CHAPTER 8: A Blessing and a Curse

Jackson’s F-350 rounded a hill, pulled over and parked. “Let me give you the lay of the land,” he said as he got out of the truck. They stood looking over a wide, flat valley and down on an industrial site with several buildings.

“That’s 60 acres, fenced,” he said, “with 30 paved for the log yard to avoid a muddy mess. Mud equals wear and tear on equipment plus we mill high grade logs. Don’t want them running through the mill with mud, rocks and crap on ’em.”

Trucks loaded with logs rolled into the yard and stopped in front of a huge yellow machine. “LeTourneau,” said Jackson, pointing at what looked like a forklift with pinchers. It unloaded the log truck, one massive gulp at a time, rolled the logs out on the blacktop.

“Once empty, the truck heads back to the woods for another load. After the last load of the day, they’re run through a wash rack. Clean trucks keep our contract drivers happy,” he said with a small smile.  

Jackson pointed to stacked logs. “Sprinklers run on those decks to keep the logs from checking, cracking, and to reduce fire risk,” he said. “These logs were loaded in the woods by species, but here log scalers measure for board feet volume and grade, quality.” He pointed, “From there, forklifts move the logs to conveyor chains that take them to the debarker. Once debarked, they move through a high strain band mill in that building there, the big one in the center.”

Grace watched a debarked log disappear on a convey belt into the side of the mill. “In they go,” said Jackson. He stopped for a moment, turned to her. “At that point, the sawyer sitting in a soundproof booth has the option of allowing laser scanners to cut the log or they can do it visually. Very high-quality logs are often cut visually because scanners can’t see grade as well as an experienced sawyer,” he said. “Once the cutting is complete, conveyor chains direct the product through edgers and sanders that finish it, turning a log into what is officially lumber.”

He pointed to another building, long and low. “Lumber is sorted there, stacked by grade and species. Many mills have automatic sorters and stackers, but we use human labor, ‘green chains’ we call ’em. Employs a lot of people and sorts out the hard workers and the ambitious from the lazy, along with the lumber.”

He pointed to another section of the long low building. “The lumber is strapped tightly in bundles 4 feet wide by 8 feet tall, organized by length, usually 8-, 12- or 16-foot lengths. It’s tagged as to what it is and bundles are wrapped in white plastic with our company name and logo. For clients demanding it, we add the Sustainable Forests Seal on their lot.”

Jackson shook his head. “These voluntary eco-labels all smell like eco-extortion to me. The playbook is to first hammer us with bad press, then pressure retailers to buy SFS-certified product; then the retailers pressure us to comply. Sales and income tax already support government rules, regs and oversight, but now, with the SFS seal, we’re hosts to another layer of parasitic don’t-know-shit power-drunk bureaucrats who love snooping around our business and our land!”

Grace recalled the “dolphin safe” tuna fiasco and The Secret Life of Lobsters, a book about the Gulf of Maine lobster fishery’s very successful management regime. The lobstermen cut notches into the tails of the biggest female lobsters, returning them to the sea to reproduce. This simple technique selected breeding stock for the best genes. Lobster populations boomed. The Marine Stewardship Council came knocking and the lobstermen bit. Certification took five years and cost the lobstermen over a million. Just before expiration, MSC suspended the lobstermen’s certification. Buyers, including the European Union, Walmart and the Monterey Bay Aquarium, slammed the door on lobster products. Prices cratered. Somebody got a steal on Maine lobster, thought Grace.

Jackson looked up at the sky. “Let’s get going,” he said. They returned to the truck and, as they pulled onto the road, it started pouring down rain followed by hail.

“In a perfect world,” said Jackson as they headed downhill to the mill, “the lumber’s already sold. It’s loaded onto a flatbed headed for a lumber yard someplace. Flatbeds are usually 8 feet wide and 60 feet long. If they have the right axle configuration they can legally carry a gross 129,000 pounds on the Interstate. But the Interstate’s way over in Seattle and we’re limited to 80,000 gross on the roads to get there. So we reload in Seattle, transfer the loads to trucks approved to carry 129,000 gross. Typically, the truck itself, motor and cab/frame, weighs 25,000, so 104,000 pounds of lumber.”

