Continued from
his wife were part of the twenty-six mass trials that
followed. In February, 1994 he defended himself so
conv incingly that the judge called him “magnificently
unrepentant”. He and Anne were sentenced to one
hundred hours of community work. He gained the
love and respect of the protesters, w ho changed their
demands from “no logging” to “no clear-cut logging”
after he explained his philosophy to them.
He continues to explain this philosophy to a
variety of groups - school children, college or
university students, classes such as the one liv ing in
his w oods when we were there. (This particular
class, from the University of Oregon, was doing a
practicum as part of their course in Sustainable
Forestry.) Visitors include env ironmental groups
from many nations — Chili, Cuba, Bntain, Australia,
the USA - and particularly Germany. Germany-
started to clear-cut and plant 200 years ago. Now the
citizens are working against time, trying to rebuild
their devastated soil. Many German scientists have
come to Wildwood, to learn Wilkinson’s methods.
In 1993 British Columbia’s Knowledge Network
created a series of programs on B.C. forestry, with
Wilkinson on the Advisory' Committee.
In 1995 he celebrated his fiftieth anniversary in
selective logging, and was chosen by the government
of B.C. as one of the Individual Citizen Category of
the Minister’s Environmental Awards for his
achievements. In the Spring of 1996 he received an
award under the Forest Renewal Plan for Excellence
in Forestry.
To quote from his statement to the Supreme Court
al ter his arrest:
“ Proper forestry is a matter of using more labor
and less equipment. . . Every hectare of clear-cut
forest in B.C. puts one forest worker out of work for
one hundred and fifty y ears.. . I could no longer
stand idly by and see one of the most beautiful and
productive areas of my province wiped out.”
‘Diversity’ is a word on many lips today.
Wildwood Farm is a perfect example of diversity of
habitat as well as sustainable tree forestry. It is an
eco-system, part of a world-w ide eco-system to
which we too belong. It is the result of fifty years ol
loving labor by one remarkable man. I felt humbled
and honored to have made his acquaintance.
f
It’s obvious that Wilkinson’s love affair with his
forested land has never flagged. He is constantly
busy, pruning, culling, sometimes even falling trees.
He showed us his younger evergreens, growing
straight and a little spindly. But that is the way he
wants them. Later, as mature trees for harvest, they
will still be straight, with no tangle of lower limbs to
mar the wood. This, he told us, was the result of
growing trees under a “canopy”. Alders are his
choice. “They arc healing trees, too”, he told us,
“they produce nitrogen in the soil.” His young
conifers start life under a canopy, preferably of alder.
As the evergreens grow, the alder is gradually
thinned and removed. Wilkinson feels that no tree is
a “ waste” tree. “Loggers call alders a junk tree”, he
says, indignantly. “They won’t let people go in and
retrieve alders, or leave them to rot — they BURN
them”. Yet the wood is marketable; the leaves and
cuttings enrich the soil. On a slide area, alder often
starts to grow first, holding the soil for other growth.
In order for a forest to thrive, it must have enough
bio-degradable material left on the forest floor.
Wilkinson has learned just how much is needed.
When he harvests a tree, he leaves branches, bits ol
log, leaves, or any rotting material to go back into the
soil.
He speaks bitterly of “the worst crime against the
forest soil” — that of slash burning. Trees need
topsoil to grow, and a man-made burn creates havoc,
destroying soil that may have taken centimes to
form. He is even more saddened by the continuing
practice of clear-cutting. He has proven that
sustainable logging is practical and conserves the
beauty and usefulness of the land and soil. It can
create healthy, satisfying employment for huge
numbers of citizens. It’s hard for him to understand
why businesses and governments continue in their
destructive ways, with no thought for the luture.
I asked him about the various sized trees we saw
everywhere. How did he reforest, I asked? He told
me he never plants a tree. Re-seeding occurs the
natural way. Certain trees are left as “parent trees”
and may become giants.
They are spaced throughout the forest and
“ managed” by the seasons and directions of the
winds. The new little trees seem able to pick good
growing areas. But the few who do not, or seem to
struggle, or are deformed, will be culled.
Remembering that these little trees grow best beneath
a canopy, I looked and marv cled. There it was, yet
we had just been told no planting was ever done.
How well this sensitive forester has learned to “read”
his land! Yet I could see, too, that what he was
doing could be learned and practiced everywhere.
Wilkinson pulled a small cedar up for us, to
demonstrate what a firm grip the roots already had
gained. Later, at his home, we saw samples of
similar sized trees that had been pulled, both alter
being planted as “plugs” and as “bare-root trees.”
The plugs had only a deformed twist of roots - roots
unable to w ithstand a windstorm; roots incapable of
sustaining a mature tree. Some of the bare-root trees
had been planted more carefully than others; the root
system seemed to be stretching out. But those that
were planted more hastily, or had not had the roots
carefully spread in a large enough hole, looked
deformed and stressed, just like the “ plugs”. I
thought sorrow fully of the massive clearcuts
replanted in this manner; with no protective canopy ,
the wonderful old trees that could have reseeded the
area as parent trees, forever gone.
Near a stretch of land he calls his “ meadow”, I
noticed young trees growing near the edge of the
clearing, without canopy protection. Sure enough,
they were bushy and squat compared to the trees in
the forested area. Obviously, they served no
purpose in reforestation; as mature trees, the trunks
would be marred by the mass of limbs. I pointed
them out to Wilkinson as we sat, mentioning the
comparison.
