Spring/Summer 2006: Land

Mountain

By Lara Florez

I moved to my house in the historic Northwest neighborhood of Cottage Grove because of the trees on Mount David: slender-trunked oaks and dark green layers of fir. From my front windows they were my view, my backdrop. I nursed both of my infant children on the couch for hours, watching the movement of the wind through their branches.

I was not aware of the history of Mount David, the struggle to keep it free from residential development. I did not know that the fable of open space was being rewritten all over the state and the country, or that citizen involvement was critical to land-use planning, that the place to determine the future of a community was not on the couch breastfeeding. I was awakened to all of these issues the day Mount David was stripped of its trees.

The second day of the logging, I met with the owner and potential developer of the Mount David property. He greeted my questions matter-of-factly, told me that the logging operation was complete, that the trees were removed because fir trees had no place in a subdivision. "They're a potential hazard," he said. He claimed that the firs were nonnative, asked, "How do you like the oaks?" He purchased the Mount David land after the city failed to come up with funds to preserve it as a park. "If they could have come up with the money, I would've said God bless 'em. But they couldn't, and now it's time to move on."

With those words he showed me a picture of Cottage Grove in its infancy. "The natives burned the grassland so there weren't any trees in the town until settlers planted them," he said. I noticed that the mountains in the photograph had the same mix of white oak and evergreen as Mount David. But my daughter was squirming in my arms and the words caught in my throat. It was, after all, his land.

The next day my son was frantic: "Mama, they're cutting the trees again." A glance up confirmed that chainsaws were taking out fir trees on the steepest part of the ridge. I called Western Lane's Department of Forestry, contacting the regional representative, Bob Johnson.

"I was told that they were done clearing this part of the mountain," I said, my voice unsteady.

Bob was reasonable. "They'll just be taking out the firs on those lower slopes. All of their permits are in order. I was up there yesterday and everything looked fine."

Trying to be controlled, I said, "I know that you are not supposed to love what you do not own, but this is just so difficult to watch. This is my view out my window, these trees. ..."

"How do you like those oaks?" he asked. "Those are native you know. Can I take your name and phone number, just for informational purposes?"

I gave it, knowing my credibility with Bob disintegrated the moment I used the word love.

Published in the Spring/Summer 2006 issue of Oregon Humanities.

© 2006 Oregon Council for the Humanities