Day Into Night (20 page)

14

CARL IS FINALLY OFF the duty desk. He’s frazzled from the stress and long hours, is talking in short sentences, like he’s still on the radio. It’s Saturday, but like everyone else in the fire business, he needs the overtime and so he’s still working. We head out together to demobilize a fire camp. It’s a nice, mindless sort of job.

“It’s a split shift Porter. You’re supposed to gear up slowly.”

“I am gearing up slowly.”

I’m driving an International three-ton stakebox so old that if it breaks down we’re going to have to go to the museum for parts. Carl is slumped in the passenger side, wearing sunglasses and knawing on a hunk of homemade deer jerky.

“Pull that button up when you shift,” he says.

“You want to drive?”

Carl says nothing, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. If it was up to him, we’d be doing this with a team of horses and a buckboard, which would probably be just as fast. I skip a gear or two and the truck lurches, the old stake sides creaking and flopping. Carl slides a few degrees farther down the seat.

“You meet the crazies?” he asks.

“The Mountain Guardians?”

“Yeah. What’d you think?”

I picture Angela Murtow at the podium, lips pursed — the picture of piety. The lady who was knitting. Reggie, frothing at the mouth. “They’re a different bunch.I made the mistake of trying to explain pine ecology.”

“Which I’m sure they appreciated.”

“Not exactly.”

Carl chuckles. “Porter Cassel — leaper of small buildings and dispeller of myths.”

“It wasn’t a total loss. Christina Telson was there.”

“The girl? She a Guardian?”

“No, I think she was just curious.”

“Uh-huh.” He gnaws on his jerky. Ahead, the mountains are cloaked, the air filled with a fine solution of wood smoke and road dust. The fire we’re headed to is extinguished, but others are still burning farther north and to the west. The air smells like burning bark and grass.

“How’d they react to the bombing?”

“The Guardians? They’re milking it.”

Carl nods as if he expected this, gazes out the window. I’m thinking about Murtow’s little group — locals concerned about their backyard; maybe a few from the city. Watchers and whistle-blowers, they struck me as mostly harmless. Except for one.

“Carl, what do you know about a guy named Reggie?”

“Reggie Barnes?”

“I didn’t catch his last name. Young guy, long brown hair, sorta chunky.”

“Yeah — that’d be Reggie Barnes. He worked for us a few years ago, as a warehouseman. Not our best warehouseman; he had a little problem with inventory. We’re flying a patrol one day and pass what looks like a small man-up camp — Forest Service tents. When we stop, these guys come out, drinking beer, just pissed.

They’ve got Forest Service lanterns, chainsaws, campstoves. They’re

Reggie’s buddies. Said he lent the stuff to them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Reggie had a different concept of lending. We had to let him go.”

We grind uphill on a gravel road. Empty, the truck is lugging, everything vibrating. Dust rises in sheets from the floor, the door panels, behind the seat. I open the window to let this airborne portion of the road return home but it doesn’t much help, just sucks in wood smoke. The abrasive mix doesn’t seem to bother Carl, who lights a cigarette.

“How can you do that?”

He blows a smoke ring. “Do what?”

“Smoke when you’re engulfed in smoke.”

“This smoke is better,” he says. “It has nicotine.”

I downshift, turn onto a narrow logging road. The gear from the fire camp we’re demobilizing will be flown to the road by helicopter. I park, call the fire boss, confirm that we’re ready. As usual, they’re behind schedule and we’ll have to wait.

Carl pulls out a paperback — one of those wilderness adventure, turn-of-the-fur trade books. The character on the cover looks a little like Carl with his buckskin jacket — all he needs is an Indian princess to rescue. I look around, wishing I too had brought something to read, end up reading the Forest Service stickers on the dash. Safety First seems to be the main character; they don’t have much of a plot. “Carl, do you think Reggie could have done it?”

Carl looks up. “Done what?” He’s still stuck in the story, riding into the hills.

“The bombings. You think he’s capable of doing something like that?”

“Reggie?” Carl shakes his head. “He’s too lazy.”

I think about this for a minute. “What do you mean?”

“God forbid they actually decide to do something, get their hands dirty.”

“You’re talking about the Guardians?”

