THE MILLENIUM GROVE TREESITTING BLOCKADE ACTION. 1985.
Part Three. From June 26, 1985 to June 3, 1985

The Treeship Ygdrassil & Companions set forth upon their journey, amid the curious eyes of the porcelain press
Transcribed from a handwritten logbook of the action kept by Ron Huber.

Wednesday June 26, 1985 morning. My treeship atop Ygdrassil (the old norse world tree, kind of a vegetarian turtle island scenario) set forth upon its journey, accompanied by the curious eyes of the Oregon media. The tree is is bedecked with banners: (CLOSED: NO LOGGING) an American flag, and the exhortation that "Ecotopia is rising. My countenance pops out from time to time, bandanna over mouth and nose, yelllow hardhat tilted rakishly to one side. They liked it, I guess, Roselle on the ground leading KEZI and KOIN television crews over the woody hills to each occupied, like the good action promoter he is, throwing me tips about sticking to the basic issues. wilderness, oldest trees in Oregon, wildlife habitat.

I sit in the damnably hot but good hammock, too gripped by muscle tension to go up to the platform; besides the video droids were here, hadda show theater. By the time it was over it was late and I was so tired I could barely come down, smashed my sweet guitar, dead of a broken neck by god, dropped it in a fatigue-fog, so sad.

Couple freddies came by earlier. I chose anonymity, didn't respond to their queries as Wenatchee walked them around, tree to tree, I kept covered with a blanket. Long day and the last 1/2 hour spent scarily prussik-knotting my way down the rope, my 8-ring gone. Sweating, dangling fifty feet in the air, while Sarge watched silently. I finally made it, collapsed, dragged myself over to the campfire circle, rapped with a woman from Berkeley by way of Santa Cruz, very Amazonian with daggers and good comic books.

Wednesday June 26, 1985 10:30 am, third day of our aerial occupation. I must find Wenatchee, get my platform up in the sky before the press comes (or Freddies or Willies, they supposed to be grading the road today), no sign yet, but.....

Thursday June 27, 1985. I've just spent my first night in the tree canopy, after an agonizing climb. I got up here, exhaustedly attached my platform, got on, all this time barely daring to look around or down, just concentrating on the tasks at hand, got some supplies sent up in the furry knapsack and duffel, then other stuff, but damn! the first load: sleeping bag, guitar, hammock and blue bag, got stuck 2/3 of the way up. Hammock hopelessly snagged on a nail.

After much swearing all around, I agreed with much trepidation to climb down to the snag "en rappelle", tie the junk onto the rope, unsnag it, and then, while the grounded Lon held equipment away from snaggy trees, I would jumar back up. Jumars look like stapleguns, but slip on to the rope and let you rise in two foot increments. I didn't want to do this, didn't think I'd do it, but I DID IT. Long scary jumar up and arrived back on my platform scared, gasping, shaken, but successfully aloft. Platform's pretty cheesy--an old bedroom door someone had tossed; stout, maneuverable and light as a feather, I find that I can surf the constant winds up here, shifting my center of gravity and working the suspension ropes buckled from each corner to swing the platform in any direction, pull spins and hang ten while the door shakes under the buffeting airs. This would come in useful later....

The night comes on, I carefully unpacked my (Roselle's) sleeping bag, slid in. Could only zip it partway as I stayed buckled in harness.

Friday June 28, 1985 morn. ZAM! a rosy cheeked EF!er (coppish-loooking to me) brings great news -- my article on Mike Jakubal's pioneering ascent is on the cover of the Earth First! journal. Lawyer Monteith is officially gonna open up a spotted owl lawsuit for ONRC - they got hold of some money...San Francisco Chronicle - we are on the front page! Roselle coming, he sez.

Wenatchee, Rhody Dendron and Steve Binko sit in the sun and jaw and read the EF! Journal. I don't wanna come down, get queasy/uneasy at the thought of everybody on the ground at once during Freddie working hours. Naw, I sit up here with my property and stonily gaze across the slice of planet visible from up here.

Dennis and Wenatchee are out on recon. I sent them up to FR 230 to investigate the activity (pickup trucks) going on up there. Turns out to be tourists going to the Gordon Lakes.

Saturday June 29, 1985 Noon. Another night, brief sheriff game, but the Linn County sheriffs couldn't find us in the lengthening dusk, so they departed. Wenatchee and Valerie down in boredom, they zipped back up when Joe Becker brought word of the impending approach of the cops, then down he went again! To my amazement; I wouldn't go down on the ground when cops have been sighted, for at least five hours!

