Facing Down the Apocalpse VIII: If a Tree Falls

Facing Down the Apocalpse VIII: If a Tree Falls

Last evening I dropped a tree over the edge of the world as I know it. The Douglas-fir died in exactly the spot I directed, sent there with a chainsaw and hand-winch. I am not an expert feller of trees, although decades ago I did make my living dropping lodgepole pine around what then were million-dollar homes.

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Facing Down the Apocalypse VII: Solitude

Facing Down the Apocalypse VII: Solitude

On the front porch of the Johnny Gunter place, I ride the incoming swell of nightfall. The last logging rigs rumbled out of the valley two hours ago. A single robin chirrups from the meadow growing April green before me. Wind from the west draws an iron overcast across the evening sky.

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Facing Down the Apocalypse VI: Rough-skinned Newts

Facing Down the Apocalypse VI: Rough-skinned Newts

There sure is a lot of sex at the end of the world as I thought I knew it. After a socially distant run on the chip trail, I finish with a sweaty stroll through the neighborhood park, pausing on a footbridge across the small creek. The air has become a breathing thing, ribs of willow and cottonwood exhaling …

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