Friday, January 25, 2019

Introduction



“If Christ hadn’t delivered the Sermon on the Mount, with its message of mercy and pity, I wouldn’t want to be a human being. I’d just as soon be a rattlesnake.”
                                                                                                                                       Kurt Vonnegut



Introduction

There is a sickness passing through the Land, and it will consume us if we don’t identify it and take the necessary steps. The sickness is plainly evident everywhere, in everything we touch and do and our current prospects are dismal because of it. It has to do with our alienation to the Land, with our allowing the alienation to fester for so very long. But that’s all I can say I know for sure. I can’t put my finger on it any more than anyone else can, but because it’s so central to what we’ve allowed for at least the last few generations I feel that any effort to say or write anything about the Land without confronting the sickness would be just another useless nature-writer’s jabbering on top of a pile of nature writing since the wrecking ball years of the Reagan Era, the kind that, as my friend Brandy used to say, would put Jesus to sleep.
Jesus, at least the Jesus I grew up with, was a good guy. Why bore him, then, with beautiful, hollow words that miss the point of our predicament? Given the current landscape, the politicians in the pockets of a metastasizing plutocracy, the symptomatic fascisms that inevitably accompany that sort of thing, given who’s in charge of our country in these most critical of times, several questions rise up from the last couple of centuries of missed opportunities like sturdy viruses escaping from the compromised ecosystems of our once-healthy forests. If we’re so smart, these questions ask, why are the bastards still running things? The wrecking ball didn’t miss its mark. Why should we? If we’re so smart, why do we continue to allow the bastards to tell our stories for us? 
No, this sickness has been around for a long time, and nothing we touch or do is immune anymore, nor can it be otherwise. It will consume us if we don’t fight back. But fight what? 

Prologue

                                                                                                       Watercolor by Daniel LaCroix

“I always tried to envision getting good people to make democracy work. I didn’t want to confine myself with wilderness.”
               Stewart M. Brandborg, Executive Director, Wilderness Society, 1964-1976
            
Stewart Brandborg, the last true activist to lead The Wilderness Society, maybe the oldest activist still fighting the Wild West’s crazy resource wars, maybe the last old-time activist left in America, was sitting in his motorized wheelchair, telling a story.
One time his friend, Olaus Murie, had come to Washington D.C. on a Greyhound bus from his cabin in Moose, Wyoming to testify before Congress on behalf of some critical conservation issue or other. Olaus was president of a small organization (The Wilderness Society) on the cusp of blooming into its name, and this was the late fifties, the golden age of massive federal projects that were by design and definition bigger and more durable than the pyramids of ancient Egypt. It was the golden age of dams.
Congress, like Egyptian monarchies, is one of those rarified clubs that attracts vulnerable people who, as often happens, accumulate more power than they can handle and become prone to the suffering of pharaohs. This is a diagnosable disease, a timeless itch that has everlastingly tanked societies grown too top-heavy. It’s the itch of would-be gods who worship themselves and the big and durable things they could command to be built in their names and then have those big things named after them. So, although Brandy couldn’t recall the exact nature of his friend’s visit when he picked him up at the bus station that day, it was probably a dam that Olaus had come to town to school the pharaohs about. 
A long trip on a bus back then took some wind out of your sails even if you were young, but especially when you were in your sixties and dealing with health issues, as Olaus was. So when the bus pulled into the station, Olaus, who had logged thousands of miles on foot and dogsled in the mountains of Alaska and Wyoming, took a walk around the block to stretch his legs while waiting for his ride. 
Olaus and Brandy had a lot in common. Both were westerners, uncomfortable in cities and physically-acclimated to living outdoors. Both were wildlife biologists with extensive experience “in the field”. Finally, and maybe most importantly, both came from that pioneer strain of Scandinavian stock that still populates the North-Central Minnesota plains, the people who came immediately after those plains were seized from the Dakota people during the tense, uncertain early years of America’s Civil War. It’s ironic that these lands were taken during the watch of no less a politician than Abraham Lincoln, who would seek to secure the blessings of liberty for immigrants fleeing tyrants in Europe and for people from Africa whom those Europeans enslaved, but couldn’t seek the same courtesies for the original inhabitants of the Land. True, there were sentimentalists among the abolitionists who elevated him to the presidency, who yearned to “save” the “savage” with “Christianity”, none of which were words used by the Dakota people to describe themselves or their predicament. For his part, Lincoln also used words alien to the Dakota people, to describe what his administration took from them. He used the words like “frontier” and "wilderness" and, given the radical strain of Swedes and Norwegians that ended up springing from that virgin sod of the Dakota peoples’ plains turned upside-down, that’s a pretty fair definition of irony. What, for instance, could late-19thcentury Scandinavian farmers fleeing decrepit, autocratic monarchies in search of personal freedoms have known about what the Dakota People thought of their dear Land, or how they described it? 
Not much really, and so the Scandanavian farmers didn’t think about it much, at least not at first, and that’s how it was when Olaus was born in 1889 along the Red River that defines the boundary between North Dakota and Minnesota, to Norwegian immigrants and, four years later, when Brandy’s father, Guy (also known as “Brandy” throughout his lifetime) was born in Ottertail County, the next one over from the Muries, to Swedish stock. 
By the mid-1950s, Guy’s son, Stewart, and Olaus were fellow Wilderness Society board members. Brandy’s day-job was Project Director for the National Wildlife Federation, whose director, George Callison, saw potential in bringing “westerners” into the simmering national conservation stewpot, westerners who liked to fight dams, which was exactly what Brandy was doing in central Idaho when Callison became aware of him. There were two massive federal dam projects proposed to drown out Central Idaho’s wilderness, Penny Cliffs on the Middle Fork of the Clearwater and Bruces Eddy (later realized as Dworjak Dam) on the North Fork, and Brandy was fighting both of them while simultaneously working for Idaho Fish and Game, an impressive juggling act. He had been a lookout and a smoke chaser for the Forest Service in his teens and had studied mountain goats for several years during and after college. He was a wildlife biologist, a conservation activist, the son of an already-iconic “social forester” of the Gifford Pinchot mold, and a westerner. It was a novel idea, this seeking out those who lived in the “field” and who could speak in eloquent counter-arguments to nominally-elected potentates openly pining for their own monogramed Eighth Wonder and Callison set his sights on enticing Stewart Brandborg to come to Washington. And so he did.
It wasn’t long after the Brandborgs, Stewart, AnnaVee and their baby, Becky, had settled into the rhythms of D.C. that Howard Zahnizer, executive director of The Wilderness Society, noted similar potential in this big, young, talkative westerner. “Zahnie” took Brandy under his wing, drove him around Washington D.C. in his Cadillac Convertible (which ever-after impressed Brandy as “the bee’s knees”) and tapped him to serve as a board member of the Wilderness Society, as a protégé and also as a taxi-driver for fellow conservationists needing rides to and from bus stations. So Brandy was not surprised when he showed up and found Olaus waiting for him, holding a leaf. 
“It’s amazing,” he recalled Olaus saying. “How fine-veined they are, how they blow down the sidewalk in the wind as they do. How perfectly designed for their purpose they are.” 
AnnaVee was listening to this story from their open kitchen. She had been tolerating Brandy’s telling of it until he came to the part about the leaf. Then she quietly sidled up, which was how they split the duties of lifelong activism all those years in D.C. and then in Montana--evenly. She was Brandy’s fact-checker, Brandy taking up the airspace, AnnaVee underlying his narrative with the critical combination of introspection and accurate memory. 
“There are some things that you should know about Olaus, Sigurd Olson and Zahniser” she advised me in her quiet voice that was every bit as earnest as Brandy’s louder one. 
“Zahnie was somebody that you just immediately loved. You just felt good in his presence. The same was true for Sig. You were glad to be there, and glad to have him with you. Olaus was a little different sort of person. To me, sitting with him was like sitting next to Christ.” 