Jackson waved at the guard at the front gate and drove onto the lot, parked in his space.

“See that machine feeding the mill?” asked Jackson, pointing. “Cost half a mil ten years ago. Eco Liberation Front goons came in one night and dumped sand in the gas tank. Cost nearly sixty thousand to repair. That was the same week they carved their initials into the side of my truck while I was at a Yellow Ribbon meeting.” He sighed. “Today we have other problems. The Sequoia Club uses the legal system to pour sand in everything, muddying up the works. We’ll be out of raw logs in a few months if we can’t free up one of the appealed timber sales. Starting and stopping production messes up the equipment as well as the workers’ lives, plays havoc with mill efficiency, so we want to avoid that.”

The rain stopped and they got out of the truck and entered the building. A small woman with short blond hair smiled at them from behind a desk in the lobby. “Mornin’, Jack,” she said.

“Mornin’, Susan,” said Jackson. “This is Grace Newman, the reporter. Grace, this is Susan, receptionist and part time assistant.”

“Welcome,” said Susan. “May I take your coat and hat? Your backpack?”

“Thanks,” said Grace. “I’ll keep the backpack with me.”

“That’s fine,” said Susan, handing her a visitor’s pass and having her sign in.

Grace followed Jackson upstairs to the office area where large windows overlooked the action on the mill floor. The sales area, with partitions trimmed with wood varnished to a golden glow, buzzed with people entering orders, closing sales.

A man who looked like an older and slightly heavier version of Jackson spoke on the phone in an office behind a glass partition. He finished his call as they walked in.

“Welcome, Ms Newman! I’m Frank Armstrong,” he said, pumping Grace’s hand. “We have some brochures on the company, but Amy will show you around.” He turned and pushed a button. “Amy,” he said. “Ms Newman is ready for her tour.”

After a little chit chat about the weather, a woman in her early seventies appeared in the doorway. “Morning, Frank, Jack,” she said.

“Ah, Amy,” said Frank. “This is Ms Newman. Amy’s a retired VP of marketing and sales and will give you the tour.” Frank nodded to Grace, dismissing her with, “Nice to meet you and we’ll see you later.”

Frank turned his attention to his brother, shaking his head as Amy led Grace out of the office. “It doesn’t look good,” Grace heard Frank say.

“Can’t remember the last time it did,” said Jackson.

Downstairs, Grace placed her backpack inside a locker and pocketed the key. Amy handed Grace a hardhat, goggles, earplugs and a headset. She pointed to a yellow line on the floor. “Safety regs require protective gear inside the production area.”

Amy began the tour outside with the debarker, an O-shaped ring with large spikes inside that could be adjusted to fit the log diameter and peel away the bark. Amy pointed out the trim saw behind the ring that accurately trimmed both ends of the log.

“No waste,” she said. “Bark’s sold into the landscaping market. Wood scraps are burned to generate heat for lumber driers. Some lumber’s sold green, but not much. Dried lumber is lighter to transport so most mills dry their lumber before shipping. At the retailers, you’ll see dried and mechanically sanded lumber in racks according to size and species.”

They moved inside, walking along metal catwalks suspended over huge saws and conveyor belts. Surprisingly, there was little sawdust in the air. Grace ran her hand along the steel railings and felt a slight vibration. She gathered up sawdust, velvet soft against her palm, and squeezed it into a small pile. The heat of her hand molded it into a loose wood putty. Grace upturned her hand and the sawdust filtered down. “Where does all the sawdust go?” she asked.

“Down,” said Amy. “A vacuum system sucks the debris out of the air and into a holding area for delivery to a wood pellet mill. Wood pellets have a high energy density, are used for heating and generating electricity. I have a wood pellet heater in my basement, connected to my old radiators. Works well.”

They walked yellow-painted gangways between whirring saws, conveyers and a steady stream of fresh cut lumber.

Grace loved the scent. Right up there with freshly cut grass, she thought.

Amy took Grace to a quiet spot and explained the roles of equipment operators isolated in glass booths. They pressed buttons, pulled levers, cut product, directed flow.

