In a warehouse west of downtown Los Angeles, cool mist spiraled up from the cement floor and swirled around the plastic trunks of palm trees. Above, polyester fur monkeys perched on branches and hung from PVC fronds.
A placard on a stand welcomed everyone to the Rainforest Protection League’s annual fundraiser where wealthy donors mingled with celebrities. Leonardo DiCaprio was there and his young date chatted up twenty-somethings manning a swagbag-laden booth flashing BEZO’S EARTH FUND in lime green neon.
$10 billion of Amazon profits had journeyed to Jeff Bezo’s personal fortune and landed in his Earth Fund and its young staffers were enthusiastically promoting a global campaign to combat climate change.
The sounds of animal howls and bird calls emanated from hidden speakers, then faded away as the DJ dialed up “The Rain Forest Song”.
Here's a song about a place / That's threatened by the human race / Want to let you know / Tropical rain falls on tropical trees
The tropical rainforest, won't you please / Help us save it now?
Grace Newman paused in the doorway, head held high above an elegant neck. Her Michael Kors racerback sheath in forest green accented her golden shoulders and the strong slim arms of a swimmer.
Men appraised her, but one called out, establishing ownership. The others turned away.
“Grace, you’re late,” said Tony Dixon. He brushed his lips lightly over her cheek.
“Sorry. Work, just work,” she said, thinking, How gorgeous he looks! So tall and slim.
“Forget about The Trib and enjoy life tonight, Grace,” he said, tucking her under his arm and winding through the crowd to the bar. He ordered cocktails and smiled. “Great turnout, right?” he asked.
She nodded, sipped her drink. “The League’s fundraisers are always amazing.”
Friends waved from across the room. “Grace! Tony! Over here!”
Tony placed his hand firmly on the small of Grace’s back as they made their way through the mist. Several men watched her move, evaluating the relationship.
Grace, in her 30s, was gaining confidence in her power, professionally and as a woman. She stood up straighter as she maneuvered through what seemed to be a sea of men. She brushed her dark hair back. A slight smile touched her full lips and a small dimple made a brief appearance in her left cheek.
The couple joined Jerry and Tanya Lizan, founders of the Rainforest Protection League, among others. Grace and Tony knew many of them—legislative staff and environmental group employees, reporters, digital content talent with their handlers and techies. Heads nodded to introductions, a few waves, kisses tossed. Few offered handshakes anymore, a post pandemic shift in social norms. Many wore brightly colored masks and, from time to time, coated their hands with chemicals discreetly dispensed from small plastic bottles of Purell.
Mia, a social media intern with the Sequoia Club, swayed to the music:
All the birds in all the trees / Every insect and every leaf / Is important too / Here's what we must do
Tell everybody that it's not okay / To let the forests just burn away / Got to say it loud / Got to say it proudOoh, it gives us air to breathe / Ooh, the animals call it home / Ooh, its medicines help you and me / Ooh, help us save it before it's gone
“Don’t you just love the look?” asked Mia.
“Like being in a rainforest,” said Tanya. “Without the humidity.”
“Or lumberjacks and chainsaws!” laughed a Green Gaia staffer with a New York accent.
“Or mosquitoes,” laughed Don from the Audubon Council.
“No Zika!” added Tony, to laughter.
Someone cranked up the mist machine. “It’s going up my skirt!” giggled Mia as she leaned back, tossed her blonde locks. Her date whispered something in her ear and she laughed loudly. He grinned, squeezed her thigh.
“All these people coming together to help the Earth!” said Jerry. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? I remember when I was just a young field op, paid peanuts—plus travel and expenses.”
“And legal fees when we got arrested,” laughed Tanya.
“Yeah, tough times, but it meant the world to us,” said Jerry. “After all, what’s more important than saving the planet?”
“It’s a calling, more than a job,” said Tony and everyone nodded.
“Ya know,” said Mia, “this reminds me of Vegas. That place with sharks, right?”
The table fell into an embarrassed silence.
“It’s criminal to kidnap and incarcerate animals for tourists to gawk at,” said Jerry. “And this is nothing like Vegas, the planet’s greatest energy hog. This event is run on renewables, solar and wind powered by Tesla Powerwalls!”
Grace stifled a laugh. How many? she wondered. How long before they run out of juice and flip back to the grid? Grace knew the California energy mix by heart: 40% natural gas with half of that produced in California; 10% each, hydro and nuclear; 5% geothermal; 3% coal. Solar, 14%; wind, 11%. The most recent stats for bird and bat kills by windmills ran through her head. She tried to ignore them, but they were quickly replaced by worries over SF6 and BPA used in windmills and solar grids. Grace sighed.
Mia pouted. “I love sharks. Monkeys too,” she said.
“Universal Studios donated the artificial monkeys we have to support our educational programs on the propagation of endangered species,” said Jerry.
