Free Falling From Grace by Ann Eriksson Page B

braver, he ventured farther into the clearing, tongued huckleberries off bushes, raked open logs for ants, left claw marks in tree trunks, knocked over gear and brushed past tents. The campers took extra care to cache their food supplies up a tree or in a car, and I insisted they rinse all the dishes three times to remove temptation from our night visitor. One afternoon before dark he appeared at the edge of the clearing. His big shaggy head rocked back and forth, nostrils flaring.
    â€œGit,” I yelled, clanging together a pot and its lid as I stepped toward him; I prayed he wouldn’t charge.
    He swivelled his gaze in my direction, stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air, then dropped his front paws back to the ground and lumbered away into the forest without a backward glance, the fat and muscle on his haunches rolling as he walked.
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    The reduction in the number of people trampling the forest floor came none too soon, hiking boots and rain a destructive combination, the trail to the road and the latrine path rutted and muddy. I stopped my lectures on the danger of compaction at the base of trees and instead erected short fences of flagging tape and sticks around all the trees at the edge of the clearing. An unmistakable and effective message.
    The remaining protestors spent their days on the road from pre-dawn until mid-afternoon when confident the logging crews had vacated the area in a crummy for home. Once back at camp, they pitched in with cooking and camp maintenance, took naps in their tents or the sun when possible, swam in the river, and sat around discussing strategy and the politics of cutting trees. Terry, who became more harried over time, spent endless hours on his radiophone, frequently dashing off in his car to find a clear-cut with better reception. He made pronouncements about the status of the court injunction, the political moves of the company who had hired a PR firm to greenwash their image and downplay the protest, and the progress of the letter-writing campaign to the premier and the forest minister. “Supporters are marching to the Legislature on Saturday,” he declared one evening.
    Mary spent most of her time nursing Cedar, rinsing diapers, and flirting with Paul. Marcel proved a willing cook. “I learned from ma mère, eh?” Sue, Chris, and Jen, the three biology students from Vancouver, played Hackey Sack between the tents or wandered around the forest identifying plants from natural history field guides during their spare time. Mr. Kimori, the Japanese gentleman, a handsome stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair, went about his day surrounded by an aura of calm, well dressed, always in black. He spent hours drawing and painting in a large sketchbook and in the evening after dinner he sat by the stream with a mirror and trimmed his moustache and narrow beard with a fine pair of scissors before his nightcap of green tea. When not on the blockade with her mother, Rainbow followed me around like a puppy. Cougar and Squirrel raised my hackles, their attitude militant and their social skills non-existent.
    â€œAre you prejudiced against dreadlocks and eyebrow piercings?” Paul teased.
    â€œI’ve never seen them offer to cook or do dishes, paint signs or carry groceries.” I suspected they were high on pot most of the time and was careful never to leave anything of value lying around.
    After three days of clear weather, the camp awoke to a fresh deluge of rain. Leaky tents, damp matches, and wet clothing meant the protesters got off to a late departure. When they reached the road they found the gate unlocked and evidence of heavy equipment traffic. Terry and Cougar hiked up the road and returned an hour later, expressions grim, bearing bad news. The company had given them the slip and were cutting trees in the upper valley. The group huddled together to discuss the unexpected turn of events. A crew-cab truck with a company logo on the door