"Yes!"
"Yes," I tell him, recalling the photograph I saw of two or three dozen people dressed up as bears and beavers and moose, protesting before the entrance to some paper mill. "I read about them. And frankly, it won't be the end of the world if a few people in beaver suits do stand around Powder Peak for a day or two this fall."
"Those people didn't just stand around! They destroyed hundreds of thousands of dollars of logging equipment! They poured some sort of red dye on the employees of the mill, and told them it was animal blood! Animal blood, for God's sake!"
"Ian, relax. This is Vermont."
"I understand that," he says, and then stops speaking abruptly.
"Go on."
"My secretary just put a note on my desk," he explains, his voice low and frightened. "Liza Eastwick is holding for me on the other line."
"Not the district coordinator?"
"Nope. Liza herself."
"Well, put me on hold and take the call. And remember: Liza may tell you that you have the permit, but there are some conditions. If she says that, don't panic. It's still good news. Realistically, it's the best news you can expect. Be appreciative and grateful and then get off the phone."
"Uh-huh."
"Ready?"
"No. Shit."
A second later the line becomes silent as he puts me on hold, and I sit back in my chair to wait.
Daydreaming, I concoct a conversation with Reedy McClure:
"Reedy? Would you ever dress up like a beaver and pour acid on the cables for a chair lift at Powder Peak?"
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"Not likely. I'd never dress up like a beaverI'm vehemently opposed to fashion fur."
"But it's possible?"
"Well, that would depend."
"On?"
"On whether I found a faux fur or fake fur that looked real."
"Suppose that you did."
"Still. I probably wouldn't."
"Because that would be criminal activity and you're not a criminal?"
"No. Because I just bought my season pass at the Alpine Den's annual preseason sales bonanza. A yearlong lift ticket at fifty percent off the regular price!"
I hope in my daydreams I don't give Reedy McClure too much credit.
"We got it."
The three words emerge from the speaker on my desk, and cut through the silence of my office.
"We got it!" Ian says again, this time a little louder.
Instantly the words conjure for me images of yellow back-hoes now brown with dirt, digging trenches and storage ponds and deep holes for utility poles. I can see skidders dragging trees from the forest, giant Lincoln Logs the size of tall Vermont buildings, and helicopters dropping pylons into the ground, dozens of them covering the mountain with a manmade windstorm that sends deer and squirrels and rabbits running.
And the words conjure also for me relief. I feel my shoulders relax and sag as I reach for the telephone, and my heart stops beating from wherever it was inside my ears. Although I don't yet know the details, I don't yet know the stipulations, from the sound of Ian's voice I can assume that we won.
I can assume that I won.
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Yes, there will be appeals. I am sure of that. But for the moment, there is only victory.
"Congratulations," I tell Ian. "Nice work."
"Damn right," he says happily, the thought of eco-terrorism suddenly the furthest thing from his mind.
"Did Liza give you any specifics?"
"The full permit will be issued next week, but she's going to send me a summary this afternoon."
"So there are conditions."
"Yup. But Liza said they're pretty reasonable: how big our storage pond can be, what's defined as a connecting path, what's an honest-to-God ski trail. That sort of thing."
"Did you talk about the Chittenden River?"
"It sounds like there will be a cap on the number of gallons we can tap each winter. It will depend on the river's depth and water flow. But we should be okay."
"Did Liza say anything else?"
"She asked me to tell you something. It's weird, but she said you'd understand."
"Yes?"
"She said you'd be happy to know that you might mistake the permit for the Landaff Church directory."
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15
The thing I don't understand," Reedy McClure says to me over lunch Thursday, "is how the commission could be so cavalier about the water flow. You shouldn't be allowed to tap the Chittenden River. You just shouldn't."
"You just shouldn't," I repeat, imitating the petulant tone of his voice.
"That's not funny," he says, sipping his coffee. He slams his mug down onto the diner's Formica countertop so hard that some of the coffee spills over the lip.
"I'll stop."
"That's your problem, Scottie. You just don't take this stuff seriously. It's all just ... it's all just a game to you."
"Not true."
"It is. None of this stuff is more important to you than whether your stupid softball team is winning, or whether
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you're able to master some new ski trail on some new mountain."
"It's not just a game to me. Honest."
