This is his favorite spot. Davis doesn’t know what the answer is — how to make people care. It’s impossible, frankly. Still, he says: “My DNA tells me to struggle despite all odds.” Thursday, Aug. 8, 9 pm Engines roar. Lights flash. In Syringa, about two dozen protesters, waving posters, whooping and chanting “Hell no megaload,” approach the private property where Omega Morgan has parked its shipment for the day. A sign reads: “MEGALOADS KEEPING IDAHO $GREEN$.” Bill Sedivy, executive director of Idaho Rivers United (IRU), a conservation group, confronts an incredulous foreman. He tells him IRU has filed a lawsuit in federal court, asking for an injunction to stop this insanity. Out of respect for the legal system, out of respect for the river corridors, out of respect for the Forest Service’s authority and out of respect for the Nez Perce Tribe, he pleads: Keep this load parked today. That doesn’t work. “Idaho is not for sale!” a woman yells. “Stay the f--- out of the corridor!” says Haverstick. “Come on, Cass! Let’s go!” “I’m coming, motherf---er.” And we’re running to our cars again. Thursday, Aug. 8, 11 pm “Ah shit, what a shit show!” Haverstick says. “Everyone’s just f--ing scattered and exhausted.” “I f---ing tired, man,” says Davis. “I got up there and said, ‘Hey, let’s get in the f---ing road.’” “I thought that’s what—” “But hey, no one was doing it. I’m not gonna, you know — besides,” Davis adds, “We can pull some sort of stunt and like stop the megaload up here.” It’s so dark now that parked alongside the road you can barely see the outlines of trees. The only light reflects off the sheen of the guardrail. We’re at Fish Creek — known as Sistine Chapel of wild steelhead runs in the Clearwater-Lochsa corridor — and just past an aging bridge that engineers fear could topple under the weight of the entire megaload. The shipment will have to be taken apart before it can cross. A glowing white behemoth starts to round the bend. Two bright lights illuminate a yellow sign on the grill of the truck: “OVERSIZE LOAD.” The megaload is crawling at a snail’s pace as foremen prepare to cross the bridge. Three police cars pull up, and Ken Yount, a young, brawny no-nonsense sergeant from the Idaho State Police, approaches the protesters, flanked by a gaggle of officers. “[I] respect your position,” Yount says. “But we just don’t want anyone to get hurt.” “We’re gonna ask you to stay off the paved portion, off that shoulder. We’re gonna have zero tolerance. We’ll advise and warn, but if somebody were to step out, we’re gonna make arrests. We don’t want to take anybody to jail tonight.” A burly Nez Perce man who’s been at the demonstrations every night, holding a sign in the Nez Perce language, heckles Yount. “What about our rights to peacefully assemble?” he shouts. Yount doesn’t blink. “Not in the road.” Friday, Aug. 9, 1 am The hauler roars. The convoy stirs. The 644,000-pound load is all wheels and steel, lit up like a Christmas tree. Protesters wave their signs and taunt the foremen. Davis has crawled underneath the bridge. He’s pounding tree trunks like a drum. Protesters watch from the side of the road as the lights from the caravan fade into the forest. The megaload and its entourage roll away. The cops leave. Haverstick shake hands with the reporter from Lewiston’s KLEW-TV. Some of the tribal leaders have nachos in carry-out boxes waiting for them in a van. Davis chats up other activists; he’s already planning his next protest. A young Nez Perce man folds his hands in his hoodie, looks up and speaks to no one in particular. “As soon we got here, you could see every star in the sky,” he says. “You can hardly see any of it now.” n
AUGUST 15, 2013 INLANDER 15