o By Jon Robertson Illustrations by Carl Smool n the battlefield near Estacada, Oregon, tall old growth Douglas Fir grew within steps of clear-cut slash. I saw the boundary lines converging at the ridge crest where the yardarm had pulled newly dsaeda.dNloegasrbuypstthaendhsilol af nfidfteliefnte-dyetahre-moldonto waiting trucks. I was angry and Western Hemlock were uninspiring, unaesthetic, dull. Yet I lived in a house framed with stoutfirst-growth two- by-fours. Old growth versus first growth-, an environmentalist talking to a carpenter. Learning trees was my way of getting to know Oregon. I’m from Arizona. “Douglas Fir west of the Cascades, Ponderosa Pine east,” said my hiking friend Mark. “Vine Maple and Dogwood grow in the understory.” I was barraged by Wilderness Society publications, moved by Cathedral Forest Action people chained to bulldozers, and shocked by sawmill blades exploding on contact with Earth First tree spikes. Yet the guy who held vigil high on a small platform while surrounding big trees crashed to the ground became, for me, a hero. Ann Herbert, in the Fall, 1982 issue of CoEvolution Quarterly, drew me in deeper. She said worthwhile things take as long as a tree grows to get done. Tree Time. Growing houses for my boys. Forming personalities. Making peace. You may not be around long enough to celebrate at the end. When something good does happen, there were so many influences you usually can’t prove yours. The big challenge is to do what needs to be done here and now. Ittook Tree Time to prepare me for the most fascinating year of my life. 30 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988
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