ARRIVING ON TASMANIAN SHORES BY BOAT, I felt magic in the air. Fresh, icy wind blowing on my face from the land's ancient forested mountains. I know I need to be here, but I do not yet know I will help create a powerful and internationally recognized symbol for saving the last of Tasmania's ancient forests. Nor do I know that I will fall in love and that my life will never really be the same again.
As I stand there, embracing the moment, a tall, beautiful, and mysterious man named Ben Morrow approaches. He takes me on a tour of the forests, and it's like standing inside a cathedral of creation's most delicate sculptural masterpieces. This is enlightenment in the form of bright greens, yellows, deep umbers, and sparkling fragments of gold hovering effortlessly around me. Light refracting like crystals through dew-filled spider webs. Tiny, tweeting blue fairy wrens flutter and sweep through the ornate myrtle branches and giant flowering man ferns. The floor and walls are carpeted in soft breathing moss and lichen. And a loud echo reverberates through the forest, a sound I had never heard before: koo koo koo koo ... koooo koo. “That's the cry of the currawong,” Ben tells me.
He leads me down a winding stone path. Something catches my eye in the distance. I look up and witness the tallest, most majestic tree I have ever seen. Its massive, ancient body reminds me of depictions of mammoths in museums, yet it is alive. These trees are relics of Gondwanaland, a southern supercontinent that existed over five hundred million years ago and whose land masses still exist here in parts. I had never before seen a tree of this size in my life; it must have been about three hundred feet high (91.4 meters) and possibly sixty-five feet (19.8 meters) in diameter. As I am an artist who has been passionately drawing trees since I can first remember, I wanted to capture this vision right there and then, to paint and draw the subtle white and burnt umber shades and intricate swirling patterns.
“It's a Eucalyptus regnans,” Ben tells me. “They are the tallest hardwood trees on Earth, and they are endemic to the southeast forests of Australia. The Weld Valley is one of the last surviving strands of this carbon-dense forest.” The compassionate tone of his voice shows me the heart-filled integrity of caring he feels for this place. Ben's eyes shine brightly, mimicking the forest's green. We look deeply into each other's eyes, as if we were long lost friends, he smiles at me, and I look away shyly with butterflies in my stomach.
I sit down to question. Where does this tree end and the ground that supports it start? Like the water that falls from the skies and flows through the streams, it is one and the same. I can start to see how each organism is a part of an interconnected and interdependent whole. I can feel it is the same relationship that we share with nature.
I follow the stony path along, greeting the ferns, flowers, and fungi with a gentle touch from my fingertips to show my appreciation. I am walking along with a spring in my step, humming a little song to myself, lost in the beauty, breathing in the pure, clean air and smelling the flowers.
Then, suddenly, to my pure shock, I find myself standing on the crumbling crust of a new logging road in Tasmania's Weld Valley, a literal hell on Earth. The air is filled with smoky smells of the burning flesh of rare animal species and ancient trees that had once been teeming with pure, unadulterated life. Before me was a whole mountainside of bare, blackened land, the equivalent of forty football fields littered with the carcasses of chain-sawed forest giants.
My heart has just been ripped from my chest and stomped on. Ben watches my utter distress as my eyes start to flood, my throat chokes up, and tingles of desperation start to resonate up my spine. “Are you okay?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders, looking at the devastation around me, trying to hold back the tears. “What can I do to stop this?” I ask, feeling low and powerless against this shattering destruction. He comes over to me and gives me a big hug and whispers in my ear a comforting comment: “A lot of people really care about the Weld Valley, and we're doing all we can to stop this madness.”
Set against this sea of forest is a curious sight: a life-sized pirate ship blocking the new logging road. The Weld Ark, as the ship is named, is a protest site. What a spectacular and startling sight, I think. This brightly painted, hand-built, life-sized pirate ship is blocking a logging road in the middle of nowhere.
