CHAPTER 9: Nice Camo Job

At the top of the hill behind Armstrong Mill, the pilot was finishing the pre-flight check on the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter while Grace and Jackson watched from a distance. Frank joined them, carrying paperwork in a plastic envelope. “Can we talk a minute, brother?” he asked, leading Jackson out of earshot.

The pilot finished up, wiped his hands on a rag and smiled at Grace. She stepped forward, introduced herself. “Azi Uloki,” he said, shaking her hand. “A pleasure, Miss.”

Grace learned Azi was from a Nigerian timber town, earned his citizenship serving in the US military. “Have a beer with me sometime, Azi?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, noticing that Jackson and Frank were walking over. “Maybe best not to tell the boss?” he added quietly. She nodded.

Jackson said, “I see you two have met?” Azi and Grace nodded and Jackson said, “Look, I’m sorry, but we can’t take you. We’ll get someone to drive you home.”

The men eyed her, measuring her response. “Hey, I’ve been up in choppers before,” she said. “I won’t get sick.”

“It’s not that,” said Frank. “To speak plainly, we just can’t afford the risk.”

“Reporters fly through war zones all the time. We never sue.” She smiled, adding, “Happy to sign a waiver.”

Azi and Jackson looked at Frank, establishing an obvious pecking order. Frank shook his head.

“Come on,” said Grace. “If I die, The Trib pays out on a hefty insurance policy to my family. End of story.”

Frank hesitated, then said, “You’ll need to read the waiver before signing it.” He pulled a document from its envelope and handed it to Grace.

She scanned the paperwork. “This includes a confidentiality clause,” she said.

“If we go down and you live to tell the tale, I don’t want to read about it,” said Frank.

Grace placed the paperwork against the hull of the helicopter, ready to sign. “Hell, no,” said Azi, placing a thick manual under it. “Better,” he said. Once signed, Frank placed the waiver back in its plastic envelope and laid it to the side of the landing pad, topped with a heavy rock. Grace raised an eyebrow.

“If we go down, it does down,” said Frank. “Best to leave it here so the lawyers can argue about it later—when we’re all dead.” He grinned and laughed. Jackson and Grace laughed too.

Azi did not. “Not funny,” he said, shaking his head.

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Frank sat up front with Azi while Grace and Jackson buckled up their harnesses in the back. Frank handed out headphones and Azi checked off final items. The helicopter's engine roared to life, the rotor blades turned. They lifted off. Tips of evergreens swayed as they flew over and the mill disappeared from view.

Jackson tapped Grace’s arm and pointed north. “My family owns to the horizon,” he said. “That area is second growth, scheduled for cutting in a decade. Those dark green stands are Sitka spruce and Western red cedar. The light yellowy green areas are ten-year-old Doug fir clear cuts.”

The Jet Ranger flew over a rise and flitted above the heads of loggers working. Only one looked up; the rest of the men gave the machine as much thought as a pesky mosquito. The helicopter continued on for twenty minutes, over patchworks of new and old growth; a sea of green and blue firs fading to varying shades of gray in the distance. All sign of human life was left far behind and the vista to the horizon was unbroken, snow-capped mountain peaks rising around them.

“You log in winter?” asked Grace.

“Logging goes on all year in Western Washington State. We’ll stop for a few weeks waiting on frozen roads to thaw in the winter, during high fire risk in late summer.”

Jackson pointed. “My grandfather won title to 500 acres there in a lucky poker hand long ago. I’m named after it, Jackson Valley. That mountain, there, has protected this valley from wind, allowing the trees to grow to an enormous size. Silver fir, some hemlock. We’ll contract out the helicopter work, pull out individuals in a selective cut. Everyone else in the area has sold out to the feds. A few more years, maybe months, and the government might just take it, so we’re logging it now.”

“Can they do that?” asked Grace.