“They’re such a bunch of hypocrites,” he says, closing his book and sitting up. “We’re supposed to be the ones protecting the environment — us, the Forest Service — and they hate us. They think we’re only here to help the sawmills rape the land. At one time we were respected. It was a badge of honour to be a ranger. Now, we’re just bureaucrats, civil servants. We’ve lost our credibility. That’s why these sorts of groups are springing up.”

“And you think they should be doing something? Getting they’re hands dirty?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Carl says. “They’ll just never be effective.”

“Like the Forest Service?”

“Like the Forest Service should be.”

Carl sounds like one of those old time rangers, complaining about how soft the Service has become. In their day, they rode horses, slept under the stars. His green underwear is too tight. But he does have a point — we used to get out a lot more when I first was a ranger.

“We have to get back to our roots,” he says. “Our core business —”

“You run next fall, I’ll vote for you.”

Finally, I hear a deep throb and the dark shape of a helicopter materializes in the smoke, a net full of gear hanging from a long line. Carl’s campaigning is over for the time being. The net is dropped by the truck and the helicopter augers back to the camp. We hump tents and melons of dirty hose into the truck, fold the net to exchange for the next full one. I’m thankful for the work; there’s something soothing about manual labour, so thoughtless and fully absorbing. By the time the camp is out and the truck is loaded we’re both content to rattle back to town, thinking only of air conditioning and ice cream. Carl finds a station on the old am truck radio and we listen to Willie Nelson as the road ahead ripples in the heat and warm air flows in the open windows.

At the edge of town, pickup trucks with horse trailers line the side of the highway like a redneck protest, clog service roads. There’s horseshit all over the pavement and mainstreet is barricaded by a police car. Looks like the James Gang is in town, robbing the local Treasury Branch, and they’re getting a posse together. Carl gears down, the old stake sides creaking against three tons of shifting fire gear.

“Rodeo week,” Carl says. “They’re getting ready for the kickoff parade.”

“We’re pretty much done right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

I haven’t seen a parade since I was a kid. “Let’s go watch.”

We park the truck in the Forest Service compound, slip off our coveralls, walk the few blocks to the parade route. Mainstreet is barricaded, motorhomes and big trucks being rerouted at the four-way stop, drivers gawking as they crawl through the intersection. The street is lined with spectators, forming a gauntlet of lawn chairs; blue porta-potties interspersed like guard booths. Pickup trucks are backed to the sidewalk; families crowd on tailgates. Teenagers lob water balloons and kids squat, intent and restless, ready to dash for candy. There are more people here than the proclaimed population of the town.

I look around, hoping to see Telson.

“Who are you looking for?” asks Carl.

“Nobody. Just looking.”

It occurs to me that at least half the people are wearing the same type of blue jacket. I read the logo on the jacket of a man standing next to me. Curtain River Forest Products. The guy’s got a company watch and ball cap too. No doubt about this being a company town.

We sit, wait for the action. The sidewalk is uncomfortably hot, but I’m too tired to stand.

I hear the parade before I see it.

First come the town fire truck and ambulance, weaving from curb to curb, horns blaring loud enough to blow off a loose toupee. Children cover their ears and scream. Next march the Legion veterans, no doubt selected for this position because they can’t hear the fire truck, followed by the rodeo queen in a gleaming red four-wheel-drive. Candy is thrown and kids scamper into the street. Water-balloon-throwing teenagers are blasted by the firemen and retreat. The local Member of Parliament sweats in a new suburban, the window down. It’s going be a long parade — every business or charitable organization within a hundred miles seems to have a float.

Curtain River Forest Products has three entries. One is fairly elaborate — a papier maché version of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, framed between lifts of lumber. Little kids with oversized hardhats dispense candy from a large barrel. A banner proclaims Logging Helps Communities Grow and Prosper. The other two entries are semis pulling highboys loaded with lumber that look like they’re trying to sneak through instead of using the detour.

A last minute entry eases into the parade from a side street. A team of Clydesdales pulling a heavy wagon stops to let it in. As it draws nearer, I get the feeling this isn’t a registered entry and I nudge Carl.

“Take a look at that.”

