significance. Though this was only meant to be a gesture: it came to Steven very clearly now that he did not want to lose his life, or his leg. He wanted only to make a statement, not a sacrifice. But here he was, chained bizarrely to the rough bark of this tree.
It was, he understood now, absurd, a children's performance. But how else did you effect change? The company refused to talk, the congressman would do nothing. The forest—this huge natural engine, this silent, efficient factory of oxygen, soil, clean water, habitat—was at risk. No one else would protect it.
Behind him, someone began calling out, taunting and jeering: “Come and get us.”
Steven, nearest the trucks, on the wide curve of his big tree, could not see the others.
“Chicken!” shouted someone. “What's the matter, you don't dare do anything?”
The taunts were idiotic. They hadn't discussed this at the meetings. And where was the reporter? Who was going to record what happened? They shouldn't be yelling. Where was Cusack? Why didn't he say anything? This could get out of control. He imagined the high, terrifying whine of the shredder, its stutter and catch when something was thrown into it.
Yellow Helmet left the circle and began to walk toward them. He carried a long shaft of rolled-up paper, like a blueprint. Steven watched him approach, his heartbeat rising. He braced himself: here he was, the enemy in the flesh. Here was the man who would bring down these towering giants, destroy this grove of silence and coolness, transform it into a churned-up wasteland.
The logger walked across the clearing. He was short, with a heavy chest and a thick middle. He wore jeans and a faded plaid workshirt. He reminded Steven of Jim Cusack, chained somewhere behind him. The same clothes, the same short, shaggy beards, the same ruddy cheekbones. Even the same bright blue forceful gaze.
We're the same, Steven thought, we're the same. He could feel the pounding of his heart. The idea seemed a revelation. The logger came closer, and Steven saw he was older than Cusack, his sunburnt skin thickened and lined. He works in these woods, Steven thought: this had the clarity and weight of crystal. The logger's life seemed suddenly immanent, a transparent fan of experience. He lives near here, Steven thought; that's his truck. He has young kids, an ex-wife in a trailer somewhere.
As the logger reached him, Steven felt a powerful bolt of kinship. He met the man's eyes, his own eyes eager. I understand you, he thought. He was ready to smile. I'm like you. The logger stopped before him and put his hands on his hips, a negligent, contemptuous gesture.
“You asshole,” the logger said, and spat at him.
The impact was small but shocking. The saliva was heavy and clotted, and slid