"Any fool can destroy trees. They cannot run away; and if they could, they would still be destroyed - chased and hunted down as long as fun or a dollar could be got out of their bark hides. Branching horns, or magnificent bole backbones. Few that fell trees plant them; nor would planting avail much towards getting back anything like the noble primeval forests. It took more than three thousand years to make some of the trees in these Western woods - trees that are still standing in perfect strength and beauty, waving and singing in the mighty forests of the Sierra. Through all the wonderful, eventful centuries God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand straining, leveling tempests and floods; but he cannot save them from fools - only Uncle Sam can do that. "
Sunday, August 8, 2010
On the rocky beach the men of Makah’s camp were fishing with nets, hooks and pronged spears. Every night there was a great feast of salmon roasted on a bed of sticks with roots. The camp was set up against a rocky cliff behind us with a corral in the front for protection. All the men were equipped with at least two stolid spears with eight inch fluted stone heads flaked and sharp as razors. Many were busy making new spear points and spears. Young boys watched as the men made tools and ran to get things as needed. Little boys and girls played games of ball in the village. A small boy came right up to Phil, touched him and ran away smiling. Following him, a little girl ran toward Tim and tugged at his hand. Beside houses made of tule reeds, beautiful women appeared with endearing eyes. It was spring and the snow was melting, the streams were flowing full of cold spring water. The clover and grasses were green and the buds were full of nutrients. Wildflowers were blooming in bursts of color along streams and meadows.