“Take it? You better believe it. We’re ‘inholders’, property owners surrounded by a National Park,” explained Jackson. “Gives government eminent domain rights to appropriate private property for public use with compensation. What we get paid is up for discussion.”  

Frank added, “Discussing anything with the government is always a pricey conversation. Best deal would be they take some land for the right to log the rest. We can’t build roads through the Park so costs to log a small parcel like this by air will be high. Any piece the feds grab could take all the profit out of the job.”

Frank and Jackson studied how to make the cut profitable—ridge lines, watersheds, stream buffers and species of trees, which were the most valuable or easiest to log. They thought through getting men in and out, efficient use of labor and helicopters. Jackson made notes while Frank circled areas, X’d out others, on a topo map on his tablet.

A high frequency vibration was heard and felt by all. Grace held her breath.

“Tail rotor,” said Azi. “Need to land, now!” Everyone started looking for a landing spot.

“Damn machine,” said Frank as he radioed in their position. Jackson tugged on Grace’s harness, making sure it was tight.

The tail rotor continued vibrating and Azi struggled to control the machine. Grace grabbed what she thought was the armrest before she realized there wasn’t one. She’d grabbed Jackson’s thigh. He didn’t notice. “Meadow!” he yelled, pointing. “30 degrees east.”

“Prepare to auto-rotate down,” said Azi as he wound the engine throttle back to idle. Beyond the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the rotors, the quiet was frightening.

“Thank God there’s no wind,” whispered Frank.

“Brace for impact!” yelled Azi. Grace did. They all did.

The rotor blades continued to turn but lost speed. Azi guided their descent by making large spirals, turning the helicopter around and around. The world outside the windows moved in dizzying whirls. A blur of green treetops passed by the windows and Grace felt like she was on an out-of-control carnival ride.

As they approached the ground, Azi advanced the throttle twist grip back to the maximum position and lifted the collective control stick, thereby arresting the descent and bringing the aircraft back into hover mode. They landed with a gentle thud. 

“Beautiful maneuver, Azi,” said Frank as he radioed in their position, adding, “It was a safe landing.” He climbed out, cursed his left hip and limped away, keeping his head low as the rotors continued to turn. 

Grace’s hands were shaking as she pulled off her headphones. Jackson leaned over her, a look of concern on his face. He put a hand on her shoulder and helped her out, saying, “Azi needs five to shut it all down.” 

Grace’s legs wobbled and she almost fell. “You’re OK,” said Jackson, steadying her. “Everyone’s OK. Not to worry.”

Grace frowned. “Not to worry?” she asked quietly. “Not to worry?” her voice rose an octave. “This place is a disaster! You’re flying around in a fancy toy you can’t afford to maintain! Where did you cut corners, huh? I must have been crazy to get in that machine with you!”

Jackson stopped, turned, his face stern. Grace backed up three full paces as he approached. “Look, lady,” he said, “every helicopter is risky—that’s why insurance is so damn expensive. We accept that risk and we warned you. When you gave us your ‘fearless reporter’ speech and signed a waiver, you accepted that risk too. But maybe,” he said, “you’re just not up to this.”

Frank limped over. “You can stay here and we’ll ask the feds to send a chopper for you.”

“Yeah, right,” said Jackson. “It’ll arrive tomorrow or the next day—one never knows with government.”

“She could hike,” said Frank. “It’s about two days to the road,” he said, looking at Grace. “A trucker could pick her up.”

“She’d die before she got there. Or,” said Jackson, “Azi can get this crate working and she can fly back with us.” He looked at Grace. “Your choice.”

The rotors finally stopped turning and Frank limped over to the tail rotor with Azi and Jackson following.

Grace took several deep breaths and a short walk before joining them. “Sorry, guys,” she muttered, hanging her head.

Azi looked at her without comment, returned to his work.

“Hey, no problem,” said Frank. “I auto-rotated down once in the Navy—threw up all over my pants.” He laughed. “Azi? How about you?”

