THAT NIGHT, WE TOODLE over to a condo in tiny Thorne Bay, where Forest Service resource expert Jeff Tilley gives us better directions to Fusion. In 2004, this cut was "pre-roaded" for 1.6 million taxpayer dollars and sold at a loss for $418,265. The sale came in about 50 percent over the Forest Service's minimum bids of $2 per 1,000 board feet for hemlock, $12 for spruce, and $24 for cedar—still quite a bargain.

While Jeff's wife and mother-in-law watch the baby and prepare tacos, he tells us that, five years ago, he quit his job as a Forest Service researcher monitoring the health of eastern seaboard forests and relocated to the Tongass to prepare timber sales. "It's pretty different," he says, "but I can't say I favor one job over the other." But the more we talk—about big cuts and microsales, about salmon culverts and stream buffers—the more apparent it becomes that Jeff is hardly the ravenous woodchuck I expected to meet.

His evenhandedness matches that of the Tongass's deputy forest supervisor, Olleke Rappe-Daniels, when I call her later. After defending current Tongass practices, one of the last things she says is, essentially, we're just doing what we're told.

"I don't think there's a person in this forest who wouldn't enjoy a huge recreation budget that we put all our energy into," Rappe-Daniels says. "But the reality is that Congress, in their deliberations, has not seen fit to fund it." Recreation does appear to be the future. The Forest Service's 2007 draft Environmental Impact Statement for the Tongass says that the net present value of tourism and recreation is 76 times greater than that of timber sales, with anglers, hunters, cruise passengers, and wildlife viewers spending an estimated $150 million a year.

The next day the locals really stick a fork in our toaster, ruining our stereotypes by being nice yet again. Roo and I drive 70 miles of icy gravel road north to check out Whale Pass, a former logging camp housing 50 folks—some of whom, we've heard, greeted the Greenpeace protest ship Esperanza in 2003 with shouts of "Kiss my ax! Kiss my ax!"

"That must be the gas station," I say, pointing to a small cedar-sided building. Four pickups are double-parked in front of a tank outside. A sign down the road reads LAST CHANCE GAS.

Inside, we see two bearish guys seated at a table within reach of a half-gallon of Black Velvet. It's 1:30 and the bottle is nearly empty.

"Hey, how's it going?" asks Roo.

Nods. "Is there a store?"

"No."

A third, even larger man steps forward. He is at least six-five, with hands like baseball mitts and a brown mullet whose top practically scrapes the popcorn ceiling.

Chipper as always, Roo points to the numerous wolf pelts splayed on the wall. "Did you shoot those?"

"I shot 'em," growls one of the guys at the table—Ron, the owner.

Not gonna lie: I'm scared. But then the giant sees Roo's logger shirt. Roo notices his. They nod. Next thing I know, Roo and Terry, the giant, are comparing forest-regeneration rates and heartily bashing the Endangered Species Act (a piece of legislation Roo normally supports, but hey . . . ). Ron and the other guy, Fred, turn out to be awesome, too, and on the way home I apologize for ribbing on Roo's hickory shirt. "I was wrong," I say. "That shirt is better than a bulletproof vest."

He grins proudly, then gets back to digging the truck out of the snowbank he just drove us into.