It is covered with burls and shelf funguses the size of elephants. Ferns and berry bushes sprout from its upper branches. Great horned owls land on its crag in the middle of the night and coo like doves, and wood ducks nest in a hollow in the trunk, fifty feet from the ground.
One day not long ago, a handful of free-ranging young people fled the decaying city and roamed along the coast, leaving the highway and wandering restlessly for hours until they came to the Spruce. They gazed in awe at the hulking mountain-sized tree and the massive broken limbs the size of normal trees laying about on the ground. A sign near the Spruce warned people not to camp underneath its canopy, because falling limbs could crush a person like an ant.
The travellers said: “Here’s where we’ll make our camp, close to this giant Spruce but not too close, and we’ll invite all our friends and all the wild free-ranging people we know to share stories and learn from each other and play music and have a feast.” And that’s what they did.
A late spring storm pelted the young people with rain and wind as they hoisted up tarps and built a kitchen. They worked out how to boil and filter the river water to make it safe for drinking, and placed hand wash stations at the kitchen and the latrines so no one would get sick. They dragged dead fallen trees from the forest and split and chopped firewood and set up a dish wash station using water buckets. Eventually, the rain stopped and the sun came out, and the birds sang and the river splashed along, and the Spruce shaded them from the sun as they worked to get the camp ready.
Soon enough, more wild girls and boys came from the decaying cities, and the places around and between the cities, and from far-away countries. They came in ones and twos and threes and by the dozen, and each, in turn, stood awestruck in the shade of the giant Spruce, and goggled at the thousands of tadpoles that turned the river pools into black ink and the nodding thickets of sweet, fat salmonberries everywhere. They laughed out loud in delight and agreed they had never seen such a beautiful forest.
The wild boys and girls were joined by middle-aged people and elders who were also pretty wild, and everyone was so happy to be there, they sang and cheered until the wee hours of the morning, when the great horned owls circled the camp and loudly inquired, “Who? Who cooks for you?”
The next morning, a dozen people surrounded the Spruce and festooned it with ropes. They gently fastened huge webbing straps around a secondary trunk, being careful not to dislodge the elephant-sized funguses and the mats of moss like haystacks that could swallow a person. The experienced climbers showed newcomers how to use the ropes and harnesses to safely climb up the tree and stand on the limbs among the ferns, high up in the canopy. Laughter rang out through the clearing as the new climbers swung from the ropes and waved at the startled birds and their friends far below.
Later, the people gathered in a circle in the largest clearing. They sat cross-legged on the ground to discuss what it means to be an eco-warrior. They made a list of all their heroes – people who risked their freedom and their safety for a higher cause. They shared reasons why these heroes inspired them, and why the system calls them criminals and terrorists. They considered the harsh penalties that are sometimes handed down to eco-warriors, and the intense pressure that’s put on them to abandon their principles. They discussed what it means to be free-range humans. They compared notes about the coming collapse of civilization and decided it would be the best thing that could happen for almost everything alive on the planet. They shared their experiences with police and showed off their scars. They learned about non-violent civil disobedience and played a game to practice defending the Spruce against a chainsaw-wielding logging crew. It was loud and raucous, and it was quiet and thoughtful, and through it all the birds sang and trilled and the river splashed along and the Spruce cast its cool deep shade across the camp.
That night, some of the wild boys and girls got very drunk on homemade hooch and spent the whole night screaming “Fuck the police!” and howling like wild animals. The owls hooted back at them indignantly. “Who? Who cooks for you-all?” .
The next afternoon, the Forest Service Ranger and the Forest Service Supervisor came bouncing down the road in a Jeep. An anonymous tip had told them there was a rave party at the Spruce and they should shut it down. But they could see right away that there was no rave, and they were won over by the happy people and the harmonious scene under the Spruce. The rangers smiled and waved as they drove back out across the bridge.
The wild people spent six days and nights talking and learning, sharing ideas about diversity of tactics and jail solidarity and security culture and how to identify edible plants. They played Capture the Flag and sprawled on the riverbank in the sun and let the tadpoles tickle their toes. They ate the sweet fat salmonberries until every bush within reach was picked clean. They wrestled and chased each other around and climbed up and down the Spruce like a band of monkeys. They lay on the bridge and watched the sun go down and the stars come out. Then they lit candles and laid split cedar logs on the fire, and the camp glowed and flickered with a fierce golden light. The great horned owls circled the camp and landed in the crag of the Spruce and cooed like doves, while the Moon rose and peeked through the great mossy branches. And the people around the fire sang their favourite songs and laughed and pledged to defend the land, to guard the owls and tadpoles and wood ducks, and to protect each other from harm, no matter what.
The Spruce stood over the wild humans as they laughed and talked and sang. and a shiver passed through its branches, like the wind from a coming storm. It swayed slightly toward the fire, as if to join the warm embrace of the circle of young people, as if pulled by the unstoppable power of the future.
Far away, beyond human hearing, the city sputtered and crackled with cars, electricity and over-consumption. But here in the darkness, the Spruce stood listening, and it heard in the people’s voices the life force that reclaims everything, the irresistible power of nature that overgrows roads and collapses buildings, crumbles concrete and asphalt and cars, and drives tiny seeds to sprout on rocky riverbanks and grow for 800 years until they block out the sun. The ancient Spruce felt the life spirit — stronger and older than any civilization — as wave after wave of fierce joy rippled out from the laughter of the tiny, fragile humans below. Joined together with common purpose and filled with that unstoppable life spirit, the Spruce knew the wild humans would win.
Once upon a time, 800 years ago, a seed sprouted beside a river. The tiny seedling grew to be the largest Spruce in the country, a jagged gnarly moss-covered monster that blocks out the sun. 
