# data[].attributes.headline
up as millworkers multiplied. By the 1930s, Oregon had become the na- tion’s largest producer of timber.This is a story we know. It is the story of pioneers, progress, and the trans- formation of “empty” spaces into industrial resource  elds.In 1989, a plastic spotted owl was hung in e gy on an Oregon log- ging truck.2 Environmentalists had shown that unsustainable logging was destroying Paci c Northwest forests. “The spotted owl was like the canary in the coal mine,” explained one advocate. “It was . . . symbolic of an ecosystem on the verge of collapse.”3 When a federal judge blocked old-growth logging to save owl habitat, loggers were furious; but how many loggers were there? Logging jobs had dwindled as timber compa- nies mechanized—and as prime timber disappeared. By 1989, many mills had already closed; logging companies were moving to other re- gions.4 The eastern Cascades, once a hub of timber wealth, were now cutover forests and former mill towns overgrown by brush.This is a story we need to know. Industrial transformation turned out to be a bubble of promise followed by lost livelihoods and damaged landscapes. And yet: such documents are not enough. If we end the story with decay, we abandon all hope—or turn our attention to other sites of promise and ruin, promise and ruin.What emerges in damaged landscapes, beyond the call of industrial promise and ruin? By 1989, something else had begun in Oregon’s cut- over forests: the wild m

# data[].attributes.subject
up as millworkers multiplied. By the 1930s, Oregon had become the na- tion’s largest producer of timber.This is a story we know. It is the story of pioneers, progress, and the trans- formation of “empty” spaces into industrial resource  elds.In 1989, a plastic spotted owl was hung in e gy on an Oregon log- ging truck.2 Environmentalists had shown that unsustainable logging was destroying Paci c Northwest forests. “The spotted owl was like the canary in the coal mine,” explained one advocate. “It was . . . symbolic of an ecosystem on the verge of collapse.”3 When a federal judge blocked old-growth logging to save owl habitat, loggers were furious; but how many loggers were there? Logging jobs had dwindled as timber compa- nies mechanized—and as prime timber disappeared. By 1989, many mills had already closed; logging companies were moving to other re- gions.4 The eastern Cascades, once a hub of timber wealth, were now cutover forests and former mill towns overgrown by brush.This is a story we need to know. Industrial transformation turned out to be a bubble of promise followed by lost livelihoods and damaged landscapes. And yet: such documents are not enough. If we end the story with decay, we abandon all hope—or turn our attention to other sites of promise and ruin, promise and ruin.What emerges in damaged landscapes, beyond the call of industrial promise and ruin? By 1989, something else had begun in Oregon’s cut- over forests: the wild m

# data[].attributes.headline
up as millworkers multiplied. By the 1930s, Oregon had become the na- tion’s largest producer of timber.This is a story we know. It is the story of pioneers, progress, and the trans- formation of “empty” spaces into industrial resource  elds.In 1989, a plastic spotted owl was hung in e gy on an Oregon log- ging truck.2 Environmentalists had shown that unsustainable logging was destroying Paci c Northwest forests. “The spotted owl was like the canary in the coal mine,” explained one advocate. “It was . . . symbolic of an ecosystem on the verge of collapse.”3 When a federal judge blocked old-growth logging to save owl habitat, loggers were furious; but how many loggers were there? Logging jobs had dwindled as timber compa- nies mechanized—and as prime timber disappeared. By 1989, many mills had already closed; logging companies were moving to other re- gions.4 The eastern Cascades, once a hub of timber wealth, were now cutover forests and former mill towns overgrown by brush.This is a story we need to know. Industrial transformation turned out to be a bubble of promise followed by lost livelihoods and damaged landscapes. And yet: such documents are not enough. If we end the story with decay, we abandon all hope—or turn our attention to other sites of promise and ruin, promise and ruin.What emerges in damaged landscapes, beyond the call of industrial promise and ruin? By 1989, something else had begun in Oregon’s cut- over forests: the wild mushroom trade. From the  rst it was linked to worldwide ruination: The 1986 Chernobyl disaster had contaminated Europe’s mushrooms, and traders had come to the Paci c Northwest for supplies. When Japan began importing matsutake at high prices— just as jobless Indochinese refugees were settling in California—the trade went wild. Thousands rushed to Paci c Northwest forests for the new “white gold.” This was in the middle of a “jobs versus the environ- ment” battle over the forests, yet neither side noticed the mushroomers. Job advocates imagined only wage contracts for healthy white men; the foragers—disabled white veterans, Asian refugees, Native Americans, and undocumented Latinos—were invisible interlopers. Conservation- ists were  ghting to keep human disturbance out of the forests; the entry of thousands of people, had it been noticed, would hardly have been welcome. But the mushroom hunters were mainly not noticed. At