“Twice. In Nigeria,” he said. They all waited, but he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jackson patted Azi’s shoulder and said, “Well, that was a first for me. Prefer it be the last.” Everyone laughed and Grace felt foolish but forgiven. Jackson gave her a nod of approval, then led her away, sat her under a tree. He handed her water and a metal flask of coffee, heavy and sweet with cream and sugar.

“Rest here,” he said gently before returning to the men.

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Azi looked at Jackson. “Can’t hear us, can she?” he whispered.

Jackson shook his head. “Whatcha got?”

“Here,” said Azi pointing to the balancing weights on the tail rotor. A bolt was missing.

“How’d you miss that?” asked Frank.

“Didn’t,” said Azi. “That bolt was there. Somebody replaced it with a lower grade so it would shear off under stress. Look at these marks ’round the hole. Changed out the bolt, covered it up with paint.”

“Nice camo job,” said Jackson.

“I checked this rig before we went up,” said Azi. “Like I always do. Never spotted it.”

Jackson shook his head in disgust. “Friggin’ hell,” he said.

“There’s more,” said Azi, pointing to another bolt on the tail rotor. He flipped it with his fingers. It twirled freely. “One bolt breaks, throws the tail rotor out of balance. Vibration loosens the second one. Another few minutes and it would have come off too. We’d have lost the tail rotor completely.”

“No control,” said Frank. “Do not tell my wife. Fuck.”

“Fuck is right,” said Jackson.

Azi shook his head. “Sabotage.”

“Friggin’ eco-terrorists,” said Jackson. “Like something straight out of that wacky Eco Defense manual.”

Frank gave Grace a quick look. “Don’t tell the lady reporter,” he said. Jackson and Azi nodded.

Using spare parts, Azi worked slowly, methodically, then declared he was ready for a test. Once the others were safely beyond rotor range, he turned over the engine. It started easily; tail rotors turning smoothly. He gave a thumbs-up and the men grinned. “Hop in! Let’s go!” yelled Frank as Azi radioed in their flight plan and ETA.

Grace hesitated then climbed in. Jackson took her hand as the helicopter lifted up. Grace smiled at him before pulling her hand away.

The group was silent on the return flight, thinking about how close they’d come to death.

Frank also worried about the mill running out of logs before the litigation got resolved. Maybe we can get some logs from a burn site, he thought. Piedmont Mill’s already locked up one sale, but they laid off half their workers last month and aren’t working at full capacity. Maybe they’ll flip for a quick profit? Montana’s struggling with grizzly bear reintroductions so that’s out. Maybe truck in some logs from the big New Mexico forest fire? This madness hasn’t hit as hard there. Yet. Frank frowned. Maybe just take the Masters Logging offer and run? He shook his head. Run where? Do what?

As the helicopter flew over the ever-expanding wilderness, Jackson studied stands of trees the color of ash. With too many people living in pressboard trailers and shacks, he thought, this is a sickening sight! Dead and dying timber, no breathing room. Skinny, old trees, suffocating, choked by brush, infested with beetles, doomed to be ravaged by fire with no benefit to man. Too far from the city for eco-tourism; too sick and skinny to look at anyway. Waste!

Grace took comfort in the steady drone of the helicopter engine and its rotors as she watched the forest go by beneath her. She’d read and written a lot about the forest, but she had never felt it before. These are real people, she thought sadly, struggling with real problems and losing badly.

She thought on the canned comments on timber. Clear cuts are bad. Old growth is good. Simplistic statements designed to appeal to urban audiences already overwhelmed with too much information, too little time. How much do I really know? she thought. And how much do I think I know that isn’t really true?

The helicopter banked high over a ridge and Grace looked down on the Armstrong homestead and the surrounding grounds, including Sara’s chicken coop. A small river ran through a gully a few hundred yards behind the house. Grace imagined hearing the sound of water while sitting on the back porch. Someone gave a lot of thought to laying out that house, she thought.