This book, “What’s Bigger Than the Land?”, was started--and partly takes place--in Stewart and AnnaVee Brandborg’s livingroom, just south of the small western-Montana town of Hamilton. Brandy was not only the last surviving architect of the 1964 Wilderness Act, he’s also been an instigator and touchstone for much of the considerable environmental activism which has occurred in Western Montana since he and AnnaVee packed it up and moved back home from the Beltway in 1986. Countless strategy meetings have occurred in this house, leading to significant victories—or at least stallings--against the local adherents of the extractive status quo, which in turn led to his and his family’s vilification by those local adherents. Brandy and Anna Bee were both native Montanans with deep roots and, since the Bitterroot Valley is still rural and relatively small, at least one of the villifiers was someone who attended their wedding in 1949. There have also been those people who just moved up from some urban dystopia with the intent of surrounding themselves with others who look like them (Montana is almost 90% white) and think like them (Trump won in Ravalli County by almost 70%). Just people, in other words, the usual problem, but no matter. Brandy and AnnaVee never gave an inch, let alone gave up. They were of that vanishing species of gracious, determined fighters who listened to everybody and then did what they knew had to be done. Liberals in the old-time sense of the word, which is to say “socialists” in the old-time sense of that abused word (at least Brandy and his dad were, although they never entered into socialism's unfortunate "dogma-wars" by describing themselves as such), rare beasts in our current, troubled times. 
The topic of our first discussions were several vintage cardboard boxes of personal files from Brandy’s days as Executive Director of The Wilderness Society. The story of the boxes, in a nutshell, is about how Howard Zahniser—Brandy’s friend and mentor—unexpectedly died four months before his eight-year battle to pass a Wilderness Bill was finished. Brandy took over as head of the Society for the last push and, when Lyndon B. Johnson finally signed it into law on September 3, 1964, Brandy characteristically missed the whole thing. He was, instead, out west.
“I was the guy,” Brandy put it, “that had worked his butt off following Zahniser’s passing in May, and I didn’t even get to the signing. I regretted that but here I was with four kids and a raccoon…” 
This was a pattern repeated throughout his long life (he died in 2018 at the age of 93). In the summer of 1945, for instance, he was surveying lodgepole out of Bozeman, two feet in diameter and straight as pillars holding up the roof in the sky. He had been classified 4-F by the draft board a couple years before, and his aunt had given him a Model T. On VJ Day, when the atomic age was gaping its jaws in Japan, he was in Bozeman, celebrating with a girl he liked. After all, he had a Model T.
He wasn't sure whether Johnson knew a wilderness from a cow pasture, but he was a superb politician, and that’s what mattered as far as signings go. He didn't need to be there, and so seminal events could yawn in the distance for all he cared, and that was one of the biggest gifts Brandy brought to the Wilderness Law and, more importantly to the implementing of it. Someone dedicating their life to the preservation of America’s remaining intact ecosystems needed to know the Land enough to be humbled by it, and so it was that so long as there was still some open country left to roam in, Brandy would roam in it, and encourage others to do so. 
 Brandy led the Societyfor the next twelve years, until 1976 when he was fired by the board. This occurred because he fought an oil pipeline in Alaska, and had alienated some industry-funded foundations such as the Mellon Foundation (Gulf Oil) that some members of the board were interested in soliciting grant money from. Brandy wasn’t being “professional” enough, these board members surmised, and so they hired a business consulting firm to find fault in Brandy’s “professionalism”, which the consulting firm dutifully did. Brandy’s firing, in turn, created an uproar throughout the environmental community, and even today to say out loud what was widely-thought back then, that The Wilderness Society fired Brandy because he spearheaded an almost-successful fight against the Alaskan Pipeline is a statement incredible on its face and still unbelievable to many within the movement. But that’s what happened, and in early January of 1976 , he and two of his top staff staff, Ernest Dickerman and Virginia (Peeps) Carney (both of whom would resign from the organization soon after), arrived at The Wilderness Society offices in downtown Washington D.C. to clean out his office. They ended up stuffing a couple dozen boxes full of Wilderness Society records covering the periods 1955 to 1977 that Brandy wanted saved—which were most of them--and walked them out through an unused back door onto the asphalt roof of the People’s Drugstore, which their offices sat above and which, coincidentally, was within sight of the White House. They didn’t use the front door because the new interim-director, Clif Merrit, a long-time colleague of theirs and a fighter in his own right, was sitting at the front desk, supposedly monitoring what Brandy was taking out of his office. The whole thing was, to say the least, awkward: for them, for the new interim-director, for everyone involved in the whole awkward affair. 
They carried the boxes across the roof and down the fire-escape ladder, where the Brandborg family’s station wagon was parked on the street below. They loaded them up, and Brandy drove the boxes home to Turkey Foot Road in Maryland just north of the Washington metropolitan area, and that where they stayed for a decade, when the Brandborgs finally headed west for good.
The Wilderness Society entered into a period of turmoil from this event. It became one of the major debacles in America’s post-Nixon world, when the “left” seemed to be finding its feet and then, seemingly-inexplicably, stumbled. There was an explanation, of course, but it’s still a inexplicably-fierce debate raging within the nationwide environmental community: how beholden progressive non-profits should be to corporate donors. Brandy, who was in on the cusp of so many watershed victories for the environmental movement, was also in on the cusp of that same movement’s watershed setback from which it has never fully recovered. Nixon, who would have been in the last year of his presidency in 1976 if he hadn’t been forced to resign, could rightly claim that he had signed more environmental legislation into law than any other president. But Nixon’s green tint was almost wholly the result of the democratic pushing and shoving from below that Brandy and his colleagues were so adept at. Maybe Nixon could be excused if he snickered a bit at the whole affair because, in the end, he got his pipeline. 
When the Brandborgs moved back to the Bitterroot Valley, the Wilderness Society files came with them. Still tucked in their original cardboard boxes, they were stored in the various basements, garages and sheds where papers that are dear to the possessors invariably end up, and in those vintage boxes they remained, relatively unmolested for the next thirty years. 
It wasn’t a complete set anymore. Some had already made their way down to the University of Montana archives in Missoula. An unspecified few had been lost in a still-unexplained house fire when the Brandborgs were living in the hills above the small logging town of Darby twenty miles south of Hamilton, a town which still held both him and his dad personally responsible for “shutting down the mills” decades ago, the very mills that both Brandborgs had repeatedly warned were overcutting their own selves out of existence—which is what they did. But through all that about a dozen boxes still remained, mostly in the garage, a few out in the garden shed. They contained dog-eared documents from the environmental movement’s budding days when so much seemed possible, and actually was achieved. There was a whole box, for example, marked “Timber Supply Act”, an existential threat to the budding power of an unpredicted awakening that was by fits and starts blooming and booming by the late sixties. If it had passed, it would have congressionally-mandated unsustainable levels of timber harvest on national forests into perpetuity, making moot most of the improvements in forest management that came before and after it. The remaining forests of the Rockies, indeed the remaining forests throughout the nation, would have been stripped for quick cash, as so many had been already. This was at the height of the Vietnam War, when college kids and their professors were widely credited with such notions as “ecology”, “wildlife corridors” and “population explosion”, notions that industrialists felt had no place in serious talk about forest management, let alone about anything else. It was all pure communism to them, but Brandy, having grown up with his feet in the actual dirt, called their bluff and made it stick, which was another of his strengths. It was his saddle-seasoned dad, after all, who was raising hell about overcutting the Bitterroot National Forest, in what came to be known as the “Clearcut Crisis” at this very historical second when such “anti-communists” as these industrialists invariably were, who may have never seen a mule up close let alone settled their butt on one for a month, were advocating for armed soldiers on college campuses as the solution to this “problem” of the sixties. The Clearcut Crisis in the Bitterroot was exactly what the sponsors of the Timber Supply Act had in mind to counter with their no-nonsense, get-the-cut-out legislation. They even gave the Brandborgs an off-hand compliment by re-naming their legislation the “National Forest Timber Conservation and Management Act” which, of course, was not about conservation at all. Stewart and Guy took them down in flames, paving the way for the National Forest Management Act of 1976, and this Brandy claimed as one of his proudest moments, a largely-forgotten one now that had a significant mouse nest in it, possibly multi-generational ones. Clearly something needed to be done.
Personal miracles exist in almost anyone’s garage. Letters from great-aunts who moved to Los Angeles to be movie stars, pictures of ancestors on Ellis Island, that $96 hospital bill that paid for your birth, the sort of documentary detritus that doesn’t want to be thrown out but transforms into clutter after a few decades of hanging around in linen closets. That’s when a time-honored trajectory is applied to them with the rationale that, if you can’t fit it neatly on a bookshelf or turn it into furniture, out it goes into the true archive of American history since at least World War Two—the garage. In the Brandborg’s case, this accumulated detritus ran deep into a largely-forgotten history, or worse a misinterpreted one, of an environmental awakening that hadn’t happened in this country before, and, sadly, hasn’t happened since. It was exciting, overwhelming and personal. Foolishly, perhaps, I dug in.