He said, “ If I don’t sell these for Christinas trees,
they’ll grow short, with heavy butts and lots of
knots. Not good for tim b e r- ju s t pulp wood. Very
few of my trees go for pulpwood - they ’re too high
quality for that”.
“ I did an experiment once,” he said. “I planted
some seedlings in a clear-cut and sonic seedlings
under a canopy, nearby. The protected seedlings
showed 15% more grow th, at the same age. The
trees under the canopy keep reaching for the light.”
And, 1 thought, they grow tall and straight, with
no cumbersome lower limbs. If I could learn this in
one afternoon’s talk, why could not the government
and forestry people learn? I questioned Wilkinson
about that.
For the first lime, Wilkinson lost his enthusiastic
glow. “They are educated ignoramuses,” he
growled. “They arc so brainwashed about clear-
cutting that they don’t want to hear anything that
threatens their convictions. U.B.C. teaches nothing
else. Forestry Companies give the department 4% of
its funding but dictate 80% of the curriculum. Big
business and big government - both equally
incompetent.”
Wilkinson feels deep respect as well as love for
the forests. To him, they are liv ing, breathing
entities that can be managed by competent foresters
but should be carefully maintained, never destroyed.
Forests affect climate, hold moisture and control
erosion. They act as filters, purifying our air. “They
are absolutely essential to man’s surv ival,” he
affirmed.
By this time w e had trailed our way back to the
house, where Anne Wilkinson was anxiously-
waiting for her husband to make a bonfire so they
could have a barbecue with a visiting niece. Still
longing to hear more, wc lollowcd him to the
lakeside, where he and my husband built the fire and
I continued my questioning. I wanted to know about
the part Wilkinson had played in the 1993-1994
protest against clear-cut logging at Clayoquot Sound.
With 308 others, he was finally arrested and he and
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Counter Culture
by Sandy Rea
I have a friend who is a songwriter (Milton Kelly),
who claims that “Every town is a lady I Every lady’s
a song.” He’s quite good, could elicit emotion from
a stop sign, can make you care about a cockroach.
We were all going to be stars when we got older. I
was successful at the latter. Milton is still active in
the music industry, using his genius to write
magnificent lyrics and melodies that he promptly
forgets, unless one of us records him immediately.
Seaside is a song, perhaps a collection of them.
And she used to be a lady. I would like to see her
regain that status, to see her reliev ed of her current
duty as courtesan to Oregon City/PDX/Beav erton.
In a letter to the editor I once accused the city council
of pimping her to the lowest bidder. All were
outraged; then, of course, resumed doing exactly
that. I wish they could see the lady that she is, and
allow her some dignity, instead of slathering her in
the taw dry jew els and faux satin of their Madison
Avenue minds.
If one were to start at the edge of the ocean and
work slowly toward the hills, the first melody in
Seaside’s opus would surely be reminiscent of Aaron
Copeland. Even within the subtle frame of
Tillamook Head on the left, and evidence of
civilization (Gearhart) on the far right, facing out to
sea on this sunflower seed-colored sand beach, it is
impossible not to experience the feeling of vastness
offered. There is an omnipresent timelessness and
healing there, for the taking.
Imagine, moving over the sand toward the Prom
and town, the strains of Scott Joplin accompany
children playing with buckets, lovers of all ages
walking, reserv ing a more critical eye for another
time, another place. Kites soar, toddlers shriek with
priv ate joy.
Approaching midtown, the music changes, taking
on a decidedly 50’s sound. Rock is King. Cars are
shinier, girls are prettier, guys are taller. The
exuberant invincibility of youth is thick in the air,
like a sparkling gel. It serves as an elixir for any
who pass through it, regardless of the decades
owned.
In the blocks where the homes are, the oddly
aligned streets that sport front yard gardens as
individual as the residents themselves, a haunting
delicate strain - Glenn Miller’s A String of Pearls -
drifts through like smoke. The tune mingles with the
odor of barbecued chicken, weaving complaisance
and camaraderie in its wake.
Further east on the trek is The River. The
Necanicum. A sober reminder: I was here Before; I
will be here when you are gone. I am mightier and
more capricious than your bridges, your channeling,
your silly ordinances. Its deceptively gentle flow,
carrying biological mysteries through the heart of
town, oblivious to the tinsel on its banks, suggests
the power and determination of Beethoven.
Primordial avatar.
Beyond the River, towards the highway, it is
necessary to pass the Chamber of Commerce and the
City Hal'l. “Money Makes The World Go Around” ,
from the musical Cabaret, blares out from
amphitheater-sized loudspeakers placed back-to-
back, 24 hours a day. One rushes in any other
direction to escape the blast.
Toward the foothills, another river, the
Neawanna, gentler, more meandering in nature. It
sculpts its own richly green banks in S-curves,
creating miles of fascination lor those of Lilliputian
thought. Water pops with the lives of animals,
insects, assorted aquatics in vitro. Wetlands, miles
o f them, its denizens quite safe from bulldozers, due
to happy flukes of zoning. Viv aldi spills throughout,
like soft laughter.
And lastly. Seaside’s foothills, where the process
of healing from the scars of logging and construction
arc ongoing, effective. She is gracefully reclaiming
forest land, repopulating her crevasses with creatures
long overlooked by those with limited sight. The
music here is of rills, of wind through new trees. It
is the crackle of sun-dried leaves being perforated by-
earthworms as they teach us the natural laws of
circulation. Hawk and osprey solos sprinkle the
score. Lie quietly within her arms, listen: The music
is in the process of composition; it will never be
completed.
• lurassic Explorers
• It's a k n g le O u t There
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imUfTEDCt 3UME 4M
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