Stands of trees separated the Armstrong house from two more homes. “Who lives there?” asked Grace.

Frank replied, “The one with the swing set is mine. The other house is Jack’s—Dragonfly Glen.”

Jackson’s house was set on a small rise with its back to a larger hill that protected it from the wind, but it was still high enough that it had a view of a river valley. The overgrown gardens and walking paths had been laid out with great care over several acres around the structure. The property had a barn and a training area for horses, an empty corral. A fallen tree had broken through one of the fences. The house, while not large, had a gabled slate roof and two stone chimneys. Grace noticed that Jackson did not look down.

After landing at the mill, Azi got to work while Frank and Jackson stood by nervously, waiting for Grace to leave.

“Mind if I watch the mill operations, make some notes?” she asked. 

“Sure, sure, you can use the small office,” said Frank.

Jackson nodded. “I’ll show you,” he said, leading her to the mill and unlocking the back door. They retrieved her backpack from the locker and he led her up a steel staircase to a room with several boards of different sizes and species leaned against two filing cabinets. There was a small window behind a metal desk with a high-backed chair.

“Wi-Fi code’s in the top drawer,” he said. “OK?”

“Perfect,” she said, sitting behind the desk. As he left, she slid her computer out of her backpack, powered it up.

Grace leaned back in her chair and peeked out the little window. A young mechanic was working on the motor of a forklift in the machine shop and Jackson was walking up the hill to Frank and Azi. An older mechanic in coveralls joined them and, together, the men studied the tail rotor.

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Grace organized her thoughts. Her hands shook and her heart beat rose when she typed notes on the crash into her computer. She checked her calendar. She had a luncheon appointment in Seattle tomorrow with Paula Karmin of the Wildness Society and Michelle Harder of the Sequoia Club. She emailed Ingrid at the library and asked for more research time.

She searched The Los Angeles Tribune archives for an article she remembered about a timber mill in Mexico, a maquiladora that exported finished lumber to the family’s distribution center in Brownsville, Texas. The owner’s daughter, Maria Tonales, had negotiated away US tariffs on their product, an exemption worth a cool five million a year to the firm. Grace called the Tonales Lumber Yard in Texas, asked for Maria.

“Yeah, Commerce Department lets us import raw to completely finished product, no tariffs,” explained Maria. “We’re up for selling raw logs, but never have. Doesn’t make economic sense—labor’s cheaper at our Mexican mill.”

Grace gave Maria the number for Armstrong Mill. “Talk to Frank Armstrong. Don’t use my name,” she said.

“Can do,” said Maria. “If the sale goes through, I owe you a commission. But why is an environmental reporter from L.A. freelancing as a lumber broker?”

Grace dodged the question. “Call me next time you’re in L.A.,” she said. “We’ll do lunch.”

Grace ended the call, walked out of the office and looked down on the mill floor below. Raw logs entered the mill where a debarker peeled them. Once clean, a chain pulled them along; rotating blades sliced them into slabs. The slabs were cut down, edged into finished boards. Conveyor belts moved these to where they were pulled by size, grade, and length, then stacked on pallets.

She went back in the office and peered out her tiny window. The young mechanic was still working on the forklift in the machine shop. He tried turning the motor over a few times without success. He cursed, slammed down a wrench.

On the hill where the helicopter sat, she could see that Frank was gone but the Sheriff had joined the older mechanic, Jackson and Azi. Why call the Sheriff? she wondered.

Grace scribbled thoughts into her notebook:

Timber Markets / Demand

NW Forests / Supply

Eco-Groups/ Pressure Campaigns

Media / Public

Government / Regs

At the bottom of the page she scribbled a picture of two trains colliding.

Grace stood and chose one of the boards leaning against the wall of the office and laid it across the desk. She studied its grain. It flowed through the wood like ripples in water.

She ran her fingers over it. Beautiful, she thought. I’ll never look at wood the same way again.