The wording in this book attributed to Brandy are either in quotes as his own, or paraphrased from his own. They can be found within the excellent series of taped interviews conducted by Dick Ellis in 2003, in several other interviews and videos now archived at the University of Montana’s K. Ross Tool Archives within the Maureen and Mike Mansfield Library or within the tapes and notes of my own conversations with him (also archived--see appendix). I tried to stay faithful to his meaning and intent, while not generally citing or footnoting them overmuch along the way because I decided it would distract from the stories which I was ultimately after in the boxes—and what I believed Brandy was after, too. Not just the facts within (which, in the interest of full disclosure I admit that, due to their voluminous nature compared to my own, laid-back one, I merely cherry-picked) but the dust they kicked up. Brandy’s especially but a little of my own as well. After all, it’s been my luck to choose a drop-dead-gorgeous country like the Bitterroot to live in during such interesting times. I’ve been working and playing here for decades, in the same wild country that Brandy and his colleagues saved for my generation to have the opportunity to live, work and play in at all, and I have something to say about how they are being defined and defiled by those who simply may not know the history of their temporary salvation well enough. There’s something here in the Northern Rockies, I think, this home-sweet-home of the Nimi’ipuu (the Nez Perce People), that speaks to the existential pickle we’re in. Call it a power, a trance, radon poisoning. What I know after all these years is this: that whatever it is, it exists, just like Jesus, neither of which you can justify your belief in other than to say that most beliefs are valid if they’re honest, and that some are even true. Beliefs squishy things, after all, and necessarily so if they’re to have any value to the believer. Everyone believes something, but whatever belief you chose to bake to that golden brown that makes them edible, shouldn’t they at least be leavened with some mere observations? That any belief a society hold dear is a compromise? One that a society makes with its natural environment in order to illuminate the rules of survival so a member of that society can see the rules for what they are? That real beliefs, the useful ones, are at their core land-based? That from the primary urge to survive comes the necessary reverence to do the right thing, and not vice-versa? Any parent can understand this, that at their best beliefs are just raw facts under the warming shadow of rainclouds in northern winter skies that help us to survive, no matter whose God you choose to worship. 
Brandy literally grew up organically from the Land, something fewer and fewer of us have the opportunity to do. He and his colleagues successfully convinced millions that they simply could not live without those last wild places from which they sprang, which is true. More important to us now is that in applying this tree-based philosophy of “making Democracy work” to modern politics, they literally stumbled on one possible recipe to do just that, which could in fact save us, if we so choose. 
“Wilderness!” you hear them say, more and more with a roll of a condescending eye about a thing within which their lives are less and less entwined, even those who now claim the mantle of Environmentalist . “That’s so Sixties!” 

Well, it is just a word after all, and an expeditious one at that. But how about “democracy”? That’s just a word, too, but it describes a living organism, a land-based one, and wherever you find the Land you’ll find a different species of democracy native to that place. Here in North America, there was a vibrant form residing in human populations long before the Atlantic Ocean washed an equally-vibrant (albeit predatory) Greco-Roman form upon its shores, where they crossbred. We tend to forget that our cherished American democracy is a hybrid, a mix of the native and the non-native, a cut-bow trout swimming in the ever-more-sacred waters of an industrialized world on the very verge of polluting those waters to the last drop and then privatizing the toxic result. And then there will be no trout, no water, no democracy at all. We tend to forget that, far from being democracy’s creator, we are merely its host species, and that we neglect this symbiotic relationship at our peril. 
I have allowed myself to become convinced that within the political template created by the early conservationists and the various other progressives to meld their depthless love of wild places with political realities, to get people to see the essential value of a mere word—Wilderness!--and to fight for it, are the same nuggets that could save the Land, and possibly us, from our accumulated foolishness. These stories and insights may be centered around the Northern Rockies, but it seems to me that the extreme and even violent politics we have seen here in Montana as well as throughout most of America’s rural landscapes for the last thirty years or so (the militia movement, the “Tea Party” phenomenon, the current Trump presidency) is as good a metaphor as the next for the illness that plagues us if you have the inclination to look. Old-time activism, the kind practiced in the mid-twentieth century by Big Brandy (Guy) and his son, is a pretty good recipe for fighting despair (our real enemy it seems to me) and maybe better than most given what we’re left to work with. It’s grounded and doesn’t put Jesus to sleep.
We tend to kill our prophets, or at least ignore them if their lucky, along with the core truth that burns at the heart of their misinterpreted reveries, the one about humility, about us being frogs in a slowly boiling pot of our own stew resulting in our misinterpreting that simple lesson, the one about humility. We beg our own set of questions, then, which are at heart not modern ones at all: Is it really about what the environment can do for us, or about how pretty we think things are? Or if some of us believe that sunsets are the eyes of God shining down to enlighten our path? Or if others believe that coal is the gift of that other god, the Old Testament one with the warped sense of humor? Is it even about belief at all? Is our task merely Science, then? To measure “ecosystem services” so that they can be more easily parsed up and dealt out between the various human “partners” at the negotiation “tables”? Might there be a missing ingredient in our land-based debates we’re having these days? Might it be that humankind needs as much wild country (and its evolving, resident democracies) as we can possibly nurture for the simple sake of our continued survival on this planet? Might we need to save what’s left of our remaining wilderness not as a matter of sentimentality, belief, or “ecosystem services”, but as a matter of fact? 
Our times are nothing new, and it’s never been too hard to see the mountains past the hype. Either by intent or ignorance, most of us tend to miss the forest andthe trees, and if you’ll indulge me this little bit further I’ll re-iterate that what is usually lacking in our armchair discussions about the Land is that democracy, the main ingredient in any solution of epic human concern, needs vast swaths of relatively intact ecosystems to burn in and to rejuvenate, to evolve in and to survive, and that democracy is what is lacking in the Land.
It’s something to think about, anyway. 
That’s our scheme.