"Then what is it? Do you honestly believe that horseshit you tell people about jobs and tax bases?"
I smile. "It's not just a game to me. It's a job. That's what it really is. It's a job. It's mortgage money. It's Miranda's college tuition. It's"
"It's dirty money!"
"Dirt is brown. Money is green."
He sits back against the leather-like Naugahyde couch, and spreads out his arms. "You don't believe that."
"That it's just a job? I probably don't. But I also don't have a trust fund that allows me the luxury of what you'd define as proper political activism. We can't all afford to be righteous and politically correct."
"That was an asshole thing to say."
"Well, you put me into an asshole corner."
The sun reflects off the thousand thin sheets of metal and aluminum that comprise the slimline diner: salt shakers and napkin dispensers, the walls along the booths and over the grills, juke boxes and knives and forks and spoons, the edges of counters and cash registers and the clips that hold menus.
"Can I assume you're going to appeal the decision to the state Environmental Board?" I ask.
"Sure can."
"Too bad. I was hoping you'd realize it was a lost cause."
"It's not a lost cause! Why do you say that?"
"How often does the Environmental Board reverse a decision of one of its commissions? It's rare, and it's not going to happen this time."
He shrugs. "There's still money in the Copper Project coffers, and there's still time on my hands. I'll keep plugging. You should know I also plan on turning up my efforts with the people at the U.S. Forest Service. You still need their permission."
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"Yup."
After a long pause in which each of us assesses our separate wounds, he continues, "I'm serious. I just don't understand why you do what you do. You talk about Miranda's college education like you care about her future, but all"
"Lighten up, Reedy. You know I care about Miranda's future."
"Then how can you help them destroy a river? How can you help them destroy a mountain?"
"Look: No one is going to tap the Chittenden if the water flow falls too far. When the river can't support snowmaking, it won't be used to make snow. If"
"It can't support snowmaking right now!"
"Then maybe it's time the river disappeared into a goddamn swamp!" I tell Reedy, able but unwilling to keep my voice even. "Isn't that the 'natural' process?"
"You're such a whore!"
"A whore? Because I help create jobs? Because I help keep people's property taxes down? Damn it, Reedy, don't try and make me feel guilty. There's nothing wrong with what I do for a living. Nothing!"
"You're about to kill a beautiful river and the most
perfectly shaped mountain in Vermont."
"I don't have to listen to this."
"Sure, close your ears and your eyes. Why not? Go ahead and kill a river to pay for your big house on the hill"
"You are no one to talk about big houses on hills"
"Go ahead and ruin a mountain to pay for your vacations in Key West, your ski weekends"
"This state needs people like me!" I tell Reedy, standing up. "That's a fact!" He starts to speak but I shake my head no, I won't listen. I then reach into my wallet and throw five dollars of dirty money on the table, and leave him alone in the diner.
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Years ago, the Landaff Volunteer Fire Company was mustered by a loud siren that blared from speakers at the top of the firehouse. That siren always sounded to me like the desperate or angry howl from some monstrous, prehistoric bird. As loud as it was, however, the siren was a far from perfect system: About half the fire company did not live within hearing distance of the speakers, especially in the winter when windows are sealed shut in Vermont, and winds come off the mountains that can drown out the cries of even the largest flying reptiles.
Today, we have an infinitely better system: Most of the twenty-two members of the Landaff Volunteer Fire Company live with radio pagers attached to their belts. When they're needed, when there's a fire, each firefighter is alerted by a small tone, followed by a series of coded instructions from whoever happens to be that day's radio dispatcher. He might be in the middle of church, he might be at a local committee meeting, he might be at work, but it is not uncommon to see a firefighter stand up and say simply, ''I just toned out," and then leave abruptly.
The money to purchase the Landaff Volunteer Fire Company's impressive beeper system came from Elias Gray's dowsing donations, one more example of the critical role that water can play fighting fire.
Last night, Laura and I saw or heard a dozen cars and pickups race down the street to the firehouse, honking their horns when cars wouldn't pull off the road to let them pass. It was about ten o'clock. Within minutes we then heard the sound of Landaff's two fire engines roaring in the opposite direction, their sirens screaming, and we heard the pathetic rumble of the fire company's pumper, the giant silver sausage that carries their water.