“We use a variation on the just-in-time delivery system so our sawyers are linked to market data,” said Amy. “We can alter cutting, dimensions or species, as minute-by-minute sales data is fed into the system. Technological advances and automation have made it possible for sawmills and plywood plants to recover more wood per log—overrun—more wood from each log than log scale tables estimate. Some of this is due to kerf, the width of a band saw blade. Had to happen.”

“Why is that?” asked Grace.

“Had less to work with. The Forest Service’s 1986 management plan meant we lost access. In 1990, same year the owl was listed, we had a huge blow down. Forest Service laid out 100 million board feet of salvage, sold barely 11. Judge Dwyer’s 1991 decision blocked 75% of timber sales, halting salvage sales on two million board feet. So humans utilized only 9 million out of 100 million board feet of blow down. Meanwhile, globalization forces us to compete with the slave wage areas of the world, triggering more automation. We adjust, do more with fewer trees, less labor. Not good for the forests, the towns or people.”

“Jobs lost?” asked Grace.

“No one really knows for sure,” said Amy. “Maybe 80,000 hands-on timber jobs? Hard to separate out how many were lost, or gained, due to conflict or consolidation, technology and automation. This mill, and hundreds like it, used to contract with independent loggers and truckers all over the Pacific Northwest. Each job in the wood products industry used to generate another one and a half indirect jobs, supporting hundreds of towns—real estate, banks, restaurants, stores, schools. A real forest community. Timber towns really felt it when all those people left.” “Oh, well,” she said, “Progress, right? Amazon’s making a fortune using Postal Service labor to deliver anything anywhere. In the future, what will it be? Drones delivering packages—while doing surveillance for government—while we old codgers complain about motor noise and privacy rights?”

Amy sighed. “The big guys navigated the ESA maze better than the small operators so we lost the little timber companies with no land first. I was sorry to see them go. They were innovative, nimble, where the cutting edge ideas incubated.”

Amy smiled and said, “Armstrong Mill is a hybrid, surviving because the Armstrong family has its own land, good land, and embraced mechanical systems run by circuit boards. Lots more programmers and less heavy lifting in the woods and mills. Armstrong Mill produces far more now with only about 60 workers, but the investment was high and that locks them into doing business a certain way. It may look cutting edge now, but things change quickly. A few years and it will all be out of date. Harder to innovate with all that overhead centralized in equipment, software and training.”

She grimaced. “Back to the jobs question. We have about 2,000 animal species in Washington State, with 300 of those considered species of concern and several dozen endangered—from whales, gray wolves and grizzly bears to pygmy rabbits, butterflies and cuckoos. ESA regulation triggers litigation. Automation and litigation create a need for programmers and lawyers in the city, not here. Should we count those, plus the government and bureaucratic jobs gained? Jobs at the eco-groups? Their army of lawyers and certifiers? Maybe we should add in firefighting jobs too? Should we count those as forestry-related jobs added even though they’re mostly paid for by taxpayers via the treasury, making the country poorer?”

Amy paused and thought for a moment, then said, “In 2015, Weyerhaeuser and Plum Creek merged, creating the world’s biggest forest products company, 13 million acres in the US, combined equity value $23 billion on annual gross earnings of over $2 billion. Weyerhaeuser then reformed into a REIT for tax purposes and pushed harder for profit. That’s reflected in shorter rotation cycles, more tree plantations, fewer benefits to timber workers and timber towns.”

She shook her head. “Wall Street bought the forest and it’s almost impossible for little guys without land to survive. It’s a forced shift to consolidation and automation, from indigenous workers to itinerant workers with dubious paperwork. We’re losing community, a sense of place in America. They may try to cover it up with a sustainable label slapped on the product, but it’s still just techno-serfdom, a reconstituted global model against which we’re forced to compete.”

“That’s pretty strong language,” said Grace.

Amy sighed. “I grew up in the timber biz. I hate what’s happening.”

“Hard to argue against consolidation and efficiency,” said Grace.

“Maybe,” said Amy. “We used to process enough forest products to build the equivalent of 15,000 standard three-bedroom homes every year and that was plenty. There were thousands of us scattered all over America. Hell, we built America. Now the country is being torched in more ways than one. We’re fewer millworkers in a bigger mill plus part time firefighters. We can’t possibly keep up with the fuel load.

