Page 42 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
It’s like the difference between hot chocolate and coffee. Two things I could never compare because I love both. Sometimes I crave the sweetness, sometimes the kick, but both are part of me. Both hit differently, but both hit right. If I’m out of one, sure, I’ll survive—but I’d always rather have both.
That thought lingers as I trudge higher up the track. The lodge is long out of sight. The late summer sun is warm, the breeze playful enough to ruffle my hair and keep the worst of the bugs away. I pause when I spot a beetle gleaming metallic gold in the sunlight, strolling across the dirt like I don’t even exist.
“It doesn’t know I’m here. Even if it did, it wouldn’t care,” I mutter. “Just like those bastards down below.”
And speaking of bastards—there’s more than just the four men at the lodge. There’s Tim Collier. And Randy Jessup.
Two monumental assholes.
Randy first. He bailed on our mission—left me hanging, literally—because he had to take his hamster to the vet. A hamster. What the actual fuck. He left me to risk my neck climbing into the treetops alone because Mr. Fluffy had a cough? He didn’t just let me down, he let the whole crew down. If he’d been there like he was supposed to, maybe I wouldn’t have fallen. Maybe I wouldn’t have almost died.
And Tim, our self-appointed leader. He calls the shots, controls the money. I’ve always suspected some of it even comes from his own pocket, which—fine, credit where it’s due. But the voicemail he left me? Not a word about whether I was okay. Not one question about where I’d been sleeping, what I’d been eating, how I’d been surviving out here. No concern for the fact that I might have been halfway up a collapsing walkway in the middle of a thunderstorm.
No. All he cared about was getting his footage. His precious film crew. His banners flying on cue.
And now that I replay it in my head… why the hell is the footage so important? He talks about it like it’s going to change the whole world. Like one shot of a couple of banners is going to make CNN sit up and start crying into their microphones.
Really? For banners?
The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense.
Sure, at first we were excited. The plan was simple: Randy and I sneak in, climb the walkways, secure the banners, and wait for morning. Then Tim swoops in with his chopper and film crew, cameras rolling, to catch us unfurling them. Boom—media exposure. Public outrage. Hashtag trending.
But now, with a little distance… how much impact would it really have? A couple of banners strung between trees? So what?
Thinking about it now, it all seems like an awful lot of effort and expense for not much reward. I mean… I could understand the media being interested if it were something bigger.Something that actually exposed bad practices, rather than just one of our Kill Climate Change banners. If we could catch the logging crew in the act—doing something shady, illegal, or cruel—that would be a story.Thatwould be footage worth showing the world.
So why is Tim so insistent on his little banner stunt?
I shake my head. It just doesn’t make sense.
And there’s another thing. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I’m starting to wonder why we’re even targeting this company at all. Yes, they’re a logging company. Yes, they cut down trees. But there are trees and then there are trees. This isn’t untouched virgin rainforest that’s been thriving for millennia. This is mostly evergreen softwoods—conifers that can be planted, harvested, and replanted in a couple of decades. It’s not rare hardwoods that only grow a centimeter a year, supporting delicate ecosystems that collapse if one tree is removed.
What’s more, from what I’ve seen and from what the guys have told me, McKenzie Forestry Services is actually a model for sustainable practice. They plant more saplings than they harvest—and they do it at their own expense. They’re not stripping the land bare; they’re managing it. So why are we going after them with such intensity? Why not focus on a company that’s actually guilty of wrongdoing?
That doesn’t make sense either.
And then there’s Luke. For all that he’s a massive bastard, he’s made me question things I never thought I’d question. Wouldn’t my time—and my so-called activism—be more worthwhile if I focused on real solutions? Like sustainable timber harvesting for houses? Actual homes people need? Instead of lying in front of oil tankers, screaming slogans at security guards?
The reason I joined Kill Climate Change was to make a difference. Gandhi’s words come back to me: Be the change you wish to see in the world.
What do I wish to see? More conflict? More pointless stunts? Or more houses?
I sigh.
At least my ankle is holding up better than I’d expected. I’ve been walking for over an hour and a half, and though it aches, it’s mostly okay.
Actually… where am I?
I stop and turn, scanning the forest. I don’t recognize this area from the trip Toby and I took on the quad bike. The slope is steeper here, rockier too. Towering firs surround me—mostly Douglas with the occasional Lodgepole pine mixed in.
I glance down at the faint trail beneath my boots. It’s not really a track at all. More like something animals have carved into the hillside over years of use.
Great. Just great.
And of course, like an idiot, I came out here without my phone. Not that it would get a signal, but at least I’d know the time. Judging by the sun, I’d guess around eleven-thirty, maybe noon. Still plenty of daylight. No real hurry to get back to the lodge anyway. I’m not ready to face those men. Not yet.
But I am thirsty.