Chapter I




Charlie Engbretzon’s Ford

Paradise, Idaho
Early November, 1937

Charlie Engbretson’s Ford was like all Fords, narrow-bodied and modest, fitted out with the standard bench seat that made it a comfortable ride when it only held two. But a man named Mack (not his real name) was the ranger at Deep Creek, and Mack had a wife. He also had a woman set up in a tent on the Little Clearwater a few miles upstream, where an old trail had gradually given out and been abandoned. Nobody used the trail anymore, and that was Mack. 
Charlie had planned an all-weekend deer-hunting expedition with the boy sitting next to him, and they were heading back from Paradise Guard Station to the CCC camp with the boy’s first deer, a fair-sized Muley buck lying in the back of the truck. But when they stopped at the Deep Creek Ranger Station a couple miles downstream from the camp for a quick chore he he found Frank and Jessie Lantz, just in from the Salmon River and putting up their stock in the station pasture. That changed his mind. It was the weekend, and he knew that Mack was nowhere around and that if he didn’t give the Lantzes a ride over Nez Perce Pass that night, they’d be stuck at Deep Creek waiting for Mack or some other wayward soul traveling along the Paradise Road for who knew how long. 
                    Without consulting the boy then, Charlie unilaterally cut their hunting trip short, crowded the tired couple onto his little bench seat with the (now) disappointed boy sitting sideways and hunched up next to him, and then he drove everybody out, up the Deep Creek road, past the CCC camp, up and out of the Selway Canyon and over Nez Perce Pass, then back down the other side of the mountains into the Bitterroot Valley and north to Hamilton, the boy’s home.
                    The boy—Stewart Brandborg--was used to these mountain characters, people who could conjure up time and make it go backwards if they wanted to, to when forests had personalities that they had opinions about. His father, Bitterroot Forest Supervisor, Guy Brandborg, was recognized even then as one of these master conjurers of for what was left of 20thCentury cowboy culture, the culture that had displaced the original one, the Ni’i mi puu's and the Salish folks', the ones that used to walk the trails with dogs near where the new Paradise Road was being built now. The boy was haphazardly being gifted an education by his father, into a world that was vital, crucial and—at least in his father opinion--would disappear like smoke if boys like Stewart didn’t pay enough attention to what his father figured was worth paying attention to, and the Lantzes were part of that education even though he didn't acknowledge such categories of divine intent at the time.
He knew the road between Deep Creek and Hamilton well enough, for instance. He’d just ridden over it with his father, Guy, (also known as "Brandy" throughout his life)  who travelled it during the summer months to check on the progress of the Paradise Road. Guy had been given Charlie’s CCC crew by the New Deal government along with his supervisor position at the Bitterroot National Forest. He were going to punch the road through to Paradise, where there hadn’t been a road before. Guy and his boss, Major Evan Kelly, were foresters from Pinchot’s early mold, rough-talking, good in the saddle and committed to the public domain. Major Kelly was probably more committed to roads than Guy, but however Guy felt about roads in these places where there hadn’t been any, he didn’t flinch from the task. This was the Depression, a famous time of few jobs and much opportunity, and Guy’s true religion was the capable, underemployed mountain people like the Engbretzons and the Lantzes, whom he’d search out during just such hard times and bless with a steady government job and his own signature appreciation for rural Westerners. 
Guy would stay for a day or two, then drive back to his other duties at the Supervisor’s Office in Hamilton, leaving Stewart in the Engbretson’s care for days at a time to learn a thing or two. Officially, Charlie’s job was to supervise the road crew, but Guy also granted Charlie a special dispensation to take the boy on outings, much like later generations turned their sons over to Scoutmasters. It was enough of adventure, then, driving back to Hamilton in the dark for hours pinned between three adults in an inadequate Ford, so of course Stewart didn’t whine. It wasn’t one of his options. He bunched himself inward instead, comforting himself as best he could next to his mentor, Charlie Engbretzon the “mountain man”,  absorbing another experience. Taken as a whole, it was idyllic.  
“Had my bed in (Charlie’s) office and his wife was a few hundred yards away in the summer tent camp where they lived. I ate with the CCC boys. We would hunt grouse, we would catch fish…” and Charlie “always had the new scheme to make things exciting”. 
On this Fall morning Stewart and Charlie had gotten up at first light and bumped along the new Paradise Road that was being carved out of the canyon shoulder for about an hour until they came to where a no-name creek had been spilling into the Selway River unaided since the last Ice Age, but was now being helped under a roadbed through a culvert considerately placed by Charlie’s crew. This was seen as an improvement by Charlie,  whose Ford bench seat represented a luxury that would have been unthinkable in the upper Selway just a couple of years before. There would have been no bench seats, no culverts and no road at all between the CCC camp and Paradise before then. The CCC boys had brought it all down into the Canyon especially for the purpose of improving access to firefighting efforts and timber as envisioned by Major Kelly (and Guy) and, by extension, President Franklin Roosevelt, who shared Kelly’s belief in roads. As for the CCC boys, they were mostly from the heart of poverty-stricken America, suddenly graced with a regular government paycheck and some bulldozers to more perfectly bring the 20th Century down to where the only sounds of such centuries before had been the squeaks and rattles of the Decker pack saddles and metal bits on an occasional string of government mules heading to a fire. 
“Who could ask for more?” Charlie might have pointed out to young Stewart as they climbed out of the truck early that morning, shouldered their rifles, and set off up the steep sides of the little trickle of a creek to see what they could see.
Maybe the first thing they saw was the skittish wriggling of giant fish just below the surface of the water, members of those vast tribes of Steelhead that still existed in happy numbers that fall, but were slated for extinction the very next year. The Army Corps of Engineers was going to do that job, close the gates at Bonneville Dam on the Columbia, four rivers and six hundred miles downstream from the little no-name creek in the Spring. They would then fill a slackwater reservoir once and for all into a deep cut of geology accurately known as the Columbia River Gorge by pioneers but forever after would be known as “Lake Bonneville”. Charlie may have known all this, may have even said something about it to the boy--and it could have been that a skittish wriggling under the waters below their feet was the very first thing that they saw, the last free run of giants coming up from the sea. 