To me it is like one big, living art installation resembling Peter Pan's Neverland home. Dozens of people buzz happily around the site, climbing on the ship, swinging from and living in the trees. They are stopping this road from going ahead, from cutting into a sensitive tract of wild old-growth forest in the north Weld Valley. An imposing wooden fortress barricades the area, like a medieval village. It is surreal but welcoming, and I instantly feel at home in this ancient land occupied by busy, passionate forest pirates.
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I CAME TO TASMANIA, TO THIS ISLAND, to make art, collect images, and research for my first solo exhibition at a large gallery in Sydney. I had an artistic and personal goal to convey the magic of the forest and the determination of those who were trying to save it. I wanted to capture this wilderness, but it ended up capturing me.
Ben told me stories about the forest and the fight to save it. He talked to me about the plans of companies like Gunns Limited to cut roads into the heart of this wilderness and clear-fell the forests. About the hellish fires that were lit on the remains of the forest to burn away their legacy and leave the charred soil free for a virtual monoculture of regrowth, destined to be cut and burned again in another human lifetime. But out of all this madness, he also taught me hope.
Working harmoniously together, a core crew of about fifteen grassroots activists kept track of the logging operations across the various forests in our area. Night after night, I ventured out with my crew to secure logging equipment. Using lock-ons—made by welding together metal poles to lock our arms—tree-sits, and tripods, we constantly put our lives on the line as our last option to halt the destruction. Into the dawn, we would be met with an entourage of heavy-handed and easily angered loggers. I would often stand in the way of their chain saws and bulldozers as they either threatened the trees or myself with their deadly weapons. We hoped the publicity of our multiple arrests would help the world hear the forest's silent screams.
In the blissful summer days, Ben taught me to climb the ancient trees, to tie knots and so halt the destruction. I felt strong like a true Earth warrior living this way. I watched Ben come alive in the forest, swinging over branches, building this astounding monument of peaceful resistance. I admired his gentle strength and heard his slow, thoughtful words. I developed a profound respect for Ben, stronger than I had ever felt for another human being before. I fell deeply and madly in love with the forest and with this man who seemed such a part of it.
Ben and I had the same strong, driven conviction to save these forests. Our love grew and solidified with the forest's changing seasons. We had found true soul mates in each other and a home together in the forest. It was beautiful!
And life took on a new form. I spent six months living in a tree-sit. This involves living on a 3-by-6-foot (0.9-by-1.8-meter) platform 150 feet (45.7 meters) above the ground. Each night at about 4 AM, I would crawl out of Ben's warm arms in our comfortable bed on the pirate ship and climb my ancient tree, entering into the icy cold air, standing on a branch.
As I climbed around my tree swaying in the breeze, it felt as if I were climbing into a sea of stars and planets, the sky a brightly lit backdrop for tall, dancing silhouettes of forest giants. I felt more at home here than I ever had before. It is something difficult to put into words, but put simply, I was becoming one with this land. It vitalized and rejuvenated me, and in return, I vowed to protect it.
Other activists also lived in trees. Together, we formed a human spider web through the forest. If any logging machinery tried to enter the valley, it would become entangled, unable to cut without the risk of harming human life, something we all seem to respect more than anything else, including the very air we breathe.
Soon, art became more than just my voice; it was also my tool to protect the forest that had become my love and home. I prolifically drew and painted, filmed and made animations. I felt inspiration and an awakening passion to create. But I knew that this passion was bigger, deeper than any single project or piece. I decided to forsake my solo exhibition in Sydney. My art would work to a higher purpose. I began to donate my works to highlight the destruction. I started to make a film that would document the life of the camp and the passionate struggle to keep this valley wild.
One night, Ben and I, putted out from the forest in our old battered Subaru with a carload of other activists to a fundraising function in Hobart. We left a skeleton crew to guard the pirate ship. I felt nervous. Next morning, Ben and I awoke to sounds of crying. Then the door burst open and our friend Laura was in the room, a shattered look written on her face.
“Camp's been busted,” she said, wiping tears from her cheeks.
It was the moment we had dreaded and prepared for. I felt the blood drain from my body and wanted to vomit. We jumped out of bed, our instincts sharp. Without hesitation or words, we went straight into action mode, clambered into the car, and headed back for the forest.
