Poking at the ashes of the fire ring, a shaggy haired young man who calls himself "Yew" tells me about a man who visited the camp a week before. "He hiked out here to learn about the tree village, asking me, 'Are these climbers trained? How are the platforms made? Are they safe?' I told him it didn't matter, that we were monkeys. Besides, I'm ready to die for this place." Cascadians are a risky lot; perhaps their treetop roulette dissuades Forest Service climbers from removing them. During a recent visit by Forest Service employees, "Free," secured only by his safety line, startled the workers by jumping six feet off a rope walkway 200 feet high in a tree, chanting and screaming. The camp remains undisturbed.

This fire ring and surrounding camp sit on a logging deck in the nine-acre Clark timber sale near Lowell, Oregon, some of the last unprotected low-elevation old growth in the central Oregon Cascades. I've come out here with Ophelia, another native Southerner and my closest friend from Texas who has listened to my endless tragic tales about the impending ecologic Armageddon. Chicken Little fussing about how the sky is falling typically causes Ophelia's eyes to glaze over, but she agreed to trudge through the mud to witness the creation of a tree village.

This forest is in its climax stage, with many downed logs and snags. Hemlock and vine maple fill the lower canopy, with old man's beard, a soft green usnea, draped throughout. The typical cloud cover diffuses the light in which the understory of salal, Oregon grape and sword ferns thrives. Red cedar and Douglas fir, the largest as old as 600 years, tower overhead.

The Clark encampment began on April 20 when activists hoisted a platform 200-feet off the ground into a gigantic Douglas fir. That day Free climbed into the platform, beginning a 40-day occupation. Logging of the sale can begin any day now, and a quarter-mile road already penetrates the heart of this 96-acre island of ancient forest. Presently, nothing impedes the logging of the seven other units, should the Zip-O Lumber Company decide ignore the people in the trees.

One woman sits 100-feet off the ground in a cargo net, and another platform is under construction. "Spider Island" hovers among the tallest branches of a fir, suspended by an entanglement of traverse ropes. Another forest-dweller, Akasha, has just completed a platform in a neighboring tree; a '70s-style exercise bicycle sits in the treetop townhouse. The sitters pedal 30-miles a day on the bike.

Ophelia walks around a stack of felled trees, each at least 400-years older than she. All the trees in sight wear a badge of either orange or blue, the latter destined for the mill. I show her how many of the trees felled for the road bear orange paint that had obviously been painted over with blue. Zip-O employees visited the site to conceal the orange "leave" markings with blue ones indicating "cut." A Forest Service investigation into timber theft is underway. The stack of felled ancient trees lies against a fir once occupied by Hazel. When the trees came down, loggers repeatedly rammed them against the inhabited tree, jostling the cargo net. Hazel spent five days in the cargo net, suspended 150-feet off the ground between three 500-year-old firs. "The sound of the machinery split my spine as it ripped the stumps out of the ground," she told me.

A timber sale appeal failed to preserve this place, formerly protected by its designation as critical habitat for fish and wildlife. The Clinton Administration reopened the area to logging under Option 9, the compromise that gave half the Northwest's remaining ancient forest to the timber industry and the other half to the US Forest Service (presumably for logging at a future date). This place provides sanctuary for deer, ospreys, hummingbirds, nuthatches, hawks, Northern spotted owls, salamanders and skunks, to name a few. Hiking to the camp, four snakes crossed our path. Brazen gray squirrels darted around our feet, feasting on the millet spilled on the ground.

Having grown up on the Gulf coast, Ophelia tells me, "When I'm at the beach, I never look up, only out. I think about oil spills and red tide; deforestation is so distant to me. Understanding it is a tactile experience, like putting my hand on a tree, my eyes following the length up the trunk to such a towering presence."

Fall Creek lies in the back yard of this year's Round River Rendezvous. If you've never entered an ancient forest, seeing this area will ignite your passions and break your heart. Come on out and learn how to climb. Live free of rent and bills a hundred-feet off the ground while defending a majestic watershed and catching up on your reading. See for yourself that the commitment of these activists can only be surpassed by the grandeur of this land.

For more information contact Cascadia Forest Defenders, POB 11122, Eugene, OR 97440; (541) 343-7305.