# data[].attributes.subject
up as millworkers multiplied. By the 1930s, Oregon had become the na- tion’s largest producer of timber.This is a story we know. It is the story of pioneers, progress, and the trans- formation of “empty” spaces into industrial resource  elds.In 1989, a plastic spotted owl was hung in e gy on an Oregon log- ging truck.2 Environmentalists had shown that unsustainable logging was destroying Paci c Northwest forests. “The spotted owl was like the canary in the coal mine,” explained one advocate. “It was . . . symbolic of an ecosystem on the verge of collapse.”3 When a federal judge blocked old-growth logging to save owl habitat, loggers were furious; but how many loggers were there? Logging jobs had dwindled as timber compa- nies mechanized—and as prime timber disappeared. By 1989, many mills had already closed; logging companies were moving to other re- gions.4 The eastern Cascades, once a hub of timber wealth, were now cutover forests and former mill towns overgrown by brush.This is a story we need to know. Industrial transformation turned out to be a bubble of promise followed by lost livelihoods and damaged landscapes. And yet: such documents are not enough. If we end the story with decay, we abandon all hope—or turn our attention to other sites of promise and ruin, promise and ruin.What emerges in damaged landscapes, beyond the call of industrial promise and ruin? By 1989, something else had begun in Oregon’s cut- over forests: the wild mushroom trade. From the  rst it was linked to worldwide ruination: The 1986 Chernobyl disaster had contaminated Europe’s mushrooms, and traders had come to the Paci c Northwest for supplies. When Japan began importing matsutake at high prices— just as jobless Indochinese refugees were settling in California—the trade went wild. Thousands rushed to Paci c Northwest forests for the new “white gold.” This was in the middle of a “jobs versus the environ- ment” battle over the forests, yet neither side noticed the mushroomers. Job advocates imagined only wage contracts for healthy white men; the foragers—disabled white veterans, Asian refugees, Native Americans, and undocumented Latinos—were invisible interlopers. Conservation- ists were  ghting to keep human disturbance out of the forests; the entry of thousands of people, had it been noticed, would hardly have been welcome. But the mushroom hunters were mainly not noticed. At

# data[].attributes.headline
up as millworkers multiplied. By the 1930s, Oregon had become the na- tion’s largest producer of timber.This is a story we know. It is the story of pioneers, progress, and the trans- formation of “empty” spaces into industrial resource  elds.In 1989, a plastic spotted owl was hung in e gy on an Oregon log- ging truck.2 Environmentalists had shown that unsustainable logging was destroying Paci c Northwest forests. “The spotted owl was like the canary in the coal mine,” explained one advocate. “It was . . . symbolic of an ecosystem on the verge of collapse.”3 When a federal judge blocked old-growth logging to save owl habitat, loggers were furious; but how many loggers were there? Logging jobs had dwindled as timber compa- nies mechanized—and as prime timber disappeared. By 1989, many mills had already closed; logging companies were moving to other re- gions.4 The eastern Cascades, once a hub of timber wealth, were now cutover forests and former mill towns overgrown by brush.This is a story we need to know. Industrial transformation turned out to be a bubble of promise followed by lost livelihoods and damaged landscapes. And yet: such documents are not enough. If we end the story with decay, we abandon all hope—or turn our attention to other sites of promise and ruin, promise and ruin.What emerges in damaged landscapes, beyond the call of industrial promise and ruin? By 1989, something else had begun in Oregon’s cut- over forests: the wild mushroom trade. From the  rst it was linked to worldwide ruination: The 1986 Chernobyl disaster had contaminated Europe’s mushrooms, and traders had come to the Paci c Northwest for supplies. When Japan began importing matsutake at high prices— just as jobless Indochinese refugees were settling in California—the trade went wild. Thousands rushed to Paci c Northwest forests for the new “white gold.” This was in the middle of a “jobs versus the environ- ment” battle over the forests, yet neither side noticed the mushroomers. Job advocates imagined only wage contracts for healthy white men; the foragers—disabled white veterans, Asian refugees, Native Americans, and undocumented Latinos—were invisible interlopers. Conservation- ists were  ghting to keep human disturbance out of the forests; the entry of thousands of people, had it been noticed, would hardly have been welcome. But the mushroom hunters were mainly not noticed. At

# data[].attributes.subject
up as millworkers multiplied. By the 1930s, Oregon had become the na- tion’s largest producer of timber.This is a story we know. It is the story of pioneers, progress, and the trans- formation of “empty” spaces into industrial resource  elds.In 1989, a plastic spotted owl was hung in e gy on an Oregon log- ging truck.2 Environmentalists had shown that unsustainable logging was destroying Paci c Northwest forests. “The spotted owl was like the canary in the coal mine,” explained one advocate. “It was . . . symbolic of an ecosystem on the verge of collapse.”3 When a federal judge blocked old-growth logging to save owl habitat, loggers were furious; but how many loggers were there? Logging jobs had dwindled as timber compa- nies mechanized—and as prime timber disappeared. By 1989, many mills had already closed; logging companies were moving to other re- gions.4 The eastern Cascades, once a hub of timber wealth, were now cutover forests and former mill towns overgrown by brush.This is a story we need to know. Industrial transformation turned out to be a bubble of promise followed by lost livelihoods and damaged landscapes. And yet: such documents are not enough. If we end the story with decay, we abandon all hope—or turn our attention to other sites of promise and ruin, promise and ruin.What emerges in damaged landscapes, beyond the call of industrial promise and ruin? By 1989, something else had begun in Oregon’s cut- over forests: the wild mushroom trade. From the  rst it was linked to worldwide ruination: The 1986 Chernobyl disaster had contaminated Europe’s mushrooms, and traders had come to the Paci c Northwest for supplies. When Japan began importing matsutake at high prices— just as jobless Indochinese refugees were settling in California—the trade went wild. Thousands rushed to Paci c Northwest forests for the new “white gold.” This was in the middle of a “jobs versus the environ- ment” battle over the forests, yet neither side noticed the mushroomers. Job advocates imagined only wage contracts for healthy white men; the foragers—disabled white veterans, Asian refugees, Native Americans, and undocumented Latinos—were invisible interlopers. Conservation- ists were  ghting to keep human disturbance out of the forests; the entry of thousands of people, had it been noticed, would hardly have been welcome. But the mushroom hunters were mainly not noticed. At