THe Rain Coast

A horn burst through the downpour, the choker bites...

Wet chains jangle with the throttle of a straining motor. The fresh cut logs are yarded up steep sandstone slopes and loaded onto idling trucks. Mud laden trucks let out deep shuttering gasps as they barrel down wet mountain roads. “For tenn an’ a haf, loaded down the mainline” calls out over a crackling CB radio. Logs rattle from pothole to pothole as restless wiper blades swoosh in time.  The logs are coming out of the tree farm where second and third growth is cut, planted and cut again by the world’s largest private owner of soft wood timber.

The company is old, over a century old, the same forest used to build airplanes in WWI and transported by steamships through the Panama Canal. Expanding with the baby boomers they made overseas investments in South America, South East Asia and Canada. They became the first timber company to ship products to the Republic of China. The Asian markets still the final destination for the logs rattling out of the steep coastal range today.

Out of the mountains, the mud laden trucks whine down a broad river as fat droplets drip from uniform trees. In the tight valleys the rain begins to fade. Exposed bed rock stand against the shining silver ribbon pouring from the mountains. These are the same waters which the original people once harvested two million pounds of fatty pink flesh. Like all rivers of the region the ironic names embody a muddled understanding of the native people. The rivers name which not only is derived from the wrong native language also names the wrong fork of the river where the indigenous people never lived.

The trucks continues to follow the river. The only source of transportation since the first intrepid Scottish and Irish explores floated them in old growth canoes. Mckay's and McLeod's still stenciled on mailboxes up and down the coast today. Flowing out of the tight valleys the rapid river becomes a calm tidal slough. Its muddy waters lined with ruminant pilings. The same mossy wooden stakes that held back the banks when “(splash) dams and a judicial use of dynamite” sent old growth floating by. During the peak of drives 20 million feet of saw logs along with salmon spawning gravel went down river. A practice continued on these placid waters well after it had become industry taboo.

Beyond the high dikes, black dots of dairy cattle are spread across narrow strips of sun drenched pastures. In the monsoon rains of winter, reminiscent waters linger in the lush emerald valley. The rich tidal estuaries drained for agricultural produce which floated down stream to a gold swollen San Francisco.

In the distance another dark cloud sits above a heron’s deep curved neck. With hunched shoulders rain drips from long grey beards into the murky bay. Wiry men stand in roadside mud their long lines cast into the deep dredged waters. One fisherman rests his pole on a crib where a wobbly toddler mimics his father’s gaze. Together they study the flat black water as the log truck roars past and into the rain coast largest city.

Four rusty tugs push the massive cargo vessel into position. The port yard bustles with activity as the last logs are taken of off the trucks and piled into long rows. In a week the cranes will have loaded 35 thousand tons of logs and the ships high steal sides will sit 30 feet lower.  A single chain-link fence separates the logs from parallel lines of RVs stacked for the tribes casino. The sounds of saws ripping down logs have long been replaced by the ring of slots and smoke filled rooms.

Sinking into the drained marsh the town is propped up by these juxtapositions. Plaster and brick buildings buttress the port city. Under their awnings careful inventoried backpacks lay. Weathered and leathery hands clutch the day’s collection of recyclables, enough to purchase a small meal at the convenience store deli. The few gathering spots under the old library roof and can collection facility they check in on each other.  Those in better condition try to assess the less coherent.  Dispersing for the night they pass by those smoking outside the RV parks and half converted motels. They move outside of town and down winding country roads to forgotten land.

The rural roads eventually climb steep ridges separating the port from the ocean. In the road cuts a ceaseless growth pushes towards the open sky. Used tires, moldy mattresses and a few scattered bodies have been discarded among the barbed masses. In pouring rain and darkness of the night the truly despondent drift down the middle of wet pavement. They do not want a ride, they are hardly aware of headlights searing into glazed eyes. They disappear into the cavernous forest, abandoned homes and boarded trailers.

Protecting the city from the ocean these ridges take the brunt of winter storms. The tree tops bend and sway with each gust of thrashing rain. The wind carries the pounding surf and the eerie cries of sea lions through the night. On the ridge the guts of an abandoned RV spill out. Broken electronics, photos and clothes litter the road. Inside bright crayon scribbles adorn moldy plastic walls. Photo albums soggy pages are filled with a young smiling couple in an intoxicated embrace. By an old boat rope the hopeless home was towed out of town and abandoned in the night.

Back in town, the place functions as much in contradictions as its old world industries. In a dim salon, the bar slowly fills with boisterous skinny men in oil soaked pants. They drink from tall painted cans, yelling across pool tables and smoky lights. A few over sized women in undersized shirts join them. On the women's shirts patterns emerge from wet creases where bulging backs have caught the nights drizzle.

A decidedly young girl joins the crowd. Her hay blond hair sprinkled with rain drops glistening in the neon light. Big blue eyes search the room, landing on the pool table. There she waits, holding the curve of her body in a slight arch. She knows the men are watching. From the bar someone orders two shots of cinnamon whiskey. An ironic bartender hiding his age gracefully moves to fill the order. From years of practice his subtle flamboyant gestures perfect the exact threshold of known but tolerated.

Down the street marine biology students, young professionals and natural resource managers pack underneath high vaulted ceiling. Hand-blown glass pieces illuminate those testing their trivia prowess while sipping dark, pungent brews. Far more educated they make far less money and drink far more expensive beer. At best they hold onto pride and at the worst a self-ordained martyrdom.

Their jobs to help sustain and regulate dwindling fisheries which in 1980 saw 3,114 vessels bring in 27.4 million dollars (adjust for 2000 inflation) of shrimp, crabs tuna and salmon into a bustling harbor.  At the turn of the millennium, 250 vessels made landings worth a total of 12.7 million dollars.  Now a few sunken fishing boats rot on the silty bottom of the docile harbor. A single bar remains where the same 87 year old bar tender will cautiously fill your pint and a drunken old captain with long white hair will buy to reminisce. Stories of long forgotten storms and sunken boats give way to revelry of full caches and fisherman full of whiskey.

Beyond the local watershed coalitions, state and federal agencies; a private and sometimes radical conservation element is present. Particularly active in almost million acre state forest which contains much of the remaining 200-350 year old trees. With a median tree stand age of 184 years the relatively small parcel of land contains headwaters for the coast remaining productive salmon spawning streams.  An archaic law mandates state lands produce revenue for the education fund. In suing the state over the protection of endangered birds, these organizations have forced the forest to operate in a deficit. Because of this the land is now for sale. Its fate in the bids of a handful of timber companies, private conservation groups and federal agencies.

Following in the regions historic footsteps a multi-billion dollar liquefied natural gas export terminal has been proposed. According to the purposing company, “ (the terminal) will establish the international port as the premier energy center... Bringing jobs and millions in revenue from property taxes…” Among strong opposition the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission has surprisingly denied their application.

Low clouds lift off the ocean as the air slowly thickens. The aging community of the rain coast largest city is now caught in between its iconic past and an uncertain future. A tempo rises in the forest falling through silhouette trees. The pounding cadence quickly crescendos to a deafening roar. A powerful gust sends the whitewash swirling overhead, it shifts against a dark sky.

In the rain, between the ocean and mountains, moss grows on everything. Velvet green pushes through the cracks of car doors, between the boards of homes and along sandstone cliffs. The thick rolling carpet grows over rocks, stumps, and sagging shingled roofs. It hangs down off every sideways trunk and every twisted branch. In the sun light, the moss goes unnoticed. But wet in the soggy shadows the moss radiates an obnoxious and unforgettable green. It is the strangest thing.