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If you clear a forest you’d better pray continuously. . . . God doesn’t like a clear cut. It makes his heart turn cold, makes him wince and wonder what went wrong with his creation. janisse ray, Ecology of a Cracker Childhood The Unnatural History of a Clear-cut On a Tuesday in August I drove to town, as I often do, along Lake Forest Drive. Just before I crossed the creek I noticed a bulldozer sitting close to the road on the large parcel of bottomland on the east side. I slowed down and saw where the big cat had pushed several trees out of the way, beginning to open what could have been a road into the bottom. That morning the bottomland forest off Lake Forest Drive looked deep and mysterious, like something straight out of Faulkner’s “The Bear”—“sombre, impenetrable.” We’ve seen deer, beaver, turkey, gray fox, possum, raccoon crossing the road there. I drove on to town, but I was already concerned. By the time I returned two hours later and saw the bulldozer still sitting there I was panicked. The bulldozer was only a quarter-mile upstream from our house on our side of the creek. It may have been idle, 168 but it was hard at work in my imagination. Since we built our house, Lake Forest Drive has served as a line of first defense against the development upstream on the Lawson’s Fork. As long as the large parcels of floodplain stayed wooded and raw I always felt safe downstream. The south side of the bridge was where the yards ended. It was where space ceased being divided easily into real estate. I knew the property was owned, but in my mind it seemed secure simply by its wild presence and the fact that once or twice a year, when Lawson’s Fork climbs out of its banks, five or six feet of water flows through it. I drove past and extrapolated outward from the bulldozer’s single swatch. I could see the whole floodplain opened up and planted with grass. I knew I even preferred the kudzu encroaching from the road to the anticipated clarity of the bulldozer’s clearance. In 1973 the Country Club of Spartanburg had bought the parcel of floodplain from the Pierce family, saying they wanted to expand the golf course to the other side of the creek. At that time the land had been farmed for roughly two hundred years and was clear of timber, crisscrossed with dirt farm roads. Later the club purchased a smaller parcel on the west side of the creek. For thirty years the country club did nothing with its property on the east and west sides of the creek. Timber returned. A mixed hardwood bottomland forest covered the tract, and it gained some maturity, though we’d heard discussions were ongoing on the country club board as to the best “use” of the land. The original golf course idea had been scrubbed because flooding was a concern. Over the years, propositions had surfaced and disappeared: a skeet-shooting range, an equestrian center, and most recently a “golf practice facility.” In the last decade SPACE, the local land trust, began to approach the board about conservation uses of the land to protect the creek and woods, but they couldn’t even get on the meeting agendas. I made some notes in my journal about the bulldozer when The Unnatural History of a Clear-cut ° 169 [3.144.97.189] Project MUSE (2024-04-23 23:05 GMT) I arrived home. I belonged to SPACE’s land committee, and we had a meeting the next day at a local restaurant. When everybody was settled in, I asked about the road and the bulldozer ’s arrival on Lake Forest Drive. Probably just a kudzu removal project, someone said. Or something to do with sewerline work, another offered. Several of them said that they, being club members, would know if there were plans to clear-cut the property. The next day, driving into town on Thursday morning, Betsy called on the cell phone to report that more heavy equipment had arrived. After the phone call I was angry and went straight to my study and hammered out an e-mail to several of the SPACE land committee members. Something was going on down at the club property and we’d better get on it. One committee member must have been online because a response...

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