It’s not an elaborate float but gets the message across efficiently enough. Pulled by a shiny sport-utility vehicle is a small trailer, pine saplings wired along the front and back, scruffy stuffed black bear posed in the middle. There are a few obligatory balloons and a Mountain Guardian banner is hung on the side of the trailer, urging us to protect our natural heritage. Seated in handmade willow chairs are two men in flannel shirts and overalls, whittling sticks. As the float draws near I notice two alarming details simultaneously. Reggie is one of the men and one of the balloons, tacked to a short chuck of tree trunk, is orange, with a hand-drawn face — crude, but with the bushy walrus moustache, obviously the face of the Lorax.

I stand up. “Oh shit.”

“What?” asks Carl, joining me.

“Look at that balloon.”

Carl looks at it without much interest, suddenly frowns, then laughs.

“You think that’s funny?”

He cuts short his laughter.“I just can’t believe they’re doing this.”

Me neither. I look around at the crowd, at all the blue jackets. As the Mountain Guardian float passes in front of me, Reggie is grinning. He won’t be grinning for long if anyone else recognizes that balloon.

The pace of the parade seems to slow. I’m expecting a lynch mob but the crowd seems oblivious. As I pan across the crowd, looking for signs of trouble, I notice for the first time the white van from Action News and can’t help wondering if they have some inside information. Riots always look good on page one. But maybe they’re just hanging around for the parade, for a few colourful pictures. Then I hear a child, pointing to the float.

“Look Mommy, it’s the Lorax. Like from my book.”

I’m close enough that I hear the first curse from a man who’s tall, large and not amused. He cranes his neck toward the passing float, smacks the arm of another man standing close to him and points. I hear the word Lorax used in a new and interesting way. Others begin to notice and the crowd becomes restless. Reggie must sense something is amiss. He stops whittling.

“Fuckin’ murderer!”

An aluminium lawn chair sails across the street and hits the corner of the Mountain Guardian float, knocking pine saplings loose so they lean and sway. The Clydesdales pulling the wagon behind the float balk and whinny. There’s a ripple of outrage from the crowd, like a low moan from a distressed animal. Reggie and the other man stand and glare into the crowd. For a minute it seems this will be the extent of the violence, then the man who threw the lawn chair strides onto the street and heads for the float. He’s slim, bowlegged — not a big man but he’s got the wrath of the crowd behind him. He walks alongside the float, shouting at Reggie.

“The fuck are you doin’? You pansy-assed motherfuckers.”

Reggie points at him, whittling knife still in hand. “Back off asshole.”

The man in the street lunges at Reggie, snatches away his pocket knife. Reggie trips against his handcrafted willow chair, nearly falls off the float but is rescued by his companion. He regains his feet just as the protestor uses his knife to pop the offending balloon.

Reggie screams, “You tree-killing pig!”

Bad choice of verbiage. From my perspective on the sidewalk, I have a ringside seat. A horde of blue-jacketed men charge the float from both sides — women and children scurrying for cover like a gunfight in a Western movie. Reggie lifts his arms in a defensive kung-fu sort of motion then freezes when he realizes the immensity of his problem. He’s surrounded by screaming mill workers and no longer seems so sure of himself. They rip pine saplings from the float, tear off the limbs. Reggie and his partner narrowly escape a similar fate by jumping from the trailer to the hitch and scrambling onto the roof of the suv. It’s a little like watching the evacuation of the American embassy at the end of the Vietnam war. Only there’s no helicopter coming and Reggie’s vehicle is stopped, marooned in a churning sea of blue. The rest of the parade continues ahead, leaving the Mountain Guardian float stranded like a decoupled rail car. Reggie screams at the driver, stomping on the roof, which buckles suddenly, throwing him off balance. He nearly falls to the lions, but regains his footing. The crowd begins to rock the vehicle.

“Cool,” says a teenager close by. He’s got blue hair and a lip ring.

A reporter strides past, followed by her camera crew, fumbling to get their gear up and running. They shoot several minutes of Reggie doing the suv jive, then look around for someone to interview. There’s no one close except Carl, me and a group of teenagers. A microphone is thrust in my face. “Do you know what prompted this sudden attack?”

I shake my head, point to Blue Hair. “You’ll have to speak with my agent.”