The Book of Yaak Read online

  The Book of Yaak

  Rick Bass

  * * *

  A Manner Book

  Houghton Mifflin Company

  BOSTON • NEW YORK

  * * *

  Copyright © 1996 by Rick Bass

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from

  this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bass, Rick

  The book of Yaak / Rick Bass

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-395-87746-3 (pbk.)

  1 Nature conservation—Montana—Yaak Valley

  2. Nature. 3. Yaak Valley (Mont.). I Title

  QH76.5.M9B37 1996

  508.786'81—dc2o 96-27270 CIP

  Printed in the United States of America

  DOH 10 9 8 7

  The author is grateful to the Lyndhurst Foundation and to the

  following magazines, which first published some of these essays

  in different form Steelhead, Wild Duck Review, Orion, House

  Beautiful, AFSEE (Association of Forest Service Employees for

  Environmental Ethics), Montana Magaazine, Audubon, Sierra,

  Sports Afield, Big Sky Journal, Southern Review, Eugene Weekly,

  Sonora Review, and the anthologies Best American Nature Writing

  1994 and Best American Nature Writing 1996.

  * * *

  For Lincoln County—

  Past, Present and Future

  and

  In Memoriam

  Bill Shearer

  1952-1996

  * * *

  Contents

  Introduction xiii

  Home 1

  The Value of a Place 2

  Almost Like Hibernation 14

  The Land That Congress Forgot 21

  Four Coyotes 28

  The Fringe 37

  My Grizzly Story 45

  Antlers 59

  Waterfall 66

  The Music and Harmony of Large and Small Things 67

  Winter Coyotes 86

  The Blood Root of Art 87

  The Storekeeper 95

  Cores 101

  The Dark-Eyed Owls 113

  This Savage Land 123

  Healing 136

  Fires 140

  My Congressman 150

  Hot Lead 152

  The Totem Pole 171

  Metamorphosis 174

  Conclusion 188

  * * *

  As we destroy that which is natural

  we eat ourselves alive.

  —William Kittredge

  * * *

  Introduction

  I SHIVER, AS I WRITE THIS.

  I'm shivering because it's winter in my windowless unheated rat-shed of a writing cabin.

  I'm shivering because I'm so nakedly, openly, revealing the earned secrets of my valley—places and things I know, which the valley—the Yaak—has entrusted to me.

  There is a place, a sanctuary you go to, in writing fiction, or, I suppose, poetry, that is in another world. You are not in control—and upon emerging from it, the writing of and the inhabiting of that place, you feel new energy, new understanding. You've touched mystery.

  It's magic. There's no other word for it—no way known to explain it.

  That's what I like to chase, or move toward: that feeling, that place. It does try to escape.

  This book is not like that. It's a sourcebook, a handbook, a weapon of the heart. To a literary writer, it's a sin, to ask something of the reader, rather than to give; and to know the end, to know your agenda, from the very start, rather than discovering it along the way, or at the end itself.

  My valley is on fire—my valley is burning. It has been on fire for over twenty years. These essays—these pleas to act to save it—it's all I know how to do. I don't know if a book can help protect a valley, and the people who live in that valley. I know that a book can harm these things—that in our acquisitive culture, now that big business has us where they want us—having advertised into us the notion that we want things and lots of them, and that we want the Best, the most Unique, the Ten Least Known—that a revelation of this valley's wild faint secrets could draw acquisitive sorts—those who come to the valley to take something, rather than give.

  It is not a place to come to.

  It is a place to save—a place to exercise our strength and compassion—that last little bit that the advertisers have not yet been able to breed, or condition, out of us.

  This valley still exists in the Lower Forty-eight as a chance to explain to corporate America—Big Timber, mostly—that as human beings we still have at our core an essence, a yearning for and affiliation with wilderness, and that we can only be pushed and herded so far.

  What do I want?

  I want the last few roadless areas in this still-wild valley to remain that way.

  I am not "against" logging—though 1 am against any more clearcuts in the valley. Too often the opposition paints tree buggers such as myself into total obstructionists.

  I'm not writing this like any of my other books—certainly not like my novel. This is not really a book. This is instead an artifact of the woods, like a chunk of rhyolite, a shed deer antler, a bear skull, a heron feather.

  I am convinced that anyone who hears the message of Yaak, logger and tree hugger alike, will agree that its wildness should be protected from corporate America. I am convinced the Yaak—471,000 acres, of which only about 150,000 remain roadless—can be saved. It never has been saved before — inertia rules—- but I do not believe inertia can rule forever.

  I shiver, for these are the same words—the precise words — one finds in the third-class mailings for every other so-just cause both at home and abroad. Invariably, in all of these causes, the children are the ones who will pay most severely. The causes stun the mind with their commonness, their prevalence—their ubiquitousness. The mind, for balm's sake, recoils from them, files them immediately in some other empty, nonacquiring, nongiving part of the brain, and often turns to art—to a book, or music, or a painting—to calm the adrenaline spike, or the soul's stab.

