CHAPTER 12: A Moving Mosaic

Jackson and Grace sat out the rainstorm in his truck, arguing over which CD to play and chatting about life in general. He joked about why country people thought city people were crazy. She laughed and offered a few jokes about why city people think country people are nuts. He laughed.

A half hour later, the rain stopped as fast as it started and Jackson set her up again under the shelter and left. A few hours later, Nate collected Grace, drove her to the landing where the men were packing their equipment and themselves into an old school bus for the ride back. Jackson stopped what he was doing and studied her, walked over.

“OK if I ride back with them?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”

Grace climbed up the stairs into the bus. “Hey,” said the driver.

“Hey,” she said. “Grace Newman. L.A. Tribune. OK to ride with you?”

He shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said. “Take a seat.”

In the bus, a herd of the dirtiest, smelliest men she’d ever seen stared at her. She chose an aisle seat, dead center. No one said anything as the driver revved up the engine and made his way slowly down the logging road, evergreens snapping at the windows while “Working Man’s Dollar” played.

Well, I'm just a workin' man's dollar / In the pocket of his old blue jeans / I ain't like my wall street brother / He's in a bank so shiny and clean

Well, I'm faded and I'm wrinkled / Tattered and stained with sweat / But I'm the first one called / When uncle Sam needs a hand with the national debt

“So,” said Grace, offering her hand to her seatmate, a big man with a full red beard. “I’m Grace Newman, reporter, Los Angeles Tribune. You are?”

He shook her hand, smiled shyly, his face coloring to match his beard. “Parker,” he said, spitting chewing tobacco into an empty beer can.  

Wrong seat, thought Grace.

A dark lean man of about thirty held out his hand across the aisle. “Don’t mind Quiet Parker,” he said, pumping her hand. “I’m Pat. That’s Gary and Mitch, Cody and Wyatt, Mad Max, Little Joe and Big Lou.” Heads bobbed as Pat called out each man’s name, until he’d introduced the whole crew including Dusty, the driver. Another uncomfortable silence followed.

Chris LeDoux sang on.

Well, they say I'm worth about 50 cents / In this modern inflated age / But don't tell that to the young man slavin' / To make it on a minimum wage

Or that single workin' mother / She's been scrapin' to make ends meet / To make a house a home, keep food on the table / And shoes on her baby's feet

The bus snaked down the steep gravel road behind a Peterbilt log truck. They hit pavement and travelled at a good pace until Dusty downshifted to 20 miles an hour. The crew complained, “Hey! We’ll never get home!”

Dusty got the driver of the Peterbilt ahead of them on the CB. “Hey, Ed, what’s up?” he asked.

The CB crackled. “I got a slow go in front of me, a red Geo. Same one gave you grief last week, right?” In the Peterbilt log truck, Ed pulled his horn. The Geo responded by slowing down to 15 miles an hour. “Son of a bitch!” said Dusty as he downshifted and hit the brakes.

“Damn,” said Pat to the unmistakable odor of burning brake pads. “Some folks think it’s funny to slow down log trucks,” he explained to Grace. “With so much weight, riding the brakes is rough.”

Dusty barked into the CB, “Ed, you want me to call ahead, see if we can get another truck and we’ll sandwich this guy? I got a reporter from L.A. in here—make a hell of a story. ‘Red Neck Trucker Flattens Red Geo: Rivers of Red Blood!’” He laughed maniacally and got the reaction he was looking for. The Geo sped up and careened out of sight around a hairpin turn. The Peterbilt picked up speed and the bus followed at a quick clip. The loggers cheered. Dusty grinned.

Grace looked at Pat, surprised. “The red Geo has a CB?”

“Guess so,” said Pat.

“Do things like this happen often?” asked Grace.

“Now and then,” said Pat.

“They’ve shot at log trucks, coupla times,” said Mitch. “Tree huggers hell bent on stoppin’ a cut have blocked roads. Equipment and brakes sabbed. Trains derailed. Ginnie was burned in effigy.”

Quiet Parker whispered, “Popped her picture in a coffin. Lit it up.”

“Another logger who gave a speech was shot in effigy,” added Big Lou.

“Yeah,” said Mitch. “Trees spiked, threats, arson, bombs. Yeah, it happens. Often enough for us to get the message.”

“What’s the message?” asked Grace.

“Go away,” said Quiet Parker, settling back into his morose silence as Larry Fleet sang “Working Man”.

It's the sweat and blood and bruises / Calloused hands, hard as can be / There's bread on the table / There's presents under the tree

I know you're tired, I know you're hurting / I know you're broke down to the bone / But your bills are paid / And there's smiling faces waiting on you at home / And it ain't always easy, it ain't ever like you planned / Oh, but man, ain't it working, working man?

It ain't always easy, it ain't ever like you planned / Oh, but man, ain't it working, working man?

“Shame about Tom Armstrong,” offered Grace. The men eyed each other uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” said Pat. “Hunger Mountain cut. A section of that’s back in court; another section burned.”

“The fire that took Erica White,” said Quiet Parker.

“Did you know Erica White?” asked Grace, turning to him.