Amy shook her head, “A lot of Silvercreek left after the ‘93 Timber Summit. The Santiam Fire—one of Oregon’s most destructive—hit Mill City, Idanha, Detroit, Gates and Lyons—over 400,000 acres burned. Combine that with COVID regs and it was a double punch to the gut in 2020. Bad year. More people left.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Not sure,” said Amy. “Some of us, like me, are hunkered down on social security. Two of my three kids were in rentals that burned in Mill City in 2020; ended up in Portland, working at a homeless shelter and a Starbucks. My third child’s still here, in Silvercreek. He’s a Sheriff’s Deputy. Used to be a good job. Now it’s downright deadly."

“What’s the impact of the current litigation on the Armstrong operation?” asked Grace.

“Armstrong Mill stands to lose 2.6 million board feet from sales appealed under the ESA. I think they passed 50 lawsuits awhile back. Sometimes they move forward. Sometimes not. Either way, the courts order payments to the public interest lawyers filing the suits so it’s a profit center for some.”

“Who pays for that?” asked Grace.

“Government,” said Amy. “Or, I should say, we taxpayers. We pay, under the Equal Access to Justice Act of 1980. The EAJA was sold to Congress using veterans as cover. The lobbyists said it would subsidize small claimants, disabled vets, suing the Federal government. Wyoming attorney Karen Budd-Falen discovered the Feds are also paying environmental groups to sue to stop use of private land. Karen tracked $36 million paid out to 19 greenie groups over nine years in just 19 states.”

Amy shook her head in disgust. “Greenie groups raise money for what they call pro bono work,” she said, “and then the government pays their attorneys $500 to $700 an hour to sue the government, to sue us! Worse yet, EAJA payments come out of the Social Security Trust Fund. Hell, Social Security’s going broke, but, hey, at least the lawyers are gettin’ rich.”

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After the mill tour, Grace watched a video on the mill’s history in a small conference room. Amy then led Grace down a hall and out a back door. “Hoping the rain will hold off,” she said, leading Grace to a barn with wooden picnic tables inside and out. The ladies joined workers sitting outside under the branches of a magnificent oak.

Lunch boxes were scattered about the table and Amy produced two sack lunches, gave one to Grace who was introducing herself and handing out cards. The ratio of men to women was about five to one, but the women looked comfortable and sometimes dominated the conversation. One family of three generations was represented.

Grace chose a table, sat down and set down her phone. “OK if I record?” she asked.

Amy looked nervous, but no one said anything. A few people shrugged. One woman said, “Hey, go for it.”

Grace, clicked on the app. “How do you like working here? Any thoughts about the future?” she asked.  

“It’s a good job,” said a young man. “We’re hopin’ to survive.”

“A lot of mills have closed,” added an older heavyset woman. “We could be next.”

“Nah,” said a young woman. “They can’t shut everyone down. Can they?” There was a pause and then people laughed. The young woman blushed.

A middle-aged woman with graying hair patted her shoulder. “We’ll make it, dear,” she said. “The owls aren’t to blame for this,” she whispered to Grace. “We’re at the far edge of the spotted owl range, but we hear ’em. Spots call at dusk and during the night and sound different from barred owls which call out day and night.”

The young woman added, “Government’s been shooting striped owls for decades to save the ones with spots, but now they want to kill millions! Shoot ’em all and their babies too!”

“Such beautiful owls! It’s heartbreaking,” said Amy to nodding heads. “Not sure removing the stronger, more adaptive owls will help the spotted owl win out in the long term, but it’s been decided.”

“It’s a repeat of COVID ,” said a red-haired man with a pony tail. “Lock it all down, stop strong people from living to protect the weak. In this case it’s humans versus owls and they’re going all in on culling, a massive cull of a highly successful native species!”

A middle-aged man shook his head. “Will they do this to protect the murrelet, the goshawk? Species, subspecies and sub-sub-subspecies. Keep the gravy train rolling for their new economy. Not ours.”

“Taxonomy madness,” added Amy, noticing Jackson leaning up against the barn wall, listening to his frustrated mill workers. His face revealed nothing. Amy blushed, looked away.

“Wuhan,” muttered the red-haired young man with the pony tail. People nodded.

“Wuhan,” repeated others. “Joe’s right. Good point.”

“Wuhan?” asked Grace. “I’m sorry, but you lost me there.”