  If action cannot be roused on behalf of the handful of wolves hanging on in the Yaak Valley, or the handful of grizzlies, or the lone woodland caribou, or the last twelve pairs of bull trout, or the orchids and moonworts, sedges and swans—perhaps action can be roused by anger of what is being done to you, in secret. It is the dark story of America—the story of coal thugs and goons in Appalachia, the story of company towns, the story of intolerance, the story of the quick buck unraveling the hope for a sustainable future.

  The wolves, the swans, the bears, are waiting patiently. I am convinced that the only way to save ourselves is to save the Yaak Valley. You may roll your eyes heavenward and put the book—the artifact—aside at such a statement, and if you do, I have failed the wolverines and the bears, have failed my neighbor Jesse who carves totem poles, five or six a year, out of fallen fir trees; failed my friends who trap and tan hides and sew them into buckskin (to sell sometimes to movie companies and actors and actresses who then film commercials advertising products owned by subsidiaries of the oil and timber companies whose products we use and who are bent on rubbing out the last roadless areas, the last wild places...).

  We need wildness to protect us from ourselves.

  We need wilderness to buffer this dark lost-gyroscopic tumble that democracy, top-heavy with big business and leaning precariously over rot, has entered.

  We're an adolescent country, a tough, macho, posturing Madison Avenue sleek-jawed Marlboro Man's caricature of strength.

  We nee
d the strength of lilies, ferns, mosses and mayflies. We need the masculinity of ponds and rivers, the femininity of stone, the wisdom of quietness, if not silence.

  For thirty years, the agencies—chiefly the U.S. Forest Service—and industries in command of this secret scandal have, year after year, uttered the platitudes "We're changing," and "We were bad then, before we knew any better, but now we're good, we're committed," and "Every day is Earth Day."

  Every day in Montana, and the West, is big industry's Rip-Off Day. They're stripping public resources, public lands, faster than they can recover, and they're stripping away mystery.

  Here is a chronicling, an accounting, of some of the things and places that are getting scraped clean.

  Home

  YAAK IS THE KOOTENAI WORD for arrow and it is the name of the valley where I live. The Kootenai once hunted in the upper part of the valley, the place where my cabin is now.

  Those of us who live here now hunt through the ice for fish in January, hunt deer and elk in the snows of November, grouse in the blazing autumn; we gather berries in August, and tend to our gardens in the brief summer. We hunt firewood; we hunt mushrooms. We hunt for the deer's dropped antlers; we hunt for fir boughs for Christmas wreaths; we hunt a duck or two; and we hunt flat rocks for our rock walls. We hunt daisies and asters and lupine and paintbrush for our children in June. We hunt horses that have slipped through buck-and-rail fences knocked askew like toothpicks by night-passing moose.

  Three couples up here trap and tan hides. There are three preachers; two bars. A handful of hunting and fishing guides. We do seasonal work, rhythmic work—planting trees in the spring to try to regenerate the scabrous clearcuts; we saw roadside lodgepole blowdown for firewood, and hundred-inch studs, to cart to Libby or Bonners Ferry in the backs of our beat-up pickups.

  The people who live here—who stay here—- have fallen in love with the shape of this land. Its cycle of days.

  The Value of a Place

  ALMOST AS BAD AS a writer asking for something, rather than giving, is the sin of repeating one's self, like some tired spit-dribbling codger at Christmas dinner telling that same damn story.

  I wrote a book, Winter, which was about falling in love with this valley. I long for that innocence and suppleness of heart. Forgive me for repeating this one story, of how I stumbled into this place, but what was part of that old story—falling in love with, and learning to fit a place—is also part of this new story, which is about, I suppose, the second part of my cycle: the moon that must always answer to the sun—the giving back, after so much taking.

  We wanted to be artists—my wife and I. Or rather, she was an artist, and I was a geologist and wanted to become instead a writer. I knew it would be hard to do both—geology and writing, science and art.

  We left Mississippi when we were twenty-nine—in my old truck with our two hounds, who were only puppies then, and headed West, were pulled west, as seems to be the genetic predisposition in our country's blood—the handwriting of it telling us to move across the country from right to left, always farther from some echo of England, perhaps, or farther from everything—something in our blood and perhaps in the country beneath us that whispers for us always to rebel, even if only mildly—and that was what we did; we ran, for both the thrill of flight and for the searching-for-a-place.

  All over the west we drove—we knew we loved mountains, loved rocks and ice and forests and creeks, loved sky and smoke—and we traveled through July thunderstorms and August snowstorms until one day we came over a pass and a valley appeared beneath us, a blue-green valley hidden beneath heavy clouds, with smoke rising from a couple of chimneys far below, and a lazy river snaking its way through the valley's narrow center, and a power, an immensity, that stopped us in our tracks. It was perhaps like the feeling of traveling a deep ocean while dragging an anchor, the anchor catching on something far below. It was the gravity of the place that caught my heart—that caught our hearts.