Tuesday, January 22, 2019

Playing the Percentages



  

I’m having a math problem and it has to do with history, but before I start crunching numbers I’d like to define a couple of my terms… 

…Democrats and Republicans. What’s in a name? Well, if nothing else, both of these names have been around long enough to become clichés bordering on meaninglessness. But there are some interesting threads of our collective past you can tease out of them if you’re a masochist, like I am.

For instance, Woodrow Wilson was a Democrat. In those days that meant you had to appease Southern racists if you wanted to get elected president on that ticket, which Wilson did. By most intelligent accounts that I’ve read, he was a decent enough person, set the table for progressive policies that FDR would later serve his New Deal on, and cried when inserted the U.S. into World War I. “My message today was a message of death to our young men,” he supposedly said after delivering his “War Message” to Congress. “How strange it seems to applaud that.”

Pretty good for a president, and I do wish more presidents had felt that way before and since. That acknowledged, though, Wilson was the guy in charge when America invaded Mexico, instituted the Espionage, Sedition and (anti-immigrant) Immigrant Act, the Ludlow Massacre…

…and the first iteration of the “America First” slogan. At birth, that message was an anti-interventionist one and rallied more than a few early “progressives” to its banner. But Wilson was a southerner, his parents were slaveholders, and his views about African-American citizens were paternalistic—at best, which means, of course, that he was a bigot, like just about every other southern, white male in those days. The slogan “America First”, first deployed by a decent enough fellow (and a Democrat!) has also carried that unsavory tint of nativism and nationalism along with it from its beginnings. No surprises there.

As for the term “Republican”, maybe we can agree that it has morphed into such a caricature of its former self that it is now almost useless to use the word for anything other than research polls, which brings me to my math problem.

According to Pew Research surveys conducted in 2017, only 26% of registered voters admit to being “Republicans”. Even after partisan leanings of self-declared Independents are considered, that number only rises to 42%. This is Simple Math, and while I understand that we have evolved as a species to being able to pick and choose our facts now, the simple numbers are an indictment of our current system that enables such a demonstrable minority of the population to lord over the rest of us. 

O.K., now comes the hard part: multiplication and division. According to a recent news story on NPR’s “All Things Considered”, “President” trump has lost 8% of his support amongst “Republicans” over his naughty Wall and Shut-down thing. I don’t recall the reporter citing which Simple Math number he was pulling from, but he was lightning-quick to note that this was “not a problem” for trump, since he used to have 90% approval from that minority demographic, he still retains 82%. This means that, notwithstanding his racism, xenophobia and fundamental cruelty (read: fascist policies) he's still in the horse race, right? 

Well, the reporter didn’t cite how he defined the word “Republican”, either by the 26% “registered” number or the 42% “leaning” one, but either way trump’s level of support has dropped from an already-dismal minority of registered voters to an even-more dismal 31%. I’m trying not to trip over too many words here, lest I have to define them, too, so I’ll just show you my scratch-sheet (so-to-speak) below: 
26% X 90% = 26%
26% X 82% = 23%
42%X 90% = 38%
42% X 82% = 34%
Split the Diff = 31% (being generous with the .5%)

So here’s the math problem I’m having, and it has to do with our history and our nominally “liberal” media outlets (let alone Foxnewslandia) not understanding it. You see, Wilson lived in a time when such 19thCentury views on nativism and nationalism (and race in general) were shared by a majority in this country, and so his presidency, with all its deep faults, was at least a nominally-democratic one. But trump has never had that, and never will have the democratic (or “republican” if you’re one of those insufferable libertarian word-mincers) majority to justify his 21stCentury version of nativism and nationalism, and all you gotta do is crunch a few, readily-available numbers to see that this current fissure in our democracy should be the preferred “fact” that nominally “liberal” media outlets should base their stories on, that we are in “fact” being run by an oligarchy backed by a small, xenophobic base kept fat and vicious with regular feedings of red-meat distractions.

So here’s my math problem: If you take a fascist leader that a solid majority of citizens hate and multiply it with lousy fluff stories in the media like the one I heard on NPR the other day (not to mention Foxnewslandia) that emphasize horse races and barely mention real issues, doesn’t that equal Propaganda?

In other words, if today’s sad excuse for “news” is indeed all about the horserace that this crisis in Democracy is constantly being framed within, then why aren’t we at least getting the betting numbers along with the horse race? Wouldn't that only be fair? It is our money, after all, that we're laying down on this slim-chance political spectacle. How much, for instance, is having a dysfunctional, fascist leader and party with little public support dominating our decision-making processes worth to every citizen making more than $100,000/year, which would include most talking heads in the national media?

Note to all the good reporters out there: This is just a suggestion and your answer in percentages of profits would be good enough. We can do the math.

Note to myself: Maybe the most appalling thing about this whole business is that, in this most-crucial time when corporate media is well-deserving of pointed criticism, we are being waylaid by fake and dangerous criticisms coming from a dictator-wannabe whom that same corporate media either appears to be afraid of or is actually making boatloads of money off of.




Sunday, January 13, 2019

Congress is Finally Doing its Job!

Stewart M. Brandborg (1925-2017)
Iconic Environmentalist
Executive Director, The Wilderness Society, 1964-1976
Founder, Friends of the Bitterroot, Bitterrooters For Planning
and much, much more


I couldn’t help noticing that there’s been a lot of talk these last three weeks of this latest government shutdown about congressional dysfunction, which is mystifying to me. I was all of twelve years old when the Wilderness Law was passed through that body and, barring a few insignificant little blips here and there that was the last era I can think of in my lifetime that Congress was actually interested in doing its job and now, by standing up to the orange, lying, racist bloviator and his minions they are acting like they’re interested in doing it again.

They wouldn’t have been interested in 1964 if it hadn’t been for uncompromising believers in Democracy like Stewart “Brandy” Brandborg (whom I had the honor of knowing) and so many others whom I didn’t know, who gave everything they had for what they believed was right and, if you’ve ever appreciated the wildlands they unequivocally saved from the blade and the saw with the passage of the Wilderness Law, you’ll have to admit that they were right. Brandy often advised those striving for a better, saner world to not hesitate to do the right thing, which was to keep pouring the hot oil of public opinion down the bastards’ necks until they gave in. 

I would pass on the same advice to those who seem to be vacillating on whether Congress’ continuing, effective opposition to a racist, immoral wall cutting untold wildlands in two and doing maximum damage to our national pschye as well as our dear Land is such a good idea. I’d say “get a grip”. Place blame here: 
and keep pouring hot oil down your representatives’ necks while remembering to thank them (at least the ones still standing firm) for earning their government health benefits.


What's Bigger Than the Land?

