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(NOTE: This is a
dramatisation based on an actual event however I was not in the
trees at the time this occurred)
The wind was howling
through the treetops and my perch in the uppermost branches of the
tall, slender gum tree was swinging as much as two metres from its
usual upright position. This movement was not in an orderly back and
forth movement with the wind as you would expect, but rather the
tree seemed to fling itself randomly in different directions with
little apparent regard for any force of nature that now lashed it.
The platform to which I
clung had been tied into the trees as part of an environmental
protest to try to save this beautiful old forest from being
destroyed by the logging industry for conversion into woodchip
before shipping it off to Japan. The platform hung from a branch
about two metres above its flimsy plywood surface, with seatbelt
webbing out to the far corners whilst the other side of the platform
had been lashed firmly to the trunk of the tree; the end result was
a living area about the same size as a door. With supplies,
equipment and a shit bucket suspended below on ropes and other day
to day necessities like: water, torch, radio and a small pack of
books hung from the branches and rigging above; the area of the
platform was almost all living space and so wasn’t too bad once you
got used to it and the confinement of the climbing harness and
safety line permanently attached. At times the higher branches
provided an escape from the mundane sameness of sitting on a surface
the size of a door thirty metres above the forest floor day in day
out.
I’d done the same as
all the sitters before me and brought up lots of books and things to
do; like all the sitters before me I’d found the same inner peace
after two or three days and been able to still my normally hectic
mind and spend hours in contemplation of the beauty that surrounded
my new home. Hours were spent at the very topmost branches playing
my flute to the trees, the birds or serenading the entire forest.
Each morning my reverie
was broken by the arrival of the police who came, followed about
half an hour later by the Forest Commission. The ritual was the same
every morning; they drove slowly into the logging coupe where our
three platforms were hung. Their car slowly circled the coupe before
they came to a stop within centimetres of the same spot each morning
and the occupants got out and stretched their legs.
Finally, as if they had
just noticed the platforms hanging above them and connected together
by banner festooned ropes, they would look up and call “Hello, is
there anybody up there?” It always seemed like a strange question,
but maybe they were hoping that we’d do their job for them by coming
down during the night.
After this initial call
a genuine conversation would begin; there was always camaraderie
between the sitters, the police and the Forest Commission. The same
small talk that develops between workmates was repeated daily and
always reminded me of a cartoon series that used to be on TV where
the wolf and sheepdog exchanged pleasantries as they clocked on to
start the day with their respective protagonistic roles in the life
of the flock.
“G’day. How’d you
sleep?”
Oh OK. It was pretty
warm last night.”
Yeah, there’s s’posed
to be some rain coming though.”
“Oh well, we’ll deal
with that when it gets here.”
“Yeah, Guess so. Have
you had brekkie yet.”
“Yeah, been up since
five.”
“So have we, it’s a
bloody long drive out here you know.”
“Yeah well, at least
you get paid for it.”
“OK well we’ll see ya
t’morra. I s’pose you’ll still be here”
“Yeah, got no real
plans to go anywhere. See ya.”
This conversation, with
minor variations, was played out twice a day; first with the police
and then again with the Forestry blokes. For two months now the
platforms had been up, seven days a week for that entire time, this
ritual had been performed as regularly as clockwork. Except for
yesterday there had been a bit of a worried edge to the conversation
with the police yesterday. Added to the end of the usual ritual
pleasantries they had begun to ask questions about the strength and
safety of the platforms if strong winds came in.
“There’s a big storm
coming in off Bass Strait,” the Sergeant said. Anyone who knows Bass
Strait, the notoriously dangerous stretch of water between Tasmania
and mainland Australia, knows that a storm coming from that
direction can quickly develop into a serious problem. “There’s a
high wind warning, and all the fishing boats are coming into the Bay
for safety” the middle aged Sergeant continued. “Thanks for the
warning” I called back down “What time is it expected to get here?”
I asked. “Bout midnight. Watch yourselves OK. I don’t want to come
out here tomorrow and clean your dead bodies off the ground” came
his reply. “Yeah, no worries. See you in the morning and thanks for
the warning.” I yelled over my shoulder as I started the climb up to
the thin uppermost branches of my tree to gaze out to the southwest
where the storm would come from.
