Page 1 of Caught By the Lumberjack

Chapter One

Clementine

My tie-dyed hands gripped the steering wheel as I navigated the winding road up Fire Mountain. The ancient Volkswagen van—lovingly named Dharma—protested with each curve, her engine wheezing like an asthmatic dragon. I'd painted her myself last summer: swirls of forest green and sunset orange, with "SAVE THE PLANET ONE TREE AT A TIME" emblazoned across both sides in psychedelic lettering.

"Almost there, old girl," I murmured, patting the dashboard affectionately while humming along to "Box of Rain" playing on my vintage cassette player. The Grateful Dead always kept me company on these solo missions.

I'd been tracking the movements of Ridgeway Logging & Timber for weeks. Their website—a clunky throwback to the early 2000s—had announced plans to harvest timber froma section of Fire Mountain that, according to my research, contained some of the oldest trees in western Montana. I'd driven all the way from San Francisco to stop them.

When I spotted the dirt turnoff to the logging site, I guided Dharma carefully down the rutted path, wincing at each bump and jolt. The forest thickened on either side—ponderosa pines and Douglas firs reaching skyward like nature's cathedral. My heart ached at the thought of chainsaws tearing into them.

"Not on my watch," I whispered.

The track opened to a small clearing where several logging vehicles sat dormant. My research told me they wouldn't start work until tomorrow, which gave me the perfect window. I parked Dharma behind a cluster of bushes, hoping the colorful van wouldn't be immediately visible from the main road.

I hopped out, my Birkenstocks hitting the dirt with determination. The mountain air filled my lungs—crisp, pine-scented, and alive in a way the city could never match. This, this feeling right here, was why I'd spent the last three years bouncing from protest to protest. Nature deserved defenders.

"Okay, Clementine Fox," I said to myself, "time to save some trees."

I climbed into the back of Dharma and gathered my supplies: a hand-painted sign reading "STOP DEFORESTATION!" in bold red letters, a heavy-duty bicycle lock, a length of chain, two carabiners, and my trusty backpack filled with essentials—water, granola bars, a dog-eared copy ofThe Lorax(because inspiration), and yes, a small stash of weed tucked into a recycled mint tin.

My parents—both aging hippies who'd raised me in a communal house in Haight-Ashbury—would be proud. Mom had chained herself to redwoods back in the '90s. Dad had once lived in a tree for forty-three days to prevent logging. Activismran in my blood, intermingled with patchouli oil and a healthy disrespect for corporate America.

I slung my backpack over my shoulders and headed deeper into the woods. According to the satellite imagery I'd studied, the most vulnerable section—and the one most likely to be harvested first—lay about a quarter mile in. My flower-embroidered leggings caught occasionally on underbrush as I picked my way through the forest, following what appeared to be preliminary logging markers.

Then I saw her—the Grandmother Tree.

She stood majestic among her sisters, a ponderosa pine that must have been at least four hundred years old. Her trunk was wider than my arms could encircle, her bark the color of burnt caramel, deeply fissured and bearing the scars of centuries. When I placed my palm against her, I swore I could feel her heartbeat beneath the rough exterior.

"I won't let them take you," I promised.

Setting my backpack down, I unfurled my protest sign and wedged it securely against a nearby rock. Next came the serious business. I wrapped the chain around the massive trunk, leaving enough slack to loop around my waist. With the fluid efficiency of a seasoned activist, I secured myself to the tree with the bicycle lock, positioning myself so I could sit somewhat comfortably at the base. The carabiners ensured I had some mobility without compromising the security of my attachment to Grandmother Tree.

I settled in, cross-legged, my back against the ancient bark. This wasn't my first rodeo—I'd locked myself to trees, fences, and once, memorably, to the gates of a chemical plant. Each time, the authorities eventually arrived, irritated but ultimately forced to acknowledge my presence. Sometimes I earned media coverage; sometimes I was simply dragged awaywith minimal fanfare. But every act of resistance mattered in the grand scheme.

My longest protest had lasted nearly two days before authorities cut the chains. The shortest had been a mere forty minutes when an overzealous security guard had simply picked me up—chains, tree branch, and all—and deposited me unceremoniously outside the property line.

I'd had a few fleeting romances born in these moments of activism—a fellow environmentalist here, a sympathetic legal observer there. Nothing had ever stuck. They either couldn't handle my nomadic lifestyle or wanted to "settle me down," as if my passion for environmental justice was just a phase to outgrow.

"Who needs relationships when you've got trees?" I said aloud, patting Grandmother Tree affectionately. "At least you're consistent."

I dug into my backpack, pulled out a small, hand-rolled joint, and lit it. The sweet, earthy smoke mingled with the pine-scented air as I took a contemplative drag. Not the healthiest habit, perhaps, but it helped me commune with nature. Or so I told myself.

I'd been sitting there for maybe an hour, alternating between meditation, and scrolling through my social media accounts to document my protest, when I heard the unmistakable rumble of an approaching vehicle.

"Showtime," I muttered, straightening my posture and adopting what I hoped was an expression of serene determination.

A massive pickup truck burst into view, dust billowing behind it like an angry cloud. It screeched to a halt at the edge of the clearing, and the driver's door flew open with such force I thought it might detach from its hinges.

The man who emerged made my breath catch in my throat.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of this entire mountain. His dark brown hair was tousled, as if he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration, and a day's worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. He wore a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, jeans that had clearly seen better days, and mud-caked work boots.

In short, he looked like the human embodiment of everything I opposed: a lumberjack.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted, striding toward me with purpose.

I lifted my chin defiantly. "Protecting what you're planning to destroy."

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