Tanya Lizan spotted Amazon’s Jeff Bezos and his companion Lauren Sánchez entering the room. They wore bright Miami shirts and hats advertising BEZO’S EARTH FUND. People buzzed around them like bees to nectar. Grace spotted her editor Chase Stanford and his wife Justine among them.
“Excuse us,” said Tanya as she and Jerry left, with several staffers and Don of the Audubon Council trailing behind them.
Mia sulked. “Sharks are better,” she said but was quickly distracted by a bevy of celebrities. “Hey, look!” she yelled. “There’s that weird guy from YouTube!”
A Bezo’s Earth Fund employee approached with glossy pink swagbags stuffed with Amazon Q-code discount cards, jars of rainforest coca butter and sunscreen. Grace checked the labels. Mineral oil, palm oil and far too many chemicals, she thought. A bag of coffee was certified as fair trade by an organization she didn’t recognize.
At the bottom of her swagbag was a day-glo lime eco-fleece hoodie with a bright pink Patagonia label.
Grace thought about how Patagonia’s founder, Yvon Chouinard, had funded green groups all over the planet and they all proudly wore his eco-fleece products. As he moved into his final decades on the planet, he’d transferred the corporation to a climate and extinction fund. “Earth is now our only shareholder,” claimed the press release. “All profits are now the planet's.” Most praised the decision as earth-saving, but some saw it as a tax dodge.
Grace believed it was something more. Patagonia’s business model ran plastic waste through an intermediary business while generating another layer of profit with eco-fleece synthetic clothing. It didn’t stop, only delayed, the inevitable disposal of plastic, whatever transformation it took and microplastics shed from Patagonia’s plastic-based products were polluting the planet. She and others asked, Did Patagonia just transfer its pollution liability to an ecogroup right in front of our eyes?
Grace bit her lip and considered the evolution of the Rainforest Protection League’s messaging from saving forests to evictions of the locals and bans on rainforest products to support for certification schemes, debt for nature and climate swaps. They’d helped generate UN treaties for rainforest genetics and biological diversity, and developed carbon markets tied to climate change campaigns.
She fingered the synthetic fibers of Patagonia’s eco-fleece hoodie, thinking, They’re all bashing fossil fuels and yet here they are—petrochemicals. Everywhere. Still.
Grace sighed and whispered in Tony’s ear, “Gotta go,” she said.
“Already?” he asked, rising with her. “I was hoping you’d stay, mingle. That maybe tonight we might…”
“No, you stay. Enjoy yourself.” She handed her swagbag to Mia who grinned happily. Grace gave Tony a peck and he leaned into her. She placed her hand firmly on his chest and pulled away. “We’ll talk soon,” she said.
“Maybe a weekend away, Grace?” he asked as a man tugged at his arm. “Tony! Tony! Tony! You absolutely must help these people! They’re trying to save Australia from mining and need pro bono help!”
Tony blew Grace a kiss and left with the man.
On safari for a new client, thought Grace as she navigated through the crowd. She handed out cards to those who could arrange key interviews, rejected offers of drinks, said her goodbyes to friends. The EXIT sign beckoned, glowing an eerie red through the mist, leading to the valet waiting underground and beyond to endless rows of freeway taillights.
<><><><>
The Los Angeles Tribune building is squeezed between two freeways spanning a grove of eucalyptus rising from an arroyo, a dry riverbed.
Not long ago, behind its wall of mirrored glass, a hive of reporters stacked in cubicles over five floors had keystroked their way to designated word counts. Now, most worked remotely, coming in once or twice a month to connect with their editors. The Trib occupied just one floor—the other four were empty, a sign of the times.
Journalist Grace Newman had come in for half a day, a deadline hovering overhead. She’d chosen a cubicle with a view of dusty eucalyptus trees. She checked her editor’s notes and worked her way through her piece.
Grace’s cellphone vibrated; caller ID said it was Mike Tate of the Washington Resources Defense Council in Seattle, Washington. “Hi, Mike. How are you?” she asked, finishing a few keystrokes.
“Good, Grace, thanks,” he said. “Santa Ana winds down there?”
“Yep,” said Grace, studying the eucalyptus grove below. The warm October winds whipped their limbs mercilessly, but the glass was so thick the wind was silent.
“We’ve got wind up here,” said Mike. “Fires too. Again.”
“Read about it,” said Grace. “Triggered by drought conditions, climate change. Three states, a hundred thousand plus acres, damages mounting.”
“We’re losing prime spotted owl and lynx habitat,” he said. “Precious, irreplaceable rainforest reduced to cinders—absolutely heartbreaking.” In Seattle, Mike Tate wrinkled his brow and lowered his voice. “Grace, loggers up here have a saying, ‘the blacker the burn, the bigger the paycheck.’”
“Arson?” she asked. “Are there police reports, arrests, Mike?”
