Massacre at Bear Creek

by Winter

There is nothing more satisfying to the forest activist than to sit and listen to the quiet breeze in a place that just minutes before was pierced by the wail of a chainsaw. The campaign to defend Bear Creek began with this joy as 30 activists bathed in the peace we created by cat-and-mousing the lone faller out of the woods.

The trail to the top of Peavine Ridge in Humboldt State Park (near Scotia, CA) is a four-mile hike straight uphill. The ridge marks a property line where a small grove of protected ancient redwoods stands above a canyon. A few weeks ago the forest of ancient redwoods and firs protected a thriving diversity of endangered wildlife. In a matter of just a few days, this paradise was stripped of almost all its ancient trees.

We arrived at the top of the logging area just before dawn. We sat and listened. Just after first light, the rumble of saws and 'dozers, so alien to this place, began. We ran to the sound and arrived just in time to watch the first redwood fall. We moved in to confront the logger.

His name was Lorenzo, a Mexican logger from Ukiah. He was a gypo (non-union) contractor working for Pacific Lumber and was dangerously falling solo. He turned off his saw as we approached. Abeja and Spring addressed him in Spanish, and a spontaneous conversation took place. He talked to us for almost an hour before we convinced him to pack it up for the day.

We returned to basecamp, giddy with the sense of accomplishment. We had stopped logging for the day! And we connected in a very human way with a logger. It was agreed that Bear Creek was worth our best efforts.

We went back in and scoped a location for a tree village. Amidst a magical stand of eight or nine towering redwoods and Doug firs, shading immense madrones, we decided to make our stand.

The next night we made a second pilgrimage up the ridge with ropes and harnesses. This time we had come to stay.

There are no words to describe the grief I felt that night as I made my way over the ridge, onto Pacific Lumber land and down into the gulch where we had broken bread, hugged our elders and made promises to defend our Mother. Where the giants had stood a few short hours before, there was a freshly cut skid road and stump after stump. The smell of fresh sap was so strong it was overpowering. We had made Pacific Lumber nervous, so they had worked overtime all weekend.

The next day we followed the sound of saws down the hill to Lorenzo. His saw was about two feet into an old tree. He was polite, but he had told his boss about us. He invited us to the road to talk to the foreman, but we declined in favor of hiding in the brush with a lockbox. We waited patiently for the 'dozer to come up the road.

The 'dozer was driven by a very angry man. As we moved into position to lock to it, he announced bitterly that they had already been shutdown because of us. The dozer slowly drove away while we howled joyfully. Such a sweet feeling but so short-lived.

Later that afternoon an activist perched at the top of a lookout tree informed us that 15 or so loggers had returned to finish up work, with a police escort. Because there were only 12 of us, all we could do was sit, listen and hold back tears. There is nothing more frustrating to an activist than to listen helplessly as to the rumble of death make its way across the land. We heard the thunder of trees falling, but we had to sit silent. We wondered if there would be anything left on the next day.

After the dust settled and the equipment was gone, Guano, Screech Owl and Amnesia went to work. Guano spurred up a huge redwood while Amnesia and Screech girthed and free climbed the surrounding trees. At dawn I found myself standing beneath four occupied platforms and six trees that would otherwise have fallen that day.

Seven loggers walked up the skid road the next morning to cut down those trees, but we stopped them. All they could do was chase those of us on the ground. They were not of the same breed as our friend Lorenzo and thought nothing of cutting trees right on top of us. Only after the lead faller, visibly shaken by our presence, miscut a tree that fell backwards and nearly killed himself and the three of us, did they grudgingly move on. We gave them a howl they will never forget, and our friends in the trees howled back.

Without enough people to lay cat and mouse, we spent the rest of that week in agony, listening to the trees fall. We locked down to their equipment twice and built slash blockades every night. Our numbers began to dwindle as some of us were arrested. By the end of the weekend, we barely had enough people to support the village.

Every day I wandered those hillsides, watching the devastation grow. I felt the rage inside me grow also. One day I bushwhacked to where the equipment was parked and found that they had moved in a security trailer. One drunken logger was sitting by a fire barrel, barking that he would kill us all, and occasionally shooting his rifle into the air.

I hid there for a long time listening to him rant about killing Earth First!ers and talking about how he had been killing ancient redwoods for 45 years. Finally, I called out to him and asked if he had saved anything for his children to cut.

Instead of grabbing his gun or charging up the hill after me, he beckoned, and pleaded for me to come down to the road to talk. I was, of course, very skeptical, but after 30 minutes, I cautiously crept down out of the bushes to warm myself by his fire.

I sat there in the rain with that old logger, drinking his cheap schnapps and listening to his sermon about how the forest would keep growing. He told me he had been cutting for 50 years.

"It's always growing," he kept saying "even when you're sleepin'."

After an hour, a pickup pulled up with two young workers. I almost ran off, but he asked me not to. He promised he'd "tell 'em not to kick some ass." I trusted the crazy old man. They climbed out of the truck ready to jump on me, but when he told them to leave me alone, they grabbed a couple of beers instead. There we were: me and three loggers, sharing a fire and a drink out on a Pacific Lumber haul road!

I stood out there for another hour with those boys, drinking, smoking and making jokes. It's safe to say that we agreed on nothing except that Maxxam sucks. Workers don't like fat cats in Houston profiteering any more than I do. But if you're a gypo in Humboldt County, you work for Charlie Hurwitz or almost not at all.

We achieved some kind of strange truce. I promised not to mess with their personal equipment, and they assured me they'd take it easy on my friends if any got caught in the woods.

We were talking about peace, about how we're all trying to survive. When the sun broke through the fog; a huge rainbow fell out of the sky above us.

I cried all the way back up the hill. When I got to camp, I was startled to see that I was still wearing the lock down chains!

Even though the forest I lived in and loved was obliterated, I left Bear Creek for the last time that night feeling strangely exuberant. Some new faith was born in me, and I regained power to continue doing this work.

I know I can never go back to Bear Creek, but I also know that part of me will always be out there wandering among those stumps, desperate and knee deep in the muck.

As of press time, the tree village is still standing. We survived the first assault by Pacific Lumber's infamous "climber Dan," though we lost three platforms and two trees to his skilled knife.

Seventeen people have been arrested in the defense ofBear Creek. Our unified prayer will always be this: May not one more ancient tree fall!