Preface

Guy Brandborg's 1913 Grazing Manual



Preface
“I always tried to envision getting good people to make democracy work. I didn’t want to confine myself with wilderness.”
                                                      Stewart M. Brandborg
                                                      Executive Director, Wilderness Society, 1964-1976

            
Stewart Brandborg, the last true activist to lead The Wilderness Society[i], maybe the oldest activist still fighting the Wild West’s crazy resource wars, maybe the last old-time activist left in America, was sitting in his motorized wheelchair, telling a story.
One time his friend, Olaus Murie, had come to Washington D.C. on a Greyhound bus from his cabin in Moose, Wyoming to testify before Congress on behalf of some critical conservation issue or other. Olaus was president of a small organization (The Wilderness Society) on the cusp of blooming into its name, and this was the late fifties, the golden age of massive federal projects that were by design and definition bigger and more durable than the pyramids of ancient Egypt. It was the golden age of dams.
Congress, like ancient Egypt, is one of those rarified clubs that attracts vulnerable people who, as often happens, accumulate more power than they can handle and become prone to the suffering of pharaohs. This is a diagnosable disease, a timeless itch that has everlastingly tanked societies grown too top-heavy. It’s the itch of would-be gods who worship themselves and the big and durable things they could command to be built in their names and then have those big things named after them. So, although Brandy couldn’t recall the exact nature of his friend’s visit when he picked him up at the bus station that day, it was probably a dam that Olaus had come to town to school the pharaohs about. 
A long trip on a bus back then took some wind out of your sails even if you were young, but especially when you were in your sixties and dealing with health issues, as Olaus was. So when the bus pulled into the station, this man who had logged thousands of miles on foot and dogsled in the mountains of Alaska and Wyoming took a walk around the block to stretch his legs while waiting for his ride. 
Olaus and Brandy had a lot in common. Both were westerners, uncomfortable in cities and physically-acclimated to living outdoors. Both were wildlife biologists with extensive experience “in the field”. Finally, and maybe most importantly, both came from that pioneer strain of Scandinavian stock that still populates the North-Central Minnesota plains, the people who came immediately after those plains were seized from the Dakota people during the tense, uncertain early years of America’s Civil War. It’s ironic that these lands were taken during the watch of no less a politician than Abe Lincoln, who would seek to secure the blessings of liberty for immigrants fleeing tyrants in Europe and for people from Africa whom those Europeans enslaved, but couldn’t seek the same courtesies for the original inhabitants of the Land. True, there were sentimentalists among the abolitionists who elevated him to the presidency, who yearned to “save” the “savage” with “Christianity”, none of which were words used by the Dakota people to describe themselves or their predicament. Lincoln reciprocated, and didn’t use other words alien to the Dakota people, like “wilderness”, to describe what his administration took from them. He used the word “frontier”, and, given the radical strain of Swedes and Norwegians that ended up springing from that virgin sod of the Dakota peoples’ plains turned upside-down, that’s a pretty fair definition of irony. What, for instance, could late-19thcentury Scandinavian farmers fleeing decrepit monarchies in search of personal freedoms have known about what the Dakota People thought of their dear Land? 
Not much really, and so the Scandanavian farmers didn’t think about it much, at least not at first, and that’s how it was when Olaus was born in 1889 along the Red River that defines the boundary between North Dakota and Minnesota, to Norwegian immigrants and, four years later, when Brandy’s father, Guy (also known as “Brandy” throughout his lifetime) was born in Ottertail County, the next one over from the Muries, to Swedish stock. 
By the mid-1950s, Guy’s son, Stewart, and Olaus were fellow Wilderness Society board members. Brandy’s day-job was Project Director for the National Wildlife Federation, whose director, George Callison, saw potential in bringing “westerners” into the simmering national conservation stewpot, westerners who liked to fight dams, for instance, which Brandy was doing in central Idaho when Callison became aware of him. It was a novel idea, this seeking out of those who lived in the “field” and who could speak in eloquent counter-arguments to nominally-elected potentates openly pining for their own monogramed Eighth Wonder. Brandy had been a lookout and a smoke chaser for the Forest Service in his teens and had studied mountain goats for several years during and after college. He was a wildlife biologist, a conservation activist, the son of an already-iconic “social forester” of the Gifford Pinchot mold, and a westerner. He also came with an impressive political juggling act under his belt: working for Idaho’s Fish and Game Department while simultaneously fighting two massive federal dam projects proposed to drown out Central Idaho’s wilderness. Here, then, was a young man whom Callison wanted to talk to and he set his sights on enticing Stewart Brandborg to come to town. And so he did.
It wasn’t long after the Brandborgs, Stewart, AnnaVee and their baby, Becky, had settled into the rhythms of D.C. that Howard Zahnizer, executive director of The Wilderness Society, saw similar potential in this big, young, talkative westerner. “Zahnie” took Brandy under his wing, drove him around Washington D.C. in his Cadillac Convertible (which is why Cadillac Convertibles ever-after impressed Brandy as “the bee’s knees”[ii]) and tapped him to serve as a board member of the Wilderness Society, as a protégé and also as a taxi-driver for fellow conservationists needing rides to and from bus stations. On this occasion, Brandy showed up and found Olaus holding a leaf. 
“It’s amazing,” he recalled Olaus saying. “How fine-veined they are, how they blow down the sidewalk in the wind as they do. How perfectly designed for their purpose they are.” 
AnnaVee was listening to this story from their open kitchen. She had been tolerating Brandy’s telling of it until he came to the part about the leaf. Then she quietly sidled up, which was how they split the duties of lifelong activism all those years in D.C. and then in Montana--evenly. She was Brandy’s fact-checker, Brandy taking up the airspace, AnnaVee underlying his narrative with the critical combination of introspection and accurate memory. 
“There are some things that you should know about Olaus, Sigurd Olson[iii]and Zahniser” she advised me in her quiet voice that was every bit as earnest as Brandy’s louder one. 
“Zahnie was somebody that you just immediately loved. You just felt good in his presence. The same was true for Sig. You were glad to be there, and glad to have him with you. Olaus was a little different sort of person. To me, sitting with him was like sitting next to Christ.” 
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This book, “What’s Bigger Than the Land?”, was started--and partly takes place--in Stewart and AnnaVee Brandborg’s livingroom, just south of the small western-Montana town of Hamilton. Brandy was not only the last surviving architect of the 1964 Wilderness Act, he’s also been an instigator and touchstone for much of the considerable environmental activism which has occurred in Western Montana since he and AnnaVee packed it up and moved back home from the Beltway in 1986. Countless strategy meetings have occurred in this house, leading to significant victories—or at least stallings--against the local adherents of the extractive status quo, which in turn led to his and his family’s vilification by those local adherents. They’re both native Montanans with deep roots and, since the Bitterroot Valley is still rural and relatively small, at least one of the villifiers was someone who attended their wedding in 1949. There have also been those people who just moved up from some urban dystopia with the intent of surrounding themselves with others who look like them (Montana is almost 90% white) and think like them (Trump won in Ravalli County by almost 70%). Just people, in other words, the usual problem, but no matter. Brandy and AnnaVee never gave an inch, let alone gave up. They were of that vanishing species of gracious, determined fighters who listened to everybody and then did what they knew had to be done. Liberals in the old-time sense of the word, which is to say “socialists” in the old-time sense of that abused word (at least Brandy and his dad were although they rarely described themselves as such), rare beasts in our current, troubled times. 