“Not yet, but it all adds up, Grace,” he said. “We won that case last month in the Ninth Circuit, shut down another huge timber sale. Plus fires are burning out on the Olympic Peninsula—it’s so wet out there, fires are not usually a problem, but unemployed loggers torch forests for the salvage work and the mills turn those charred trees into lumber and money! That’s motivation, Grace.”
“Proof, Mike?”
“I can give you leads, Grace. Good ones,” said Mike. “Their locals are hard core out there. The owner of one of the sawmills on the Olympic—a real Neanderthal—threw us out of his office when we tried to educate him about logging!”
“Email me the last court ruling. Anything on the fires, hard evidence, whatever. No promises. I’m on deadline, Mike. Gotta go,” she said, ending the call.
In Seattle, Mike Tate smiled. Good pitch, he thought.
In Los Angeles, for a fleeting second, Grace contemplated a headline:
Arson for a buck? Salvaged logs—gold for sawmills starving for timber at any price.
The wall clock at the far end of the newsroom said she had minutes to finish her grazing story. Timber could wait. She frowned at her notes, found the thread. She typed fluidly, the keys extensions of her fingertips.
A certain number of cattle are vital to the profitability and viability of the ranches, say cattlemen intent on preserving what they see as the Western way of life. They claim that well-managed herds, as with wild grazers—deer, elk or bison—improve the health of the range by disturbing and fertilizing the soil and forcing vibrant plant growth. Recent scientific studies have shown that larger grazers can deter predators, contributing to the viability of nesting sites for ground dwelling birds, such as the threatened sage grouse.
The Sequoia Club, however, states that over-grazing diminishes the ecosystem’s ability to sustain itself and, without limits on the size of herds, land converts to desert, negatively impacting native species.
The ranchers argue that it’s not so much the size of the herds, but the amount of time a herd grazes an area that is crucial. They insist that grasses evolved in conjunction with grazing animals that were routinely moved by predators such as wolves. Domesticated livestock herds, say ranchers, moved regularly by cowboys, play the same role in the ecosystem. They quote the work of Allan Savory, a controversial grasslands scientist.
Idaho has more cattle than people and its beef herd, cattle and calves, is declining, currently at about 2 million head. Conservationists insist it should be far smaller to avoid environmental degradation as well as to reflect the fact that demand for meat will diminish as climate change increases costs and consumers switch to a plant- and synthetic protein-based diet. The nonprofit Defenders of the Wild Range, while not endorsing a complete ban on cattle ranching, is campaigning for a 70% reduction in livestock numbers. Executive Director Ted Robinson said, “Our children’s future depends on our ability to find solutions today, to make the hard choices necessary to ensure the range is forever free and wild.”
Cattle ranchers argue that the cattle herd size should be held steady, even increased. Some argue that a commercial trade in bison, deer and elk products should be legalized so that raising native species can be financially viable.
The future of ranching in Idaho is anything but secure. Recent court decisions have not supported the cattlemen’s position. It is hoped that the rulings will increase the long-term health of native wildlife and allow the rangelands to flourish, with or without the American cowboy.
Grace saved the document, sent it to fact checking and editing. “Ha! Five minutes to spare!” she said.
In another cubicle, fashion writer Ricki Denton grinned. “You go, girl!” she said without missing a stroke.
Grace stood and stretched. She felt the familiar shiver of anticipation knowing that people all over Los Angeles, a county of over ten million, would read her byline tomorrow. It would be picked up and spread by other newspapers, blogs and websites. Among the millions of readers would be those passionately battling to save the Earth. They’d be moved by what she’d written, would quote it, link to it, circulating it further around the globe.
The ranchers won’t like it, she thought, recalling the comments of her editor Chase Stanford: “Not many ranchers out there and they certainly aren’t L.A. Trib subscribers.”
Grace headed for the break room. When she returned to her desk with a cup of coffee, Mike Tate had already sent a press release on the court win, the legal documents along with links to articles about the fires. He also sent an invite asking Grace to facilitate a panel discussion on forestry management at UCLA in the spring.
Grace hailed Chase Stanford, her editor, as he hurried past her desk. “Chase? Take a look at this?”
He frowned. “I need to catch Joe before he goes to the courthouse on that Westside shooting.”
“It’s short,” she said.
Chase scanned the invite on her screen. “Do it,” he said, turning to leave.
“You don’t see any sort of conflict?” she asked.
“You’re not advocating a position. You’re facilitating discussion, helping to keep it all civil. Do it. It’s good exposure. Could help you get that job on Future Planet News.”
Grace blushed. “You know about that?” she asked.
“I’m your editor. I know everything,” he said and was gone.
“OK, how the hell…” Grace whispered watching the Santa Ana winds thrash the eucalyptus outside.
“He knows everything,” laughed Ricki from her cubicle. “Seriously, everything!”
