A River Never Sleeps

Nick pulled his arm from under the covers and glanced at his wrist watch. It was 5 a.m., and the room was brittle cold. This was when he'd have been waking up in his body temperature apartment in New York, with the heated tiles in the bathroom, the coffee machine that turned on automatically and the television set in the kitchen that snapped on with the CNN news. But this was different. Instead of distant sirens, the white noise of early traffic and the clang of dumpsters being emptied, he heard nothing - less than nothing, he heard snow falling on snow and damping out all the sounds on Earth. He could see his breath, and glanced again at the stove. It was the only source of heat in the small cabin he was renting - and on this, his first morning alone in a new world, or at least a new life, it set out the parameters simply enough.

"Get up and do it," he thought to himself, and in that instant he threw back the warm blankets, rose naked from the bed, made the stove in three steps, bundled paper, stacked kindling and lit the match, while his skin tightened against the cold and his testicles shrank.
The flames raced through the dry cedar, snapping and shooting sparks across the interior of the stove. He put in two larger pieces, then wedged a thick block above that, closed the door. His plan had been to start a fire then jump back into bed until the cabin warmed. That is what he would have done had he been with a woman, but he was alone, and his wife....well, he would not let that thought in.

Shaking from the cold, he grabbed his jeans, shook them hard trying to throw off the chill in the fabric, pulled them on, found his t-shirt, his fleece jacket, socks. By now the stove was making the sound of a small jet, and he stood as close to it as he could for a moment, warming until his body stopped shuddering, then put the electric kettle on, and went to wash in the small bathroom. The cabin was L-shaped, with a couch that folded out into a bed in the living room, and a kitchen/fly tying nook off to the side. He would leave the bed folded down, because he didn't expect any visitors, except for Jim, the fishing guide who'd found him the cabin after he'd decided to turn a three-day drift into a new life.

The New York law firm, which now seemed decades behind him, not merely days, was on hold indefinitely. The marriage. That was over. And now he would have to find out if there was anything worth living for.

The water, which the pump drew from a small spring that spilled down next to the cabin before hitting the Washnagle River, burned with coldness. He wondered how trout could live in it.

He pulled on a storm jacket, found his hiking boots, and stepped out onto the porch. Snow was still falling. He wanted to see the river, and cut a snaky line through the trees to the bank. The water looked black and uninviting. But then, along the far bank, a soft splash. Was it snow falling into the river? Or a steelhead, calling him out?

He waited, but nothing moved again. The cabin looked warm, with its windows glowing and hot white smoke pouring up from the chimney. But he deflected to the right as he made his way back, going up the narrow dirt road that cut up at angle through the dark woods. He walked for a mile, wondering at the transformed beauty, then turned, feeling the coldness in his hands and feet, and made his way back. Half way down the hill he stopped suddenly. Out of the woods on the slope above him, a line of tracks appeared, crossing over the footprints he'd left not 10 minutes earlier.

He came up to them cautiously. They were big, almost hand sized he saw when he knelt and splayed his fingers over them, and although he hadn't seen tracks like that since he was a kid, he knew.

"A f---ing wolf!" he said out loud. It was the first real sound he'd heard all morning, and it seemed weirdly out of place. He straightened, followed the tracks to the edge of the bank. The animal appeared to have stopped as it crossed his footprints, then had vaulted down, springing like a deer to vanish in the forest.

"A wolf?" said Jim later that day, when he came to pick him up, his Jeep whining down the hill, pushing through the deep snow. They went up to look, but the tracks had been covered.

"Could be, but I haven't seen or heard about one in 20 years. Sure it wasn't a coyote? There's lots of them in the valley."

No, insisted Nick, spreading his fingers to show how big the print was.
Later they drifted the river, coming down from Jim's riverside house, and just when they got near Nick's cabin, he trusted to instinct, and threw a Green Butt Skunk back under the cedar bows where he'd seen a splash before dawn.

The fish took with a violent swirl, cut upstream at an angle, and jumped in the middle of the pool, going high above their heads.
"Holy s---!" yelled Jim, who had seen a lot of steelhead jump before, but maybe nothing like that. It seemed to hang up there, then turned over and came down nose first. When it ran down past them the line hissed as it cut the surface. Ice that had formed on the rod flew off in a spray.

They drifted down through a quick run, and the steelhead followed, then Jim vaulted out of the boat and netted it in a flooded place where long grass waved in the current. The fish was about 12 lbs., and as hard as ice. Nick got out of the boat to hold it for a moment, it's flesh was as cold as the spring water that had stung his face that morning.

Later they dragged the boat in and went to Jim's for dinner, just as darkness fell.

Afterwards, they drove up to Washnagle City Hall, where an evening council meeting was discussing development issues. Posted along the wall was a simple plan that showed how Malloch and Mulloch Logging was going to cut a 30 square mile block of timber right at the edge of the village - along the river.