From my perch at the
top of my tree I had an uninterrupted panoramic view from about
east/southeast through south and on to west; for almost 180 degrees
of my horizon my view was interrupted only by the curve of the earth
and that strange haze that sometimes develops at the edge of sight.
The entire sky was now blue; it was like clouds didn’t even exist.
I knew that the blue
sky meant nothing though; when storms blew in from the Strait the
weather could do a complete turnabout within an hour and on a
pleasant winters day people could suddenly be caught out in blinding
rain and gale force winds. In this part of the country, if the
weather forecast predicted a storm you always took them seriously. I
resolved to spend the day tidying up my platform, checking the
rigging and watching the sky.
It was a long day for
all three of us in the platforms; we all knew that if we came down
then the trees which we occupied would probably be felled to prevent
us reoccupying them. Every hour, on the hour, I made the journey up
to the top of my tree; it was about two in the afternoon when I
first saw it. A thin bluish-black line stretching up from the south;
slowly creeping towards the west. By five O’clock the thin line of
cloud had become a deep, surging mass of black and greys that had
moved up until it covered the horizon from South to past west. The
wind had picked up a bit and as I sat in the highest branches of my
tree and looked out over the forest I was swaying gently on the top
of an ocean of constantly rippling green.
By dusk it was almost
pitch black; cloud covered the whole sky except for a thin, dark
blue line quickly vanishing far off to the east. As the premature
night enveloped us I knew that, even without the coming night, this
thin blue line had finally been swallowed by the cloud. There had
been intermittent rain since the cloud cover had reached us but now
a soaking, constant rain began to fall; the drumming on my parka
hood and the timber platform obliterated all other sound. Thunder
started to rumble in from the Southwest and the sudden flashes of
illumination shooting through the clouds added an ominous feel to
the whole atmosphere. When the lightning started to get closer I
decided to brave one last trip to the top of my tree to see Gaia’s
lightshow. Once I turned off the headtorch I had climbed with, an
impenetrable blackness enveloped my world; the darkness was broken
only by flash after flash of lightning off to the west which lit up
the underbelly of a thick mat of cloud surging like water boiling in
a billy. The tendrils of lightning probed through the clouds in
every direction like Medusa’s snakes in search of a victim; almost
immediately the thunderclap hit my ears like the sound of some
massive explosion followed by the rolling of an orchestra of
kettledrums.
Next lightning strike I
counted off the seconds between lightning and thunder; at about two
and a half seconds elapsed between the flash and the arrival of the
thunder, meaning that the strike must have been within about three
k’s of my perch. I decided that discretion was the better part of
valour and retreated to the relative safety of my platform. Suddenly
the wind picked up; what had been a stiff breeze became a strong
wind and the gentle swaying of my tree became a violent tossing. My
cup and a book I had been reading before the light failed
disappeared over the side of my platform and I watched them plummet
into the darkness below. I sat with my back against the tree trunk,
its firmness and strength had a reassuring feel to them, but the
bucking of the platform gave me the promise of a long and sleepless
night.
Torches flashed from
below and I heard the voices of Col and Greggg calling up from below
“Are you OK up there? Is there anything we can do for you?” I
decided that my platform would be safer without all the
paraphernalia I used for daily living and, after a short shouted
conversation, I proceeded to lower my pack and sleeping bag, stuffed
full of gear, down for the ground crew to carry away and stash; the
other two sitters soon followed suite. It would be an uncomfortable
night without any sleeping gear but several small articles had
already disappeared over the edge and in this wind equipment hanging
off the platform could swing about and become dangerous.
Once our platforms were
stripped of everything except their rigging and our ropes, we
hunkered down to ride it out. Ride it out was an accurate
description; the wind bent the trees over until they groaned in
complaint, then they whipped back like gigantic springs, the only
respite was during the short periods when the tree had bent to its
maximum flex and was about to catapult itself back to an upright
position. There was no rhythm or order to their movement; each tree
bent and sprang back individually and at different speeds and even
in different directions so that without warning a treetop that had
been metres from you suddenly appeared centimetres in front of your
face and just a suddenly disappeared again.
Even though I was
sitting with my back to the trunk and my hands gripping the rigging
tape on either side of me (so that I was sitting stationary in the
middle of my platform) the beam from my headtorch danced wildly
through the surrounding trees as my tree whipped about to its own
tune. This movement gave me a wildly surreal window into the
maelstrom that surrounded us.
