Summer of the Spotted Owl Read Free Page A

upside down on the sidewalk and stood on it. He winked at me. “Are we state-of-the-art, or what?”
    â€œAnyhow,” he explained, “what we’re protesting is a current district bylaw that allows logging and development into the section of canyon bordered by Marisa Drive. We’ve had reports of a spotted owl family living in that part of the canyon, and we want the bylaw changed. We think we’ve got a strong case, since the whole neighborhood is supporting us.”
    â€œThat’s cool of them.”
    Jack’s grin became wry. “Some of them are cool. Some are just plain self-interested. See, if that section of canyon is built up, their views disappear and their property values go down.
    â€œBut, know what?” He chucked me under the chin. “You find your allies where you can.”
    Jack raised the megaphone. “Hi, everyone! Thanks for coming. I’m Jack French, and I —”
    Whistles and applause. Jack was the naturally popular type thanks to his honest, up-front personality—and also, in my view, because he gave short speeches.
    â€œâ€”and I thought I’d start off by telling you about a grouchy but lovable great-aunt of mine. Whenever something happened that she didn’t like — sloppy newspaper delivery, not enough sunshine for her begonias — Great-Aunt Hilda would snap, ‘There oughtta be a law against this. There just oughtta.’ ”
    Appreciative laughter from the crowd about Great-Aunt Hilda.
    â€œWell,” and Jack rubbed his chin ruefully, “in the case of the spotted owl, there is a law. Just not a very good one. The federal Species At Risk Act, or sara. Now, the common belief is sara protects all species at risk. Wrong-oh. sara only applies to the very limited areas of Canada under federal government control. In British Columbia, that adds up to an unimpressive one percent of our land base. Like, whoop-dee-doo.
    â€œMeanwhile, with no endangered species law of its own, British Columbia has now logged over half the sites where small numbers of spotted owls still live.”
    â€œThat sucks big-time!”
    Right on, I thought, and cheered.
    Wait a minute. I’d shouted that. I tend to get a bit carried away when I’m feeling emotional. And emotion, for me, generally translates into volume .
    One reason I’d been feeling kind of choked was that some of the students were holding photos of baby spotted owls, little and fluffy white before their spots grew. Jack had told me how the wee owls have a tough enough time making it to adulthood, even without being killed by logging. Up to seventy-eight percent of them are attacked and gobbled up by ravens, hawks and even great horned owls (talk about disagreeable relatives!).
    There’d been reports of one male spotted owl calling for a female mate— and hearing only his echo in return from the forest. There was no mate left for him.
    Jack was saying, “All we’re asking for is a chance to discuss—”
    â€œJust a minute, young Mr. French!”
    A round, pink, middle-aged man with wisps of carrot-colored hair fluttering atop his head bowled through the protesters. He was waving a large white hanky. At first I thought it was a flag of surrender, but then I realized he was using it to keep mopping at his face.
    Jack smiled dangerously. “We have every right to protest.”
    â€œOf course you do,” the round man said jovially. Sticking out a flabby pink hand, he shoved Jack off the crate and clambered up on it himself.
    â€œHi, everyone! I’m Councillor Rock Cordes!”
    Boos. Some of the other councillors had been sympathetic to the protests, but in interviews Councillor Cordes had sneered at what he called “Young Mr. French and his feathered friends.”
    But now the councillor beamed. “I’m here with good news! At our next council meeting, on the nineteenth, I’m putting forward a motion to ban