Joe rolled his blue eyes. “It’s all about the sub stocks,” he explained. “Owls, stripes vs spots, sub stocks. For people, it would be like counting redheads, blondes, brunettes, strawberry blondes. Then break it down to redheads in New York, San Fran, Chicago. How far do you want to take this? Let’s save the east side San Fran redheads with green eyes and freckles from extinction, right? You can try, but what if they keep marrying brunettes with brown eyes?”

The group howled.

Joe added, “Break it down into smaller and smaller sub-sub-sub-stocks. Break it down far enough and everything is threatened with extinction. It’s a con.”

“Yeah, Wuhanize it,” said a woman. “They’re playing us.”

“For viruses, it’s variants, sub-lineages, they call it. Same concept,” said Joe. “Alpha, Beta Gamma, Delta, Omicron, XBB whatever. It’s endless. Throw tons of money at surveillance, counting. Data, data, data. Bill Gates and his tech gang love it. Lotsa money in data. Easy work.” Nods around the table. “Wuhan. The virus interbreeds and mutates faster than spotted owls and then the Wuhan strain goes extinct. Epsilon, Theta and Kappa too! Oh, no! Oddly, no one’s suing to save the COVID virus from extinction.”

Everyone laughed. “Wu-wu-wu-hoo-han!” added a young woman.

“It’s all climate change and corona now,” said an older man. “Save the planet, hide away inside. Watch Netflix. Order from Amazon. Precautionary approach for the planet and you!”

A young woman laughed. “Well, maybe not all of you. There are too many of you! Go out of business, drop dead from stress. Fear sold under cover of green and good, in pursuit of safety, health, motherhood, apple pie. Whatever.”

An older woman laughed, “Deep dish apple pie, fulla lies!”

Joe laughed. “But there goes your money. Whoosh! More suits, more meetings, more data, more regs, more money. Whatever works to scare us, grab our cash, push us into the poor house. Different day, same shit, right?”

“Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss,” said a middle-aged balding man. Heads nodded.

A young man circled, playing Tom McDonald’s “New World Order” on his phone.

The system's killing everyone, it sucks, but it's true / They kill you, then they broadcast it and call it the news / Or they'll brainwash you through social media feeds / And if you disagree, delete you immediately / Make America China, pretty easy to see / I will always remember the land of the free

You act like you're so much better than us / Yeah, we know that / Who told you that you're so special? Screw a new world order / Your facts ain't facts without censoring us / Yeah, we know that / Good job, you lose, here's your medal, screw a new world order

“Obvious where the greenies are going with this,” said a skinny old woman. “They never support victims suing polluters for damages. Plenty of precedent for lawsuits on takings of property, but the greenies won’t do it. Why not? Because that would strengthen property rights, individual sovereignty, our Constitutional rights. Can’t have that!”

Heads nodded. “Damn straight,” said a young man, not more than a boy.

The skinny woman continued. “Instead they sue the government, cut deals, walk away with cash. When the regulators leave government, they get jobs with the greenies. Revolving door. Same model used by Big Pharma.”

“Live long enough and see it more clearly,” said an older man. “With the help of the greenies, the big global guys use the bureaucratic maze as a weapon, batter the small independents with all these regs and rules. Same story all over the planet. They treat people like shit, support the government so it supports them and the forests are handed over to the hedge fund managers and the multi-nationals and they’re ruthless.. They’re all in on killing millions of owls with stripes. The owls are nocturnal, roost in cavities. No idea how they’ll figure out which to shoot so they’ll kill spotted owls too. It’s a horror show. The world is upside down. We have to make a stand.”

“Power to the people,” said the skinny woman. “Power to the little people!”

“Power to the local little people,” echoed the others.

“Amen,” said an older man. “Down with eco-colonialism!”

“All about control. It’s twisted,” said a young woman.

“They’re just a spoiled bunch of city people who think water comes out of the tap because they turn it on,” said a bookish young man wearing oversized glasses. “They’ve lost connection to the real world and they treat us like dirt.”

“Yeah, Evan’s right,” added a rotund man in his fifties. “More intelligent than smart. Bitin’ the hand that feeds, clothes and shelters ’em, pullin’ down the resource base of this great country. Obstructionists.”

