Don Karlsson has lived on his family’s Oregon homestead for most of his life. The timber on his land is his greatest asset—planted and replenished by his hand, maintained with his labor and sweat, and harvested for income at his discretion.
After a new species of voles is discovered living in those trees, authorities step in to protect the creatures, and Karlsson fights back. He enlists the help of his children: Billy, a local who understands his father’s connection to the land; Stacy, a fierce attorney determined to represent her father’s interests—even if they go against her own; and the youngest, Zeke, who organizes local environmentalists to make sure his father does not win.
The impending confrontation engulfs the community and competing interests—local businesses and political groups, infiltrators seeking profit—with the Karlsson family at the center, still trying to reconcile the loss of Don’s wife and their mother, Marlene. Tempers flare, desperate acts are taken, and the courtroom battle spills over into protests and riots, leading to a riveting and stunning conclusion.
AEGOLIUS CREEK leaves readers contemplating our ties to place and family, how we strive for worth and meaning, and ultimately, what—if anything—we can claim as our own.
Don Karlsson has lived on his family’s Oregon homestead for most of his life. The timber on his land is his greatest asset—planted and replenished by his hand, maintained with his labor and sweat, and harvested for income at his discretion.
After a new species of voles is discovered living in those trees, authorities step in to protect the creatures, and Karlsson fights back. He enlists the help of his children: Billy, a local who understands his father’s connection to the land; Stacy, a fierce attorney determined to represent her father’s interests—even if they go against her own; and the youngest, Zeke, who organizes local environmentalists to make sure his father does not win.
The impending confrontation engulfs the community and competing interests—local businesses and political groups, infiltrators seeking profit—with the Karlsson family at the center, still trying to reconcile the loss of Don’s wife and their mother, Marlene. Tempers flare, desperate acts are taken, and the courtroom battle spills over into protests and riots, leading to a riveting and stunning conclusion.
AEGOLIUS CREEK leaves readers contemplating our ties to place and family, how we strive for worth and meaning, and ultimately, what—if anything—we can claim as our own.
“The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare.”
— 2 PETER 3:10
Everything begins and ends in fire. That’s what Mrs. Green told me when I was eleven in her youth Bible study at the Aegolius Creek Community Church. God created the heavens and the earth from a great ball of flame. Which didn’t seem much different than the Big Bang Theory, although Mrs. Green said it was blasphemous to suggest something other than God was responsible for creation. She’d obviously never discussed the matter with Mr. Spence at Crawfordsville High School, who later claimed the only way God created anything was with the laws of physics, and this clearly proved the Big Bang had happened. In either case, it doesn’t matter who was right, because whomever you believe, everything began with fire.
According to both, it will end the same way. The Bible says God will incinerate everything anyway. And if Mr. Spence’s insights into astrophysics are to be believed, it’s the same end result. The sun goes nova and burns the earth to a crisp before absorbing its matter and energy. All of which is to say that if fire is the starting point for everything, it’s also the end. All matter, all energy, all of creation, it all began with fire. And everything created eventually burns. Even those things that last forever. They all end in flames.
I woke up when my head bounced off the wheel well in the back of the truck. Tad had said to get some sleep—not a problem after four days in the bush. Jose was driving, which considering his driving record seemed like a bad idea, along with the decision to run alongside the east side of the mountains instead of crossing over and taking a straight shot up I-5.
We drove through the hole-in-the-wall, one-traffic-light hamlets of Chiloquin, Chemult, and Crescent, pleasant enough even in the back of a dirty, yellow pickup. After crossing over Willamette Pass, we followed Highway 58 down to Oakridge and stopped for a piss break. Whenever Pop took me up the mountains to go fishing, we’d stop here at the A&W or the ice cream shop, get a snack, and head to the restrooms in the back. But that was years ago. After the mill shut down, those places disappeared. Jose stopped at a little park on the way into town that had a couple porta-potties.
Then I jumped back into the bed of the truck and passed out. I’d say I dreamed, but I don’t think I did. No one dreams exhausted but if I did, it was of smoke. Dark, thick, deep gray smoke. Which is pretty much like not dreaming at all.
Tad seemed surprised when he told us we were moving. The crew was at base camp getting a meal, filling the water truck, and drinking whatever terrible beer had been foisted upon us when we heard him swear several times. Every morning, Tad and the other crew leaders received a report from Central Command, which I’ve heard is in some boardroom in Salem or Eugene. The report relayed our marching orders—where to go, how long the fire lines were supposed to run, and other stuff. Half the time, we ended up ignoring the orders because Tad would see something the “experts” in command hadn’t— standing snags, masses of brush, or another sign no one in Salem looking at satellite photos or weather radar would notice.
Tad had been fighting fires with the Forest Service for almost ten years, about nine years more than the rest of us, so when he told us to do something, we did—even if it was different from the orders handed down by Central Command. Anyone who saw Tad could tell he’d spent years working out of doors. His ruddy face was aged beyond his years, and his thick torso rippled whenever he swung an ax.