The topic of our first discussions were several vintage cardboard boxes of personal files from Brandy’s days as Executive Director of The Wilderness Society. The story of the boxes, in a nutshell, is about how Howard Zahniser—Brandy’s friend and mentor—unexpectedly died four months before his eight-year battle to pass a Wilderness Bill was finished. Brandy took over as head of the Society for the last push and, when Lyndon B. Johnson finally signed it into law on September 3, 1964, Brandy missed it. Characteristically, he was “out west”.
“I was the guy,” Brandy put it, “that had worked his butt off following Zahniser’s passing in May, and I didn’t even get to the signing. I regretted that but here I was with four kids and a raccoon…”[iv]
This was a pattern, repeated throughout Brandy's long life. In the summer of 1945, for instance, he was surveying lodgepole out of Bozeman, two feet in diameter and straight as pillars holding up the roof in the sky. He had been classified 4-F by the draft board a couple years before, and his aunt had given him a Model T. Big doings were happening half a world a way, the atomic age yawned awake on August 6 and 9 with the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and on VJ Day, Brandy found himself  in Bozeman, celebrating with a girl he liked. Big events would roar in the distance, and he wasn’t even sure whether Johnson knew a wilderness from a cow pasture. But he admitted that Johnson was a superb politician, and that’s what mattered as far as signings go. Brandy didn't think they needed him there, and that was one of the biggest gifts Brandy brought to the Wilderness Law and, more importantly to the implementing of it. Someone dedicating their life to the preservation of America’s remaining intact ecosystems needed to know the Land enough to be humbled by it, and so it was that so long as there was still some open country left to roam in, Brandy would roam in it[v]and would encourage others to do so. 
 Brandy led the Society for the next twelve years after the signing, until 1976 when he was fired by the board. This occurred because he fought an oil pipeline, in Alaska, and had alienated some industry-funded foundations such as the Mellon Foundation (Gulf Oil) that some newer board members were interested in soliciting grant money from. Brandy wasn’t being “professional” enough, these board members surmised, and so they hired a business consulting firm[vi]to find fault in Brandy’s “professionalism”, which the consulting firm dutifully did. Brandy’s firing, in turn, created an uproar throughout the environmental community, and even today to say out loud what was widely-thought back then, that The Wilderness Society fired Brandy because he spearheaded an almost-successful fight against the Alaskan Pipeline is a statement incredible on its face and still unbelievable to many within the movement. Controversial, in other words, just like every other aspect of Brandy's lifelong, uncompromising activism. But that’s what probably went down in early January of 1976 , when he and two of his top staff staff, Ernest Dickerman and Virginia (Peeps) Carney (both of whom would resign from the organization soon after), cleaned out his office. They stuffed a couple dozen boxes full of Wilderness Society records covering the periods 1955 to 1977 that Brandy wanted saved—which were most of them--and walked them out through an unused back door onto the asphalt roof of the People’s Drugstore, which their offices sat above and which, coincidentally, was within sight of the White House. They didn’t use the front door because the new interim-director, Clif Merrit, a long-time colleague of theirs, was sitting at the front desk, supposedly monitoring what Brandy was taking out of his office. The whole thing was embarrassing: for them, for the new interim-director, for everyone involved in the whole embarrassing affair. 
They carried the boxes across the roof and down the fire-escape ladder, where the Brandborg family’s station wagon was parked on the street below. They loaded them up, and Brandy drove the boxes home to Turkey Foot Road in Maryland just north of the Washington metropolitan area, and that where they stayed until the Brandborgs headed west for good.
The Wilderness Society entered into a period of turmoil from this event that became one of the major debacles in America’s post-Nixon world, when the “left” seemed to be finally finding its feet, and then stumbled on them. It’s still a fierce debate that rages within the nationwide environmental community: how beholden should progressive non-profits be to corporate donors. Brandy, who was in on the cusp of so many watershed victories for the environmental movement, was also in on the cusp of that same movement’s watershed setback from which it has never fully recovered. Nixon, who would have been in the last year of his presidency in 1976 if he hadn’t been forced to resign, could rightly claim that he had signed more environmental legislation into law than any other president. But Nixon’s green tint was almost wholly the result of the democratic pushing and shoving from below that Brandy and his colleagues were so adept at. Maybe Nixon could be excused if he snickered a bit at the whole affair because, in the end, he did get his pipeline. 
When the Brandborgs moved back to the Bitterroot Valley, the Wilderness Society files came with them. Still tucked in their original cardboard boxes, they were stored in the various basements, garages and sheds where papers that are dear to the possessors invariably end up, and in those vintage boxes they remained, relatively unmolested for the next thirty years. 
It wasn’t a complete set anymore. Some had already made their way down to the University of Montana archives in Missoula. An unspecified few had been lost in a still-unexplained house fire when the Brandborgs were living in the hills above the small logging town of Darby twenty miles south of Hamilton, a town which still held both him and his dad personally responsible for “shutting down the mills” decades ago, the very mills both Brandborgs had repeatedly warned were overcutting their own selves out of existence—which is what they did. But through all that about a dozen boxes still remained, mostly in the garage, a few out in the garden shed. They contained dog-eared documents from the environmental movement’s budding days, those heady days of the sixties and seventies, of Howard Zahniser, Olaus and Margaret (Mardie) Murie, Sigurd (Sig) Olson and, of course, Stewart Brandborg and his dad, Guy (Big Brandy as his family still refers to him). 
There was a whole box, for example, marked “Timber Supply Act”, an existential threat to the budding power of an unpredicted environmental movement that was by fits and starts blooming and booming by the late sixties. If it had passed, it would have congressionally-mandated unsustainable levels of timber harvest on national forests into perpetuity, making moot most of the improvements in forest management that came before and after it. The remaining forests of the Rockies, indeed the remaining forests throughout the nation, would have been stripped for quick cash, as so many had already been. This was at the height of the Vietnam War, when college kids and their professors were widely circulating such notions as “ecology”, “wildlife corridors” and “population explosions”, notions that industrialists felt had no place in serious talk about forest management, let alone about anything else. It was pure communism to them, or at least so they said. But Brandy had grown up with his feet in the dirt, and he called their bluff and made it stick, which was another of his strengths. It was his saddle-seasoned dad, after all, who was raising hell about overcutting the Bitterroot National Forest, in what came to be known as the “Clearcut Crisis”[vii]at this very historical second when these industrial “anti-communists”, who may have never seen a mule up close let alone settled their butt on one for a month, were advocating for armed soldiers on college campuses as the solution to this dirt-based “problem” of the sixties. The Clearcut Crisis in the Bitterroot was exactly what the sponsors of the Timber Supply Act had in mind to counter with their no-nonsense, get-the-cut-out legislation. They even gave the Brandborgs an off-hand compliment by re-naming their legislation the “National Forest Timber Conservation and Management Act” which, of course, was not about conservation at all. Brandy and his dad took those Pharoahs down in flames, paving the way for the National Forest Management Act of 1976, and Brandy still claims this as one of his proudest moments, a largely-forgotten one now that had a significant mouse nest in it, possibly multi-generational. Clearly something needed to be done.