Heads nodded in agreement. Curious people wandered over from other tables.

“Why do they want to shut you down?” asked Grace.

“They love the idea of trees and birds but hate people. They’re messed up.”

“Rio! Agenda 21, Sustainable Development Goals! 30 by 30. The Wildlands Project—50% of America, human free!”

“Genesis 47:21. City slaves,” said a woman.

“COVID regs hit ‘em hard in the cities. Some lost their jobs, finally woke up.”

“’Bout time.” Heads nodded.

“Yeah,” said a young woman. “Defund the UN.”

“Throw half of Congress in jail,” said an older man.

“Lab leak,” said another. “Lab meat, pharma food.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re trying to kill off at least half of us,” said an old man. “Watch the Malaysian Prime Minister’s speech. He warned us.”

“Reduce the pension burden,” said a man’s voice. “Can’t afford her; Granny’s gotta go!”

“Depopulation Agenda,” said Joe. “Bioweapons!”

“Woo-woo-Wuhan!” yelled a man in the back to laugher.

“If you could do anything to fix the timber situation, what would you do?” asked Grace.

“Pray for lightnin’,” said a low voice. Heads turned to a dark-haired man in his mid-twenties standing under a tree. Some of the workers laughed uneasily.  

“Jason’s right,” said an older man angrily.

A young woman said, “Never mind lightning. I’d say, people, stop givin’ money and power to authoritarians! Once people understand what’s happenin’, they get angry.”

“Yeah,” added another young man. “We’re losing everything while they make billions, livin’ the jet set good life, travelin’ all over the world, making headlines, goin’ to big meetings, talkin’ to big people. Pattin’ themselves on the back for savin’ the planet with one hand, destroyin’ it with the other!”

The crowd cheered.

“Remove all the subsidies,” said Evan. “Let the market pick the most efficient players, producing with the lowest mix of raw materials but stop tripping us up with stupid regulations. Have a strong private insurance sector addressing real risk with zero government-financed risk coverage. Establish prices for fish, food, lumber, etc. before a vessel sails, seeds are planted or timber is harvested—not on delivery when producers are at their weakest. That way producers can walk away from the table, do something else when prices are below production cost.”

Heads nodded. “What he said,” said Joe. People laughed.

“I’ve got more,” said Evan, grinning. “Support property rights, individual sovereignty and the right to sue for damages. Let the lawyers really go at it, but they have to prove damages. The insurance companies will measure that and put loss mitigation in place.” Heads nodded. He continued, “Sunset clause every law on the books, every treaty! Forced housekeeping. After that’s done, limited state and local government can focus only on what they must and the feds can handle the little bit the Constitution delegated to them. As for Article 6 making treaties the supreme law of the land, well, that’s just gotta go!”

There was a round of cheers and applause. The young man blushed.

“Wow,” said Grace. “You’ve given this some thought, Evan.”

He nodded. “Been takin’ economics and risk management classes,” he said.

“That’s my son,” said Evan’s mother, beaming with pride. “He’s thinkin’ ’bout runnin’ for office.”

“He should,” said Grace. “He really should. Add me to your mailing list,” she said, handing him her card and placing a stack on the table. People helped themselves.

A big man said, “Talking to the press won’t do a damn bit of good,” silencing the group.

“Nah,” said an older woman. “Everyone knows mainstream media’s all lies, right?”

Some laughed. Grace looked uncomfortable, as did Joe. “Gotta go,” he mumbled.

Jackson moved away from where he was leaning on the wall and gestured to Grace. “Done here?” he asked. “We’re flying out to survey a cut. Go with us?”

“Thanks for lunch and the tour, Amy,” said Grace. “Bye everyone!” she said to the workers who looked at Jackson, worried they’d said too much.

On the walk uphill to the helicopter pad, Jackson said, “Joe is one of the shyest men I know, but he was sure speaking his mind. As was Evan. You have a real knack for getting people to open up.”

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” said Grace. “Luckily, I’ve learned how to make it pay the rent.” She paused, then added, “They had some very interesting opinions.”

“So,” he said, “it’s a toss-up between bio-genocide and a good old fashioned dystopia?”

“Pretty much.” Grace laughed. Jackson didn’t.