McKivy left last night "for the weekend", uh huh, with Roselle to Corvallis. Now Val and Wenatchee do the same... With Mitch already gone, that leaves me and Lon, who's worried over reports that the Sinkyone appropriations bill passed in the California legislature, but faces a veto by Republican governor Deukmajian. Lon hits the road; if a veto happens, the loggers out that way'll start cutting real quick, so he'll have to intervene in the flesh...

That leaves me...can't leave if I'm the only one left aloft....pissed off at the overall laxity of our affinity group.

Fierce winds whip the forest, sending my frail craft straining against the air.

Saturday June 29, 1985 evening. A couple visitors, then another. All short hairs...my god have the freddies taken over our encampment? I'm skeptical but t'would be a mighty copification if so.

The word comes down: effective yesterday a federal closure has been slapped on this spot by Forest Supervisor Kerrick.

Monday July 1, 1985 morning. Joe Becker and I are awakened by a low rumbling sound in the distance. Its a bulldozer, we are sure... We scamper our stuff together, take shits; Lon Mulvaney appears, heads down to the scene to take stock. Wenatchee comes up breathless, outraged, demands to know what we're going to do. I say, "Nothing". He snaps "Fuck you!" and storms off toward the sound.

Joe Becker and I heat a large tin of tomato sauce-drenched sardines. Had a cuppa mud, gobble food and clean up the camp some...

Lon comes back, tells me to get up my tree, they're heading for it...I leap to my feet, what about our great shining banner, gloriously white ten foot letters on sheer plastic gossamer: "LIFE"?

NO TIME, MUST CLIMB. I jog down towards the sound, which sure enough is coming from near my tree! I spill out the rest of my coffee and run through the woods. Get there: the dozer is working away beneath my tree!

I greet Sarge, Joe gets the jumars. Toke up, roar defiance, leap up and meet Norman the ground guy, he's okay, just met Wenatchee so things could be edgy...Val's up her tree....I suit up, the dozer takes the giant 1000 year old log next to my tree and shoves it rudely out of the way. My old pal the log! Norman says they'll clear a path right to my tree to get the road all the way through as they were supposed to do last fall when the rains came.

So I knotted up prussiks, but didn't need them; Joe Becker came along with the Jumars, and then Lon helped me set them up, then in a fit of nervous excitation, I climbed, while the dozer snorted and pushed and the ground trembled. I went up in a half down or so pitches.

UP AGAIN! and the dozer pushes the road up past the loaded deck, then the dozer coming back.

Now a young Willie appears, dark round glasses over his eyes, green suspenders, they're still hooking logs out - its late morning and I am alive with the adventure and the sheer theatricality of our play. Myth time!

Our road blockage is opened. All comes in a rush of events. Walky talkies seem fucked, all are in trees but Joe?

Dozer humps up another load, driver and foreman locked in ancient eyeballing game, steely glint of fifty year old eyes.

Now the cops, for Wenatchee and Joe who'll block the dozers from the road rehabilitation zone. Two Linn County sheriffs are here, blocking the road; they stay by their vehicle.

The dozer zonks on, I've got stoned...I'm talking to Joe Becker, he's lovely if he's reasonable, protests politely as needed.

The sheriff's deputies walk by, someone calls my name and I turn slightly, give my identity away? It must be Thurman and Co, but they've gone to "get" Wenatchee and Joe. Joe'll walk probably, but not Wenatchee I bet.

So, now it becomes Demand Time, since we're holding their timber sale hostage:
1. Suspension of all tree cutting in the Gordon Meadows region in the southern watershed of the South Santiam, pending civil task force to determine oldest trees
2. Further review of whole Santiam region with a two year moratorium on clearcutting in presently roaded areas in Santiam and a complete moratorium on roadbuilding in roadless areas, including Gordon Meadows, Jumpoff Joe, Browder Ridge, Echo Mountain, Pyramids, Middle Santiam.
3. Basic topsoil conservation measures must be taken on freshly cutover areas.

Later. Lon is back, Says they've been transplanting plants into clearcut-over Unit 9, no arrests (fight for another day). The cars gotta move to main road, so they will move'em to FS 230; there's a turnout above the stream. We consider it, then I toss them my keys and my flare gun. Joe's back with Lon, says one of them will give us a copy of the Register Guard editorial about the action.

Deputies and freddies below me, the others decide to split. They depart, Val, far across the timber sale, and I, are with the Forces of the State alone....The dozer thunders as the cops and Freds hang out in the sun on a fine day in the forest. They're all young, 2 cops, a young Willy, Carla, some other Freds. Abruptly the Freddies leave in a team.