“Yeah, we all did,” whispered Quiet Parker. He turned and looked out the window.

“You know,” said Pat, “eco-nuts claim the trees we worked today are spiked.”  

“No,” said Grace, “I didn’t know. So, why do you cut those trees, take a chance you might get hurt or killed?”

The men laughed. “This is loggin’, lady,” said Mad Max. “Not polka. It’s always dangerous”.

“Yeah,” said Big Lou. “It’s a paycheck; man’s gotta feed his family.”

“The ELF is always braggin’ about spikin’ trees,” said Little Joe, a huge man with fingers like sausages. He had at least 50 pounds on Big Lou.

“Sheriff and FBI get involved?” asked Grace.

“Sheriff,? Sure,” said Pat. “FBI? Not so much and now they’re pretty busy suiting up like SWAT, battering down the front doors of J6 Patriots and PTA moms.”

Little Joe shook his head. “Took FBI seventeen years to catch the Unabomber, the guy who mailed the bomb to the California Forestry Association that killed Gil Murray.”

“May he rest in peace,” added an older man a few rows back, crossing himself.

“Hey,” said Big Lou, “can’t live life worryin’. Get on with it.”

“Have you tried compromising with the environmentalists?” asked Grace. “Have you tried talking to them?”

Everyone laughed. “Oh, yeah,” Dusty yelled over his shoulder as he downshifted around a corner. “She wants us to compromise in the war to save the planet. Ha!”

“Well, yes,” she said. “Most people solve problems by discussion and compromise.”

“We tried compromisin’,” said Big Lou. “We gave, they took. They came back again, took some more. Repeat that ten times. Now we’re left with a little piece of what we started with and the greenies haven’t given a friggin’ inch. Hell, they’re buyin’ vacation homes out here now. If we get lucky, forest fire’ll take ‘em!”

The men laughed. “Sweet justice,” said one.

“Compromising is a losin’ strategy,” said Pat. “They don’t call it a war for nuthin’. Besides, we’re in the right here.”

“They want to shut down the whole dang timber industry,” said Mitch. “I’m sure of it.”

“Ecotopia,” said Pat. “They want this mythical place called Ecotopia.”

Grace raised an eyebrow.

“A perfect world,” said Pat. “A picture postcard preserved forever. All the trees perfect. All the grass perfect, the water perfect. Ecotopia. Where the lion lies down with the lamb. It’s a place that never existed. It ain’t natural what they want, ain’t possible. The forest is a moving mosaic. Always changin’. You can’t hold it still in a perfect postcard. It’s wrong to try.”

“Pat’s right,” said Mitch. “It’s impossible. In the end, nature’ll do whatever the hell she wants. You can’t stop her. Nature doesn’t give. You have to take.”

“And you have to be smart,” said Pat. “Understand her every move, outwit her, take a little and get the hell out of her way before she beats you down. It’s a dangerous game, takin’ from Nature.”

“Yeah,” said Little Joe grinning, “but I like it.”

The men laughed and Mad Max patted Little Joe on his broad back.

They were passing houses now and, shortly after, the outskirts of Silvercreek. Dusty drove the tired bus into a church parking lot next to a boarded-up warehouse.

The men piled out. Big Lou took her arm as Grace jumped from the last step. “Watch the mud,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said as she handed out business cards, shook hands and waved good-bye. A variety of station wagons, vans and pickup trucks carted the loggers home.

The school bus pulled away and Jackson’s F-350 was the last in the lot. The rain had washed most of the mud off and he leaned against the passenger side door in his sheepskin jacket and dark brown cowboy hat.

Grace turned, a relaxed and contented smile on her face as she walked to Jackson’s truck in her slim sealskin coat, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her hat and gloves in one hand. Her dark hair billowed in the wind, caught the light from the setting sun and for a moment, just a moment, she reminded Jackson of a woman he had once loved. A painful longing filled him. Absolutely beautiful, he thought. Full of life, excited at learning new things.

“Well,” he said, smiling and opening the door to the cab. “You look like you had a productive day.”

It was the first time he’d ever smiled directly at her. It was genuine and engaging. She beamed back. “I did,” she said, as it started to rain. “I had a surprisingly good day, a full day.”

Jackson offered his hand to help her into the truck. She studied his big rough hand for a moment before taking it. Grace felt her body respond in the brief seconds she touched him. Jackson felt the pulsing, like electricity, moving through him. “Grace…,” he said quietly, but her name was lost to the drumbeat of the rain in the sheltered space under the brim of his hat.

He took a deep breath and a step back, slowly closed the cab door. He walked around the front of the truck with his head down, fumbling with his keys.

In the cab, Grace’s mind quickly fashioned objections. I have a job to do, she thought. We’re too different. There can’t be anything. Ever.

Jackson got in behind the wheel and shook out his hat, closed the door and turned the ignition, let the engine idle. “I, well, you,” he said, fiddling with the heater.

“Yes, it was a good day,” she said. “Thank you for that.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding, his voice rough, quiet. “One of the best.”

They drove home in silence as the sun set and the trees lining the road disappeared into a velvet blackness.