Jose bounced up to the truck holding a large sandwich. He never stopped eating—at least, not as I could tell. We could be out digging, running the hose, hacking back brush, or building a line, and Jose did it all with one hand. Tamara said Jose had a metabolic disorder, which made sense given how skinny he was despite the fact he was always snacking on something.
When we gathered, Tad took a minute to guzzle from a bottle of water before he spoke. “Looks like we’re movin’ out,” he said.
Tamara groaned as she flipped her dirty blonde ponytail from one side of her neck to the other. “I was getting used to this place.” She shook her head. “We don’t have this one under control. Why are we moving?”
Tad shrugged. “No idea. Order didn’t say. We’re goin’ to Age-o-lus Crick.” He paused and looked at the yellow slip of paper. “Agg-ole-us Crick.” He paused again. “Og-lee-is Crick.”
I grabbed the paper from his hand and stared at the block typed sheet. “Aegolius Creek,” I said. “Ay-go-lee-us. I grew up there.”
Tad raised an eyebrow. “What the hell kind of name is Aegolius?”
“It’s a kind of owl.”
Tamara took a swig of beer. “An owl? Never heard of it.”
“It’s an owl in Europe. I think.”
She punched my shoulder. “Chris is from a place named after a European owl. Sounds about right.”
They always gave me crap about being in college. It used to bother me. Tinges of self-consciousness and fears of being identified as privileged had gradually given way to acceptance. I was the college kid mixed in with a hardened, blue-collar bunch, the one who used an occasional big word or referenced an obscure name. I was smart but not wise, intelligent but not experienced, clever but green. I’d grown accustomed to the role.
“The kicker is,” I said, “that owl is supposed to be an omen of bad luck.” As the words left my mouth, I realized it prob ably wasn’t a wise thing to say.
Tad grimaced and Jose turned to walk away.
“Great. We’re going to a place named after a bad omen.” Tamara punched my shoulder again, harder.
“It’s just a name,” I said.
When we turned off the freeway and drove up the valley, the curves started to change. The wide, slow arches that traced the edges of Dexter Reservoir became tight turns back and forth along the McKenzie River, and finally, the breaks and bumps up the Aegolius. We passed the shake mill, the fishpond, and the old railroad. About halfway up the valley, Jose pulled over.
Tamara stopped behind us in the water truck. She’d named the vehicle Rudy after an old boyfriend who left her when she joined the Army. Rudy the truck wasn’t in the best shape, with balding tires and the Forest Service logo nearly worn off its driver-side door. It was on the smaller side and held about five thousand gallons; a portable pump was attached to the back. We could take that truck nearly anywhere—old logging roads, dried creek beds, washed-out gullies. Every time we needed to douse some charred embers or put out a flag fire, Rudy could get close enough to make it so. I wondered if the real Rudy had been as reliable as Rudy the truck, until he wasn’t.
We gathered around the hood of the pickup and Tad pulled out a folded paper. Forest Service maps were an essential tool for navigating the area around a fire. Usually, cell service would be out and GPS spotty. He looked at the coordinates on his phone, stared at the map for a minute, then looked up at the sky.
“Spotters on Butte Tower tagged smoke coming from there.” He pointed at the horizon. “But I don’t see a whisper.”
Jose leaned against the pickup, pulled some kind of candy bar from his pocket, and pointed at me. “Show him. You’re from around here.”
Tad handed me the map. He put his finger on the coordinates.
It took a moment to orient myself to the curved lines and jagged symbols outlining the contour of the tiny valley. I lived about five miles up the Aegolius Highway from first grade until I left for college. The area at the end of Tad’s finger gradually became recognizable. I tapped the spot. “That’s the old Karlsson ranch.”
He looked up. “Anyone live there?”
I cleared my throat. “Used to be. Old man Karlsson, two boys and a girl. I think the kids have moved away. I’m not sure if anyone’s left.”
The Karlssons were an odd clan. The three Karlsson kids were all much older than me. Growing up, I hadn’t had much interaction with them, and what I knew mostly came from hearsay and gossip. Their homestead lay near the northeastern end of the Aegolius Valley, up where the creek first rolled out of the Cascade foothills. Mrs. Karlsson had died during the birth of her third child, Zeke, and rumor had it the older two kids mostly raised themselves.
Tad sighed and folded up the map. “Here’s the deal. We need to get up there, look for structures in the vicinity, and try to protect them. We’ll start containment and report back if it looks like we need help. Supposedly, this is a small fire.”
Jose, Tamara, and I nodded, knowing “small fire” could be interpreted several different ways.
Then Tad added something we hadn’t heard him say before. “Oh, and there’s one other thing. Given the dry EMC and the lack of a weather event—” He looked at us. “If you see anyone in the area, don’t approach them. Tell me immediately. Anyone.”