Deputy Ives is back with Sarge (Steve Binko) to pick up his kit. He bellowing stuff, finally it works out like they wanta take Binko and his gear out of the closure.

OK...Wenatchee wants my vehicle but then Lon decides to pack it in and leave, taking Wenatchee with him in the Red Rabbit to find Roselle and yell at him for not showing up. The day wears on, puctuated by the bulldozer's endless whining and groaning. Wish the SOB would leave.

Early evening. The dozer driver brings his beast out to where the pickup is parked, idles. Mckivy and a fellow from Washington are now here. Joe joins them, Val and I query them from our trees and a shamanic woman burns sage beneath us to wash out the bad spirits, and sweet grass to bless us with good spirit. She has buried a tiny crystal in the roots of my tree. Evening passes slowly in the heat of the long long sundown. I quaff Swiss Miss and relax.

Tuesday July 2, 1985. So this is a closure: dull roaring dozer around a bend in the road through the old forest, and Rhody and I flying through time on our platforms.

Once a freddie truck rolls up. Green pickup with white tool box. The plumpish mid 30s blond freddie, balding on top slightly, and a local contractor and his fat wife drive into Unit 9 for a while and then park below me. Don't talk to me, just consult notes, discuss turnouts-to-be, then leave, the Freddie stealing one quick look at me before driving off.

The Earth troops reassemble below.....Lon...others. Its late afternoon. Charles is here too! McKivy of course, and Rhody/Valerie Wade has been indicating she's heading for splitsville, too, and suddenly confortably/uncomfortably I realize, they're all leaving.

They all leave.

Until resupply, tis my night HOME ALONE, the last ecologist staying bravely to the lonely end.

I give them a press release, "Permanent Blockade in Santiam" tell Charles and Lon that it MUST go out to any/everyone...at least my car is gone, that problem out of my mind...

Now the evening is limpid; orchestral nocturne, avian arias, truck droning soft in great distance.

July 3, 1985 morning. A fresh scheme has percolated through my brain--run strong lines from my platform to all the trees within the ropes' reach, such that if the trees are cut the tautened rope will tear down my platform, killing me...or if other trees in between were cut and fell across these grapple lines, same thing.

Now need ropes...the banner ropes?

A lovely family of birds visited this morning, two adults, two fledglings, that just learned to fly, hopping about my canopy, picking off the abundant inchworms that live up in the trees, cheery sparkling eyes black as anthracite in white faces. Gray body, the size and shape of pigeons or english sparrows. The young still had gray face plumage. They scampered around my branch, peering at me. Taking brief glides from one twig to another.

Mid Morning. Dull noisy dozer, after mucking about all day near the runoff 1/2 mile away, it clanks up into view, rounds the bank and comes below me, followed by Norman in his brown pickup. Dozer halts in new log deck turnout. Truck pauses, then enters Unit 9.

I watch, fascinated and repelled as the dozer drags some young trees off to the new log deck, then savagely scrapes away ten centuries of topsoil into a heap, squashing the living humus into unusable hardpan beneath its many ton weight. I curse the ignorant possibly innocent people below, spit on the dozer as its passes below repeatedly. ....Where's gang of A?....

I yell down to the downycheeked lad who sets choker cable for the dozer driver asking what time it is, point at my wrist. He gapes, shows his similarly bare wrist, shakes head. I ask him when gravel will hit this road. He shrugs helplessly, points to dozer, which snorts along beneath me, tearing out more topsoil and packing the road.

July 3, 1985 Late Afternoon. Dozer shut off somewhere down the spur. Earlier I could hear a skyline yarder bleeping its horn. Decide to go down and search for lost items in the lower foliage beneath me, rapelling to within about 20 feet of the ground, watching and listening carefully. Not daring to go any lower for fear of freddie ambush a la Mike Jakubal. I retrieve my comb and several other items then return up on prussiks. Dozer starts up again.

Wenatchee shows up, we talk, he speaks of Earth First House, bringing me the Register Guard editorial. I get to work preparing a reply, by nightfall, I've completed several pages.

A car parks on 230, whistles. I whistle back, an hour later they whistle again, and they're on their way up. Literally up! For El Marone, scourge of the arboricultural world, ascends in the pitch dark after lining his rope up. Spanky Vicious, Sid's companion, awaits below.

El Marone comes up and we talk, eat Spanky's cake.

He rises now, using a belt round the tree and climbing with spike shoes, purpose being to raise our banner LIFE from the tree in the middle of the clearcut Already he's level with me. Just heard a sound up toward the old campsite. Freddies? Nah....

Go to Part 4

End.

Ron Huber transcription from paper diary.