  It took us a long time to settle in, to fit in, but not as long as it would have taken had we moved to yet another city, I don't believe. The move wasn't seamless, to say the least—I didn't even own a coat, or long underwear, for instance (Mississippi!)—but there was a match, right from the very start. I was starving for a thing but until then I had not realized what it was—and still, even as I discovered it, did not know the name of it, peace —though I knew that this valley had it, and would offer it to me, would let me feast upon it as if it were a meal: as if it were the sum of some strange combination of rock and forest and river that spoke only to our hearts—though I think it is safe to say that it speaks to the hearts of all those who have committed to living here: the whole hundred or so of us.

  Is it too much to imagine that the pulsings of our blood, and our emotions, follow the rough profile of the days of light in this valley? the short summers of long days followed by the long winters of short days? the play of light in these strange forests, and even the sound of its creeks, somehow a place and sound that has almost always existed, which mirrors the sounds and rhythms inside us? Not a direct overlay, but a predisposition, so that our settling in was not so much work and effort as it was relief, pleasure and peace.

  Does such a place exist for everyone?

  How many places are left in the world—what diversity of them still exists—and for that diversity, what tolerance, and what affinity?

  If a place is peaceful, can it impart that peace to its inhabitants—and if so, then how far—like a stone dropped into a pond -—can that peace be spread?

  What is the value of a place?

  I wrote, and Elizabeth painted. I wrote in a place that was half-greenhouse, half-root-cellar—half submerged in the rich black earth, like a bear in hibernation, dreaming, yet also half immersed in light and surrounded by the scent and flavor of growing things—and Elizabeth painted out in the bright sun and wind, after that first winter had passed: painted scarves of bright colors, and bright landscapes.

  We took, and took, and took. We feasted.

  I can't tell you when the blinders of art, only art, first lifted: at what precise point I looked beyond the immediate visual reaction of what was being done to the country—the surgical incisions of the clearcuts, the scalpings—and felt the unease, or disease, deeply enough to begin acting, or trying to act, against it. I'm not sure at which point I allowed the pain of it to be absorbed by me deeply enough so that I had no choice but to react against it. The clearcuts were never attractive, but for at least a year or two they did not touch me or harm me, nor my belief in peace, the way they do now—as does the threat of those clearcuts yet to come: those in the planning stages, and those that will come still later.

  There had to be some point, though—some moment, some place, where something in me reached saturation—where I could not accept the sight of it anymore, and the knowledge of what the roads and clearcuts were doing to the ecology of the valley as well as to the economy of man. Undoubtedly this feeling of pain, of saturation, came at some point after 1 had gone through a full cycle of the four seasons; perhaps after I had gone through them a couple of times. I moved through the woods on hikes and hunts, open-minded—I had heard that the clearcuts were sometimes beneficial for the production of summer browse for deer (never mind that the deer populations might then rise beyond the limitations of their winter range). There still seemed to be plenty of diversity in the forest types I saw, and the roadless cores—the sanctuaries—still seemed intact.

  That was just over a decade ago. I'm not sure when I began to realize that they—the timber industry—wanted it all: or if not all of it immediately, then access to all of it, forever. Or as the occasional bumper sticker declared, "Wilderness = Land of No Use."

  Each season, I picked up the feel and taste of cycles. My blood began to learn new rhythms. My body became increasingly fluent in the language of cycles: splitting wood on cold mornings, cleaning a grouse in the evening—the solace, and ceremony, of plucking the feathers. Noticing
where elk foraged in summer and where they foraged in winter. Noticing where the bears fed and what they ate. Watching the pulse of different creeks and the Yaak River itself—skinny in autumn, icy but poised in winter—wild, joyful and enormous in spring, then steady and clear on into summer, with caddis flies and mayflies rising from it every evening, and the giant spruce and fir trees shadowing it, keeping it cool and alive....

  Small cycles radiated into larger ones. I kept following them—noticing different ones each day—and continue to. I became more comfortable moving through the woods—slipping between alder, climbing under and over the latticework of lodgepole blowdown, crossing streams on slippery cedar logs, climbing the rock cliffs, descending the avalanche chutes into the parklike stands of old-growth larch, their needles brilliant gold in the autumn, and brilliant gold underfoot, as if moving across a land padded with gold, and an inch of black soil atop the rocky rubble-traces of glaciers; some times two inches of soil, sometimes three, but then rock, with the soil so thin underfoot that you did not have to be a scientist to understand that one shot was all most of this place was ever going to have at grace—that it had taken some of these trees, these forests, five hundred years to achieve climax, five hundred years and three inches, and that once you swept them clean, the soil would go with them, and for a long time there would be only emptiness, rather than grace—that then there would be only the echo of grace.

  I hiked around, just watching and listening. Making up my own mind. Noticing the differences between logged and unlogged areas. Not all logged areas had that confusion of spirit or loss of grace; some of them retained, or reshaped, the grace of the woods (or rather, the grace of the woods altered itself and still flowed around and through those areas that had been logged with care and respect).