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Those of you who have read the book and/or know Steve Sillett might find this story amusing:
I'm from Washington state, and I grew up in love with trees and mountains and rivers and lakes and all things bucolic. I've long loved the Redwoods, and my wife and I were married in Humboldt Redwoods State Park. I saw Richard on The Daily Show, and I was so taken by the subject of his book I bought the book online as I watched the show.
The book arrived a few days later, and I tore into it immediately. It begins with the story of three college students driving in a dilapidated, light blue Honda Civic to see the Redwoods for the first time in October 1987. Two are Reed College students—Marwood Harris and Steve Sillett. I began laughing hysterically; I couldn't believe what I was reading.
You see, I went to Reed College, and Marwood (Marty) Harris and I were very close friends. I rode in that unregistered '70s Honda Civic that hadn't had an oil-change in over 20,000 miles many times, and it was every bit the deathtrap that Richard describes. Marty wouldn't let me drive it either.
I then realized the significance of an event from the summer of '87. The Lakers and Celtics were in the NBA finals, again, and I needed a television so I could watch the game. No self-respecting Reedie had a TV of one's own, so I called up Marty, who was housesitting for a professor for the summer (actually, I walked over to a pay-phone to call him, since I didn't have a phone either). Marty said, "Sure, come on over. I have beer and some clam chowder in the freezer. A friend is over visiting, someone I don't think you know. We can all hang and watch the game; then we can walk down to campus and I can show you our new hobby."
I walked the two miles to the house where Marty was staying, and we drank beer and ate clam chowder while watching the game. We got really stoned too, and Marty got the munchies so badly that he ate his chowder cold. He does things like that. He introduced me to his friend, whom I found extremely bright and intense—like just about all Reed students—but also a bit grouchy and unfocused when he wasn't doing exactly what he wanted to do or when the conversation turned away from a subject he wanted to discuss. I picked up a guitar and started playing and Marty listened. His friend wasn't amused, and he grew impatient. "Dude, come on; it's time to go climb." Marty explained that their new hobby was climbing the biggest Douglas-firs on the Reed campus, particularly one large second-growth tree that grew near the art building. I grew up climbing trees in the Northwest, but nobody I knew ever climbed Doug-firs: the branches are too high up and too far apart, and they're covered with pitch. Alders and maples, sure, but Douglas-firs? I thought they were nuts.
I knew they were nuts when I saw them starting to climb. "You guys are going to die this day," I laughed. "We've done this before," they said. "Then you've been rehearsing your own deaths," I replied. "Today you go on stage. Break a leg." "Relax," said Marty. "Just watch."
They started climbing up the tree. I couldn't believe what they were doing. His friend was a better climber than Marty, and he climbed more quickly. At about fifty feet Marty stopped climbing and sat on a branch, seemingly deep in thought. Then he started laughing, heartily but a little nervously. "Uh ... I'm stuck. Dude, I'm too stoned to climb. I'm just going to stay here and chill and try to get it together." "What's up, pussycat?" I teased. "Do I need to call the fire department?" "F*ck you," he giggled. "Have it your way, Marty," I laughed back. I began to collect fircones.
The first one bounced off his chest and the second one hit him in the head. "F*cker!" he yelled. His friend started laughing, and dropped a couple of cones on him from about fifty feet above him. "You guys suck," he yelled, but he was still laughing. I stopped tormenting him, and eventually Marty composed himself enough to climb down. His friend soon joined us after having climbed to the top.
Marty and I graduated, and his friend graduated a couple of years later. Marty moved to Japan; I moved to Tacoma. I never saw his friend again, and I pretty much forgot all about him until I began reading Richard's book.
His friend was Steve Sillett.
So there it is, my brush with arboreal fame. I emailed Marty to talk to him about the book, but he hasn't emailed me back, the bastard. While I'm waiting for a reply I'm going to learn how to climb big trees, and maybe some day I'll climb that big Douglas-fir on the east end of the Reed College campus near the art building. I'll remember not to get stoned first, and I'm going to be really pissed if someone comes along and starts throwing fircones at me.
Thank you for your patience.
The End.
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