I released the grip of
my right hand long enough to reach over and press the light on my
watch; it was just ten minutes past midnight and this storm showed
no signs of letting up; before I got my right hand back to resume
its grip on the rigging tape the violent lashing of my tree almost
threw me from my platform. I knew that I could not last the night in
this and doubted that either of the other two sitters were fairing
any better.
It was when the wind
started to lift the platforms that things really started to go
badly; the rigging had been done to prevent the platforms falling
and we were all confident of their strength in this direction. No
one had ever envisaged that the platforms could be blown upwards,
but that was what was happening now; with one side lashed to the
tree my platform started to hinge up from this point every time the
trees movement was away from the wind, then when it swung back into
the wind the force changed from underneath to above and the platform
slammed back down onto the now slack rigging tape. The result of
this new dimension in movement dramatically increased the bucking
motion of the platform and I found myself wondering how long the
rigging tape could withstand the battering. The platforms were held
up with the same tape used in car seatbelts and was designed to
withstand shock, but not repeated shock after shock like it was
getting now; sooner or later anything would break under this
continuously repeated strain. The strain on sitter, rigging and
platform was immense; something had to give.
After about half an
hour of this incessant hammering I‘d had enough and called to the
other sitters at the top of my lungs; a barely audible response came
back over the wind from each of them. “I’m getting out of here!” I
screamed into the darkness and was relieved to hear “Me too!” come
faintly back from both of my compatriots.
I’d set my rope over
the branch above me so that I could use a technique called ‘double
roping’ and descend on both ends; this technique leaves the rope
free so that it could be pulled down after I’d left the tree if
needed to; I had connected the figure of eight descending device,
with both strands of rope threaded through it, to my harness before
the storm got too bad, as a safety precaution and backup for the
safety line that was always connected to my harness. This wasn’t
going to be textbook abseiling; descending into darkness from a tree
thrashing in the wind was bad enough, but first I had to get off the
platform. It was impossible to stand on the edge and lower myself
backwards like I usually did; instead I paid out about two metres of
slack, wrapped the rope around my thigh to act as a brake and rolled
off the edge of the platform.
The freefall until the
slack was taken up and the rope jerked taut was only a bit over a
metre, but in the darkness, with fear gnawing at my belly, it seemed
to go on forever. I fought the urge to reach out and grab the rope
above me and trusted the figure eight and my grip on the rope below
it. Below where I gripped the rope it was still wrapped around my
leg to act as a brake and I came to a halt with a painful tightening
of the coils around my thigh. Hanging just below the edge of the
platform the swing didn’t seem too bad and I had time to take stock
of how things were going; I quickly checked over my harness again to
reassure myself that nothing had come undone or shifted with the
shock. The beam of my headtorch didn’t reach the ground and the rope
disappeared into the darkness below, whipped around in the wind; it
was only gravity that let me know which direction the lay ground.
Maintaining my grip on the rope behind my buttocks I started to kick
my leg to unwind the rope from around my thigh; as the last coil
dropped from my leg I felt the weight of my body transfer to the
hand holding the rope.
Cautiously, I paid the
wet rope through my cold fingers so that I slid slowly down the
rope, it was a fairly smooth descent until I got about three metres
below the platform. The further I lowered the more violently I was
tossed around. I was like a pendulum on some old Grandfather clock
that had gone mad; the longer the rope, the further the pendulum
swung. Combined with the stretch in the dynamic climbing rope this
erratic motion meant I was thrown about like the missile from a
shanghai. “Get out of here!” my mind screamed; I let the rope slide
through my fingers as fast as I could without getting rope burn. If
the friction from the rope running through my hand was too much I
would get rope burn and have to let go of the rope; letting go would
mean freefall and even a fall of a couple of metres onto the rocky,
uneven ground below could result in serious injury.
Still, with the faster
descent the sudden, jerky pendulum movements continued and twice I
collided with the trunk of my tree; hanging on a rope, away from
anything solid, means that you have no control over which direction
you face. The first time I hit the tree I was able to take most of
the force with my legs; on the second collision I wasn’t so lucky
and took the full force of the blow on my left shoulder and back. I
knew I’d be sore in the morning but all that mattered to me at that
moment was the rope I held and the ground I wanted to reach. I knew
that my ride would have been a lot rougher if it wasn’t for Col and
Gregg holding the end of my rope, but they could only help a bit
because if they held the rope too tight my figure eight would lock
up and leave me dangling somewhere in space.