It was raining, a freezing thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit (1.7 degrees Celsius), and our packs were painfully heavy. We walked six miles (9.7 kilometers) through thick scrub and tall cutting grass that sliced up our arms, hands, and faces, while making our way though almost impenetrable horizontal forest. As we approached the now demolished pirate ship, we could see dozens of police trucks, bulldozers, and other logging machinery invading the forest where our home had been. Already, they were felling the ancient trees that were behind the camp. The sadness that ran though me like scorching tea was for more than for myself or the trees, but for the human race.
Scores of people—activists, media, forestry workers, police—were converging on our quiet corner of the world. A desperate battle had begun. Daily, for the next three weeks, I would sneak six miles (9.7 kilometers) into the forest with my video camera to create a film on their killing and our actions to stop it. I was living with constant high adrenaline—every time I heard a car I would thrust my weary body into the bushes to escape arrest. I don't really know how I kept going; it was possibly the thought of new generations of children being born into this world without the importance and beauty of old-growth forests that pushed me on.
One afternoon, running through the undergrowth, desperate to meet a media deadline, I felt so exhausted that I collapsed in the forest and cried. What was this madness? My mind was flooded with thoughts like millions of pouring raindrops. I thought, if we can see and feel that as we destroy the Earth we also destroy ourselves, only then will we actually have the conviction to really do something about it, and only then will we have a chance to turn around the effects of this impending doom of catastrophic climate change. But how do I present this idea? As the saying goes, a picture paints a thousand words!
It was in this moment that I imagined what would become known as the Weld Angel. She would be a cry for the beauty and innocence of the forest. A painted white messenger atop a huge tripod, who would block the entrance to the threatened ancient forest. She would wear the wings that I had made for more than two years, carefully hand-sewing the discarded feathers I had scavenged from the earth's floor into a wire and canvas frame. They would have to arrest this angel and drag her from her tripod in handcuffs in order to evict her from the forest.
What a contradiction ... what a powerful image, I thought. This performance art action would be my plea for a purer world.
Within days I found myself volunteering to be an “arrestable” for the stop-work actions our crew was planning. And at 5 AM on April 29, 2007, I got my chance. With my heart racing, I climbed my thirty-three-foot (10.1-meter) tripod, a three-poled platform, and I sat on its top in the freezing night air. In that moment, I felt incredible strength; I was united with all people who have ever gone against the given paradigm and stood up for justice and peace, like Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa, and Gandhi. I knew what it was like to risk oneself for a bigger cause.
But within hours, I was surrounded by dozens of police, professional negotiators, media, loggers, and Forestry Tasmania employees. They yelled and gestured at me. Finally, they produced a megaphone and began to threaten me. “When we get you down, you are going to jail,” they shouted. “You are looking at a minimum sentence of two years.”
As I sat there, legs dangling between the hard poles of the tripod, my wings swaying in the breeze, I looked out to the forest that surrounded me and called for its support. I felt at one with the swaying branches and the glistening leaves. I was part of the Earth defending itself. I looked down at the frustrated men milling below my feet. Bring it on, I thought. Just you try to put an Angel in jail.
I knew in my whole heart that what I was doing was pure, true, and right. The laws that safeguard corporate profits while abandoning the Earth's life-support system are wrong. I had the moral high ground.
Once they had given up on any negotiations, they brought in a crane to get me down. They did. But the Angel's story, and my personal journey with her, had only just begun.
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ONE MORNING, SOME MONTHS AFTER THE ANGEL'S first adventure, my partner, Ben, answered a knock at the door. “Hey, babe,” he said, “the cops are here.” And I already knew why they had come. “Allana Beltran, you are being sued for ten thousand dollars,” a police officer said with a smirk, handing me the compensation claim.
The day after I was served, the Weld Angel made front-page news, with a breathtaking full-color photo. My case was featured in countless newspaper articles across the country, TV news stories, radio interviews, and debates with forestry spin doctors. There were even international magazine articles, including an eight-page spread in Italy's Vanity Fair. The Weld Angel was being publicly described as Tasmania's heroine.