Personal miracles exist in almost anyone’s garage. Letters from great-aunts who moved to Los Angeles to be movie stars, pictures of ancestors on Ellis Island, that $96 hospital bill that paid for your birth, the sort of documentary detritus that doesn’t want to be thrown out but transforms into clutter after a few decades of hanging around in linen closets. That’s when a time-honored trajectory is applied to them with the rationale that, if you can’t fit it neatly on a bookshelf, turn it into furniture or actually throw it out, away it goes into the true archive of American history since at least World War Two—the garage. In the Brandborg’s case, this accumulated detritus ran deep into a largely-forgotten history or, worse, a misinterpreted one, of an environmental awakening that hadn’t happened in this country before, and, sadly, hasn’t happened since. It was exciting, overwhelming and personal. Foolishly, then, I dug in.
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The wording in this book attributed to Brandy are either in quotes as his own, or paraphrased from his own. They can be found within the excellent series of taped interviews conducted by Dick Ellis in 2003, in several other interviews and videos now archived at the University of Montana’s K. Ross Tool Archives within the Maureen and Mike Mansfield Library or within the tapes and notes of my own conversations with him (also archived). I tried to stay faithful to his meaning and intent, while not generally citing or footnoting them overmuch along the way because I decided it would distract from the narrative which I was ultimately after in the boxes—and what I believed Brandy was after, too. Not just the facts within (which, in the interest of full disclosure I admit that, due to their voluminous nature compared to my own, laid-back one, I merely cherry-picked) but the dust they kicked up. Brandy’s especially but a little of my own as well. After all, it’s been my luck to choose a drop-dead-gorgeous country like the Bitterroot to live in during such interesting times. I’ve been working and playing here for decades, in the same wild country that Brandy and his colleagues saved for future generations--including my own--to have the opportunity to live, work and play in at all, and I have something to say about how they are being defined and defiled by those who simply may not know the history of their temporary salvation well enough. There’s something here in the Northern Rockies, I think, this home-sweet-home of the Nimi’ipuu (the Nez Perce People), that speaks to the existential pickle we’re in. Call it a power, a trance, radon poisoning. What I know after all these years is this: that whatever it is, it exists, like Jesus and Coyote, neither of which you can really justify your belief in other than to say that most beliefs are valid if they’re honest, and that some are even true. They’re squishy things, beliefs, and necessarily so if they’re to have any value to the believer. Everyone believes something, but whatever belief you chose to bake to that golden brown that makes them edible, shouldn’t they at least be leavened with some mere observations? They're compromises, after all, ones that societies make with their natural environments in order to illuminate the rules of survival so a member of that society can see the rules for what they are. Fom the primary urge to survive comes the necessary reverence to do the right thing,not vice-versa. Any parent can understand this, that at their best, beliefs are just raw facts under the warming shadow of rainclouds in northern winter skies that help us to survive, no matter whose God you choose to worship. Real beliefs, the useful ones, are at their core land-based.
Brandy literally grew up organically from this Land, something fewer and fewer activists of any cause today have the opportunity to do. He and his colleagues successfully convinced millions that they simply could not live without those last wild places from which those activists sprang, which is true. More important to us now is that in applying this tree-based philosophy of “making Democracy work” to modern politics, they literally stumbled on one possible recipe to do just that, which could in fact save us, if we so chose. Bernie Sanders’ 2016 campaign comes to mind, and although I didn’t hear Bernie speak overmuch of trees I did hear in his presidential bid the latest example of what this old-time nuts-and-bolts activism—good-government if you need a phrase or socialism if you just need a word--is capable of, even when we don’t so choose.
I have allowed myself to become convinced that within the political template created by the early conservationists and the various other progressives to meld their depthless love of wild places with political realities, to get people to see the essential value of a mere word—Wilderness!--and to fight for it, are the same nuggets that could save the Land, and possibly us, from our accumulated foolishness. These stories and insights may be centered around the Northern Rockies, but it seems to me that the extreme and even violent politics we have seen here in Montana as well as throughout most of America’s rural landscapes for the last thirty years or so (the militia movement, the “Tea Party” phenomenon, the current Trump presidency) is as good a metaphor as the next for the illness that plagues us if you have the inclination to look. Old-time activism, the kind practiced in the mid-twentieth century by Big Brandy and his son, is a pretty good recipe for fighting despair (our real enemy it seems to me) and maybe better than most given what we’re left to work with. It’s grounded and doesn’t put Jesus to sleep. 
We tend to kill our prophets, don't we? Or if they’re lucky just ignore them, along with the core truth that burns at the heart of any prophet’s misinterpreted reveries, the one about humility, the one that's now about us being frogs in this slowly boiling pot of Climate Change resulting in our misinterpreting that simple lesson. If you believe that, which I do, you beg our own, very modern questions which are not modern at all. Is it really about what the environment can do for us, or about how pretty we think things are, or if some of us believe that sunsets are the eyes of God shining down to enlighten our path, or if others believe that coal is the gift of that other god, the Old Testament one with the warped sense of humor? Is it even about belief at all? Is our task merely Science, then? To measure “ecosystem services” so that they can be more easily parsed up and dealt out between the various human “stakeholders” at the negotiation “tables” so we can "go forward"? Might there be a missing ingredient in our land-based debates we’re having these days? Might it be that humankind needs as much wild country (and its evolving, resident democracies) as we can possibly nurture for the simple sake of our continued survival on this planet? Might we need to save what’s left of our remaining wilderness not as a matter of sentimentality, belief, or “ecosystem services”, but as a matter of fact? 
 “Wilderness!” you hear them say, more and more with a roll of a condescending eye about a thing within which their lives are less and less entwined, even those who now claim the mantle of Environmentalist . “That’s so Sixties!” 
Well, it is just a word after all, and an expeditious one at that. But how about “democracy”? That’s just a word, too. But it describes a living organism, a land-based one, and wherever you find the Land you’ll find a different species of democracy native to that place. Here in North America, there was a vibrant form residing in human populations long before the Atlantic Ocean washed an equally-vibrant (albeit predatory) Greco-Roman form upon its shores, where they crossbred. We tend to forget that our cherished American democracy is a hybrid, a mix of the native and the non-native, a cut-bow trout swimming in the ever-more-sacred waters of an industrialized world on the very verge of polluting those waters to the last drop and then privatizing the toxic result. And then there will be no trout, no water, no democracy at all. We tend to forget that, far from being democracy’s creator, we are merely its host species, and that we neglect this symbiotic relationship at our peril. 
Our times are nothing new, and it’s never been too hard to see the mountains past the hype. Either by intent or ignorance, most of us tend to miss the forest and the trees, and if you’ll indulge me a bit further I’ll re-iterate that what is usually lacking in our armchair discussions about the Land is that democracy, the main ingredient in any solution of epic human concern, needs vast swaths of relatively intact ecosystems to burn in and to rejuvenate, to evolve in and to survive, and that democracy is what is lacking in the Land.
It’s something to think about, anyway. That’s our scheme.

[i]Mark Dowry, “Losing Ground: American Environmentalism at the Close of the Twentieth     Century, MIT    Press, 1995
[ii]Beki Brandborg
[iii]Author, conservationist, Wilderness Society president from 1963-71
[iv]Interview with the author, 11/19/13
[v]7-10-04 Dick Ellis Interview
[vi]James M. Kittleman and Associates
[vii]Burke, Dale A., “The Clearcut Crisis: Controversy in the Bitterroot”, Jursnick Printing, January 1, 1970