Even though the journey
to the bottom of my tree took no more than a minute it seemed to go
on for ages; finally the ground below became visible in the beam of
my torch. I came to an unceremonious landing on my butt and was
pleased to feel the squishing of the mud under my cheeks. I let go
of the rope so that the movement of the tree simply pulled the last
of the rope out of my figure of eight rather than pull me around the
base of the tree, almost instantly the rope tore from my descender,
its ends flailing wildly in the wind. I left Col and Gregg jumping
about trying to catch the wildly flicking rope ends and went to see
how the other two sitters were progressing with their retreat from
the trees.
It was at least half an
hour before all of us were on the ground and our ropes down and
coiled ready for our trek to the support camp. The two k hike
through the bush, in total darkness and pouring rain wasn’t easy but
we finally reached the safety of the camp; the three small tents
hidden in a gully were normally home to the small group of people
who provided physical support for the treesitters. Tonight the
support crew would share their homes and limited comforts with those
same sitters. Within minutes the warmth of the cup of tea I cradled
in my hands started to melt the feeling of defeat that had seeped
over me like a black cloud. We were lucky; there were only three
people living at the camp that night so with the three sitters that
only meant two to a tent, otherwise there would have been a shortage
of sleeping space and bedding. Our gear from the platforms was still
stashed up near the coupe because none of us had felt like doing the
trip with full packs.
The dawn broke clear
over the forest and we were up with the birds; there is nothing more
beautiful than dawn in the forest just after a good rain. We didn’t
have time to appreciate the dawn that day, we were eager to get up
to the coupe before the morning police visit, to see if we could
reoccupy the platforms. We heard the chainsaw when we were still a k
from the coupe; by the time we got there all was quiet as a
graveyard. As we walked through the semi-cleared coupe to the stumps
of the three trees we had shared our lives with there was complete
silence; the two police and the lone Forestry worker stood in a
huddle near the police car, scuffing the ground in front of
themselves with their toes like errant boys caught out in an act of
petty vandalism.
Finally, our grief
spent, we left the coupe in ones and twos to gather as a group just
inside the forest on the opposite side of the coupe to the police
car; I still don’t know who said “Let’s go” but those two words
seemed to start the group moving in a shocked silence. As one we
walked away from a scene each of us saw as some kind of brutal,
unnecessary murder.
We were back down at
the support camp before people started to find their voices; anger,
guilt, sorrow and disbelief mingled in the group of hushed voices.
Anyone who visited the camp at that time and didn’t know the
circumstances would have thought that one of our number had died; to
us, three of our group had just been killed.
It was Gregg, from the
ground crew, who first changed the topic from the past to the
future; “Well Stuff ‘em, let’s put up some more!” he said to nobody
in particular. Within seconds the talk changed from mourning our
loss to planning; where should we put the new platforms, how could
we make them better and how soon could we get them up were all
discussed and different opinions given and debated.
After lunch we packed
up the support camp and headed back to Base Camp; they still
wouldn’t know about the loss of the platforms and we all needed some
rest time. Everyone agreed that we all deserved a week of good food,
good sleep and lots of planning. It turned out that the police had
come out early because they were worried about us; when they found
the platforms empty, they called the Forest Commission and the trees
were felled long before the police would have usually arrived for
their morning visit.
By the end of the
second week since our beloved trees had been felled three new
platforms hung majestically over coupe 702; these new platforms were
closer to the main road as if to protect the original site from
further desecration. They were rigged to prevent a lot of the upward
movement that had caused the first platforms to be lost and they
were staying as long as they were helping to protect this beautiful
old forest from the men and machines that threatened it.
In the
forest, as everywhere in nature, death and rebirth are one in the
same.
Into The Sky
When spirits
are thrown down from on high
Lift them
straight back into the sky
For a Phoenix
is born from within our loss
So build up
your faith; don’t carry a cross,
For we have the
power at the end of the day,
The power
within us to find our own way.
Despair grows
within us, but through it the hope
To climb our
way up life’s steepest slope;
So if you’re
blown by the tempest or beat by the man
Dust yourself
off and make a new plan,
Keep treading
the path that makes you feel whole,
Though rocky
and steep, its good for your soul. |