We walk quietly for a few yards. As we reach the top of a small ridge—one of my favorite lookouts—I come to a sudden halt. Below me should be the dense stand of Blue spruce that my grandfather planted forty years ago, a small grove of premium trees our family preserved for sentimental value, but there’s nothing but a field of hastily hacked stumps.
Hundreds of them scattered across what looks like two acres of newly clear-cut land. The once-pristine snow is churned up by tire tracks and drag marks. Broken branches and discarded pine needles litter the ground like a battlefield.
“What the fuck?”
I scramble down the ridge, nearly losing my footing in my haste to reach the devastation. Up close, it’s even worse. These weren’t carefully selected trees harvested with respect. They were hacked down indiscriminately, the cuts rough and hurried. No care was taken with the surrounding vegetation. Even thesmaller trees, the ones that needed another few years to mature, are gone.
I kneel beside the nearest stump, examining the cut. The exposed wood is still light-colored; the sap has barely congealed. This happened recently. Very recently.
“Jesus Christ,” Gabe says, coming to stand beside me. “When did this happen?”
“Last night, I think. Maybe the night before. The cuts are fresh.”
My fingers trace the rough edge where a chainsaw ripped through decades of growth in seconds.
My grandfather planted those trees. My father nurtured them—I nurtured them. And now they’re gone, along with several younger generations, stolen in what must have been a single night. Whoever did this was well organized.
The thieves weren’t subtle, deep tire tracks show where at least one large truck drove right up to the edge of the grove. They must have used industrial equipment to take so many trees so quickly.
My hand balls into a fist at my side. This isn’t just theft. It’s a violation. These trees were more than inventory. They were living history, a legacy passed from my grandfather to my father to me.
We follow the tire tracks until they exit my property through an old access road we rarely use. The lock on the gate has been cut, the chain dangling uselessly from the post.
“They knew what they were doing, though,” I say. “They took the most valuable trees on the property. The ones we were saving.”
“You think it’s connected to the new supplier?”
“Seems like a hell of a coincidence. One day, the surrounding towns can’t find trees; the next, they suddenly have a new supplier, and my best stock disappears overnight.”
Gabe stands, brushing snow from his jeans. “You calling the sheriff?”
“Yeah, but…” I trail off, looking across the wasteland of stumps. “What’s he going to do? The trees are already gone.”
“Still need to report it. Insurance.”
“I know.”
I stare out at the destruction. Dad entrusted this land to me, made me vow to care for it the way he and Grandpa had. I’ve let our legacy be stripped bare by thieves.
“It’s not your fault, Everett.”
“I should have been more vigilant. Put up cameras, checked the whole property more often. I never thought I’d have to worry about theft at this level in a place like Snowflake Valley, where everyone in town is practically family.”
“You have more than 100 acres. And you’ve been taking care of your grandmother, managing all the rental properties, and dealing with the tree crisis. You can’t be everywhere.”
He’s right, logically speaking. But logic doesn’t ease the sick feeling in my stomach as I look at the remnants of my family’s life’s work.
“Let’s investigate where they came in. Maybe they left something behind that we can use to identify them.”
We spend the next hour walking the perimeter, documenting the damage with photos and looking for any clues that might tell us who did this, or where they came from. I find a discarded work glove, and Gabe discovers an empty gas can half-buried in snow. Small things that probably won’t lead anywhere, but we take pictures and bag them anyway.
Then I call the sheriff.
“Sheriff, we’ve had a major theft. Hundreds of mature trees, maybe more. They cut the lock on the back access road.”
“Jesus, Everett. When?”
“Last night or the night before. Fresh cuts. Professional job—they knew exactly which trees to take.”