Tamara looked at Jose and me. “What did he just say?”
Jose shrugged.
“He’s suggesting the fire could be man-made.” I looked at Tad.
He frowned. “Not just man-made. Intentionally man-made.”
Jose raised his eyebrows. “You mean like arson?”
Tad didn’t respond as he climbed back in the truck.
We drove further up the valley. The two-lane road became one, and the asphalt gradually turned to gravel. The Aegolius Valley was a mile wide and thirty miles long. Hills covered in Doug fir, oak, pine, and alder lined the narrow valley floor. The road and rail line, both used to haul timber off the hillsides and into nearby mill towns, flanked the meandering creek. The mysterious smoke plume we hadn’t seen as we entered the valley gradually became visible as the road narrowed.
It was soon clear why Tad was worried about arson. The valley was still too wet for a fire to start without propellant, and no recent storms meant no lightning strikes. I’d never seen a forest fire started on purpose and wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. Why would anyone start a fire near Aegolius Creek?
When we arrived at the base of the smoke plume, the sky reddened, and we saw flames for the first time. Doug Firs, a hundred feet tall, were being shredded by the blaze. Sword fern and dogwood at the base of the great trees smoldered as flames climbed through the canopy. The trees on fire were taller than the rest of the surrounding forest and the tallest were immedi ately adjacent to the road, giving the illusion of a great basilica awash in flame. Jose drove the truck slowly up the gravel road into the inferno. The road cut through the giant pillars of fire, close enough to redden the skin, distant enough not to burn, as we entered the nave. The pews astride the road were filled with f lames, reaching to the heavens like the forlorn hands of sinners seeking to escape perdition.
As we drove on, the intensity of the flames increased. Tad yelled something, but the fire was too loud for the rest of us to hear. Campfires crackle and pop. Brush fires whirl and snap. Forest fires roar.
Somewhere near the center of the fire, I made out a small dwelling about the size of a double-wide trailer. If this was the structure we were expected to protect, I couldn’t imagine what we could do to save it. A couple hundred feet away, we hopped out. As Tamara started to pull the hose and pump off Rudy, Jose grabbed a chainsaw from the back of the pickup. But Tad waved us off, signaling that the fire was too hot. We prepared to retreat when Tamara screamed and pointed at the house.
In the midst of the inferno, the silhouette of a man stumbled through the front door, his face obscured by smoke and f lames. We yelled to drop and roll and pushed forward before being repelled by the heat. Instead of running from the burning house, a lone figure stood unmoved. From the porch, he yelled something we couldn’t make out over the roar of the f ire. He raised his fist and made no effort to step off the porch. It was clear he was not leaving. Tad grabbed the pump and tried to roll out the hose, but the fire was moving too fast. As we watched, flames engulfed the man, who, in one final act, extended the middle finger of his clenched hand.
The titular “Aegolius Creek” in Micah Thorp’s poignant novel flows through a forested region of Oregon’s Cascades, where Don Karlsson dwells on the homestead where he raised his children and buried his wife. There, he expects to live out his years—until those plans are upended by discovery of an endangered vole species on his property, and the federal government issues a restraining order against cutting down any trees on the land.
Karlsson’s three children become involved in his battle against the government, each in their own, distinctive ways. His daughter, Stacy, a high-powered Boston attorney, agrees to represent him in court, despite private reservations about her aging father’s ability to live alone on that land. One son, Billy, who lives in town and works at a garage, is righteously indignant and vows to enlist his friends, if necessary, to defend Don’s property rights. Finally, his other son, Zeke, an environmental activist, sympathizes with his father, but is nonetheless driven by conscience to oppose him.
The divergent perspectives among Karlsson family members are representative of broader social tensions surrounding the conflict between politics and principles. A standoff ensues between environmentalists and an armed militia. Throughout, the author conveys empathy and respect for all sides, including their doubts and uncertainties. For example, Zeke addresses a group of protesting environmentalists:
“Am I helping or hurting the cause?... I’ll do this, but only because I’ve decided there is a little more good than bad in taking action. But in the end, I really don’t know. None of you should pretend that you do, either.”
There are no easy answers in this family drama juxtaposing larger issues of ecological stewardship against the more immediate needs of people dependent on resource extraction for their livelihoods.
Structurally, the syntax of “Aegolius Creek” sometimes gets in the way of the story. The prologue is told from the first-person point-of-view of Chris, a firefighter whose crew is dispatched to a blaze on Karlsson’s property. Readers then do not encounter Chris again until the postscript. The intervening narrative is told mostly in third person, from varied points-of-view, although there are occasional, spontaneous digressions into Don’s first-person stream of consciousness. Also, each chapter begins with some reflections upon local natural history, which are colorful, albeit mostly extraneous to the plot.
Disruptions aside, this moving, nuanced story packs an emotional punch worthy of the magnificent, yet fragile land it depicts.