"I thought it was 10 miles. It's a helluva lot bigger," said Jim, looking at the map dumbstruck. The cutting zone swallowed the river on both banks.

"How will we ever fight this?" he asked, looking shaken.

"I don't know," said Nick. The slick New York lawyer Jim had hoped could mount a legal challenge, might have arrived too late, and there seemed to be too little of him. He hadn't shaved, his eye were shot with red; he looked more like a logger than Jim did.

"But we will," he said. Jim looked at him hopefully. He detected a resolve in his voice that hadn't been there before.

A young lawyer, Kim Ernst, from Erkhard, Whitney and Scoonge made the presentation, while a logging company executive sat beside her, nodding and smiling. The council nodded back.

She pointed out that 25 men would be employed, roads would be built, a bridge would be needed across the river, and a continuous supply of timber would keep the local mill in operation for several years more. She talked about the infrastructure spending, the pay-roll, the manpower. And then she sat down.

Ms. Ernst was about 25, trim, blonde, confidant and she had just waded in way beyond her depth.

"Question from the floor," said Nick after she sat down and Mayor Helen Shunt, who ran a B & B in a Victorian mansion overlooking the river, had thanked her for coming.

"Of course," said Mayor Shunt, sizing up the stranger.

"Let me introduce myself," he said, his smooth, calm voice catching attention. "I'm Nick Stillmore, from the law firm of Gulliver, Stillmore, and I've just taken up residence along the river, coincidentally in the area Mallock and Mulloch intends now to strip of all its living timber."

He paused, looked around the room in an inclusive gesture that seemed to draw everyone forward on their seats.

"And it disturbs me to see a project of this magnitude, which surely must have devastating effect, presented without any reference to its environmental impact.

"When might an Environmental Impact Study be made available?"

He sat down.

"An EIS?" said the Mayor. "Oh. Is an EIS necessary?"

"I don't . . ." Ms. Ernst was on her feet, looking bewildered.

"An EIS," interrupted Nick, "is mandatory, in that this logging proposal surrounds the prime steelhead spawning grounds of the Washnagle, and in that it proposes to clearcut a zone that provides habitat for an endangered species."

The room sat in stunned silence.

"Endangered like hell!" shouted a voice from the back. Heads snapped around to see a pudgy, florid faced man of about 40 standing up. He sneered as he looked around the room, and people fidgeted uncomfortably, the way they will when someone who has control over their lives speaks. Most people in the room worked for Mickey Malloch, or had family who did.

"There ain't nothin but blacktails and blue grouse in there....'ceptin less you're meaning the hippies, and they sure ain't endangered," he said.

That got a laugh. A loud laugh. Some people stamped their feet in approval. Malloch smiled broadly.

Nick stood at the microphone and faced the mayor.

"Your honor," he said calmly. "I'm sure you're aware that under federal law an EIS is required because of the potential impact on the fishery. The steelhead spawning grounds, as determined by fisheries snorkel swims, extend from just below the lake outlet, the weir you can see from the front steps of city hall marks the upper limit, to Snag Creek, which is, according to the site map posted here, below the southern boundary of the proposed logging zone.

"Beyond that, the federal endangered species act requires an extensive examination of the potential impact of any - and I stress the word any - development within the range of an endangered species."

"What the hell are you talking about!" said Malloch, snorting. "And who the hell are you anyway?"

Nick turned the mike so that he was facing Malloch and the audience.

"Mr. Malloch," he said, "as the proponent of this rather egregious logging plan, it is your responsibility to be fully informed about the wildlife and fishery values of this site. Your indifference about the steelhead spawning grounds is disturbing - your lack of knowledge about the presence of wolves - which are not only endangered but have been considered extinct in this region for more than a decade - is shocking."

"Wolves!" shouted Malloch. "There ain't any wolves!"

"Your honor," said Ms. Ernst, "Your honor, this is the initial proposal and we of course are concerned about wildlife and fishery values, but we have no information that would. . ."

"Wolves. Steelhead spawning grounds. Your proposal is flawed, it cannot proceed without a detailed EIS and you simply must withdraw. If you don't, you will be met with an injunction," said Nick. And then he sat down.

The room was in an uproar. Nobody had ever talked to Malloch like that before. Nobody had ever challenged a cut block. Not in this town.

Mayor Shunt banged her gavel. She got a motion to adjourn, to allow the city solicitor to examine the regulations. The logging proposal would have to come back in a week she said.

Malloch walked out in a fury, looking back at the door, his cronies crowded around him, muttering back and forth.

Nick immediately found himself surrounded by a small knot of people. Half a dozen out of the 50 that had been in the room, wanted to know if it was true, were there really wolves in the Washnagle again?

"I knew that was what I saw," said an old lady with bright, excited eyes. "A big shaggy, magnificent animal. Standing along my fence line. I though it was a wolf, then no! It couldn't be! A wolf! I used to hear them as a girl you know."

Nick took down her name.