As I nerve-wrackingly faced the multitudes of cameras and microphones, an incredible calm would instantly come over me when I spoke. I felt as if it were not me speaking, as if I were simply a vessel in which the grace of the forest's plight could flow.
I felt a turning point for the campaign when I had a farmer call me and pour his heart out to me over the phone. “I have always supported the logging practices of this state, but what you are saying makes sense. I just want you to know that I will pay your charges if you lose the case.”
I smiled ... the blood, sweat, and tears were actually paying off.
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IT WAS AT THIS TIME THAT MY life went in a different direction.
Ben had been feeling unwell for some time. Soon after I had managed to convince him to see a doctor, we received the chilling news. Ben had been diagnosed with aggressive terminal bowel cancer. He needed emergency major operations and chemotherapy. I was shocked, and my heart ached, but I quickly assured him we would find a way through this. Ben was so young, only thirty-two. And I was just twenty-two. I felt confused, empty. But my love for Ben was boundless.
For two months, I lived by Ben's bedside in the hospital. I watched this vibrant, energetic man debilitated by a barrage of traumatic treatments. Ben still loved the forest, and all through his treatment, he continued to inspire me with ideas and wisdom as I continued with the Angel's case. We were both still fighting to save the Weld and the wild landscape where our love was forged. Through the campaign to win back the forests, we felt we could somehow win Ben's life back too.
The court case lasted for just over six months. There was an incredible growing public outcry to save the forests and to save the Angel. In the end of the long and tedious legal endeavors, we won the case. And Ben was growing stronger. At times, he seemed to be winning the fight with his health. He even started to surf again, a popular Australian pastime.
Fighting as hard we could, we did everything we could to diminish the cancer. But it was too strong for the both of us. One day, a year and a half after diagnosis, as a frail Ben sat in the sunny backyard of our urban beachside home, a beautiful white-masked barn owl landed in a tree and sat looking at him.
“Allana, come check out this owl,” he called out. Little did he know, I had been told about the importance of this significant event before. An Australian aboriginal elder had taught me that white owls came to his people as spirit messengers to help them cross to the other side before they die. This was my proof that Ben really lived at one with the Earth, and that he was leaving soon.
I will never forget his last words to me, just as I will never forget those first dazzling but unsettling glimpses of the valley where we met. He turned to me on his bed and whispered, “we will always be together in the forest.”
It's been a very trying and painful year since his passing. I still visit the Weld Valley when I am able. The landscape there is haunted by my great sadness and a mourning for the loss of Ben, as well as for the wounds imposed on its wilderness. The trees where we held court under that ocean of stars are gone. Clear-fells, more horrendous than those I witnessed on my first visit, scar the hills. But there is magical core of old-growth forests, unprotected and still beyond reach. I know Ben's spirit is there.
Since Ben's death, I have watched the forest industry falling on its head. No one wants to buy old-growth woodchips anymore. It looks as if the forests we have been campaigning for will soon be protected. I can rest assured that Ben lived a full, happy, and meaningful life, and although short it was never in vain.
My experience with the Angel, Ben, and the forests has taught me so much about the power of creativity, art, love, and compassion to overcome the injustices and obstacles that exist on our Earth. The Angel is a caring archetype, a symbol of love within us all. When I stood firm as the Angel, trying in my way to protect the life of the forests, plants and trees, rivers and animals, I was acting on the same impulse that compels a lover, daughter, parent to protect the life of a loved one. There is no difference.
This story is dedicated to Ben Morrow.
PHOTO BY MATTHEW NEWTON
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Allana Beltran continues to campaign and use her artistic talent as a tool to protect Tasmania's old-growth forests, creatively bridging the gaps between the human world and the natural world. Tasmania's forests are still wild and still threatened, however, due to the growing strength of the international campaign, the demand for Tasmanian old-growth woodchips has dramatically declined. Change does look close for these forests.
PHOTO BY VERUSCHKA MATCHETT
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