And I thought nothing of it. I assumed there was another small fire at the edge of the national forest.
As Laura and I curled up together in bed, and she told me that she had a bad feeling about something, I thought nothing of that too. I kissed Laura on her forehead and said not to worry.
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And in the middle of the night when Miranda had a nightmare and crawled into bed beside Laura, I certainly did not think about the fire engines that had sped past our house about ten.
Even when the phone rang at six thirty this morning, a time the phone never rings, I did not think about the fire engines. I don't know what I thought. But I did stop shaving. I wandered to the top of stairs, my razor in one hand and a towel in the other, and I tried to hear Laura in the kitchen. Miranda, who was in her room getting ready for a small day hike with friends, joined me at the top of the stairs, hugging to her chest her small half-filled knapsack.
When Miranda could not hear what Laura was saying, if she was saying anything, Miranda looked up at me and asked, "Is everything okay?"
And I knew instantly that it wasn't, although I still had no idea why everything was no longer okay, I still had no idea what had happened. I still had not recalled the fire engines.
"I don't know, sweetheart," I said to Miranda. "Let's go see."
Miranda walked past me downstairs, as I remembered that my face was half covered with shaving cream. So I returned to the bathroom to rinse the remains of the lather off of my face, although it was clearly a half-hearted effort: Laura and Miranda both told me later that I appeared in the kitchen a minute behind Miranda wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, my face still a white foamy beard.
There I put my hand on Miranda's shoulder, and together we watched Laura pace between the screen door and the counter with the coffee maker, the phone pressed flat against her ear. She was already dressed in her hiking shorts, and I was struckas I am oftenby the beauty of her legs.
Laura looked up at us once and shook her head, and we both saw she was crying. And while I knew in that instant that someone had died, I still made no connection with the fire engines. Names and faces flashed through my mind as I sat in a chair by the kitchen table, and hoisted Miranda onto my lap. I
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feared that Laura's mother, Anna, had died, or one of her two aunts. I imagined for a brief second that a traffic accident had taken the life of a cousin, a neighbor, a friend.
I feared for a split second for Patience.
I started to mouth the words "what happened" or "who" to Laura, but I could see that the phone call was winding down. And so I sat and waited in silence, and watched Miranda as she stared off into space. Scared.
When Laura hung up the phone she took a deep breath, and the moment she started to speak I thought finally of the fire engines. I recalled hearing them race past our house once, and I realized for the first time that I hadn't heard them return. And I knew somehow even then, at six thirty in the morning, that the trucks and the pumper and the firefighters had still not returned. If I were to have visited the firehouse at that moment, I would have seen a dozen cars and pick-ups still sitting in the parking lot beside the three wide garage doors.
Whoever had died had died in a fire. Or, perhaps, fighting that fire.
Whoever had died had died sometime in the night, perhaps at that moment when Laura had had her bad feeling. Perhaps it had been when Miranda had crawled into our bed.
It is ironic, but when I understood on some level that someone had died in a fire, I envisioned a house fire instead of a forest fire. I forgot completely my conclusion from the night before that the Landaff Volunteer Fire Company had raced off to battle a campfire that had run amuck. I envisioned instead Gertrude and Jeanette Scutters' old place in flames, I thought of poor Archer Moody's farmhouse going up in smoke.
No, my instincts from the night before had been correct. It had been a forest fire, one of the many small blazes that have tormented Vermont as the drought has continued through July. It had been started, apparently, by lightning.
That was Patience on the phone, Laura said.
She told Laura that this blaze had been especially close to the edge of the forest, on land that had been in the Gray family
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for almost two centuries. The fire was out now, or at least under control, thanks to the efforts"mutual aid" is the official termof neighboring volunteer companies from Plainfield and Bartlett and West Gardner.
But the fire had taken with it a couple of acres of forest, as well as one structure: the magnificent sugar house that Elias had designed for his grandson. They might have saved the sugar house, but the wooden bridge that led to it had collapsed when one of the pumpers from Plainfield had attempted to cross it (fortunately, it was the last vehicle to arrive at the scene). Evidently, the bridge had collapsed in slow motion, giving way a little bit at a time, as the pumper sank into the stream that had once been a river, and then rolled onto its side like some mammoth, dead jungle animal.