“Have they been clear-cutting, up the valley?” The man takes Douggie’s silver dollars. “Shit, yeah.” “And hiding it behind a little voter’s curtain?” “They’re called beauty strips. Vista corridors.” “But . . . isn’t that all national forest?” The cashier just stares, like maybe there’s some trick to the question’s sheer stupidity. “I thought national forest was protected land.” The cashier blows a raspberry big as a pineapple. “You’re thinking national parks. National forest’s job is to get the cut out, cheap. To whoever’s buying.”
