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Each timer was connected to a small filament attached to a matchbook.
The flame from the matches would ignite a road flare or a gas-soaked sponge, which in turn would set off a five-gallon plastic bucket filled with a mix of diesel and gas — a concoction Rodgers liked to call "vegan jello." When the timers went off, the entire mountain would go up in smoke.
Story: Kiki Kannbal: The Girl Who Played with Fire It's long been assumed that those who counted themselves members of the ELF — less a group than an ideology, with no central office or leader, and its only mission the destruction of property with no harm to human life — were angry suburban boys in their late teens or early twenties who worked in small cells, performing one or two misdeeds and then disbanding.
In fact, nearly every member of the Family was an adult committed to environmental activism, whether traveling below the radar, like Avalon, or as "top-landers," like Jonathan Paul, a longtime anti-whaling advocate and the brother of a "Most of these people had two lives," says Mike Roselle, co-founder of Earth First!
It was a moonless night on the mountain at Vail, and in his black clothes Bill Rodgers imagined he was nearly invisible.
It is the single biggest roundup of environmental activists in U. One of the guys, with whom Anna sometimes shared a bed, now faces seventeen years behind bars.
Story: Sex, Drugs, and the Biggest Cybercrime of All Time Branding activists as terrorists not only makes for good headlines, it also results in longer prison sentences.
In 2001, forest advocate Jeffrey "Free" Luers, perhaps today's most passionately embraced eco-martyr, was sentenced to nearly twenty-three years for setting fire to three Chevy SUVs. Under a 2003 order by then-Attorney General John Ashcroft, any arson set with a timer must be prosecuted under a post-Oklahoma City statute that defense lawyers call "the hammer." Under standard arson charges, the maximum sentence is five years for each building or car that is set ablaze.
And there was no more appropriate symbol of power than the biggest building at Vail that he rigged with a timer: the Two Elk Lodge, a 33,000-square-foot, multimillion-dollar restaurant for the Kahlua-and-cream-sipping rich, built from old-growth fir logs, its walls decorated with a million dollars' worth of buffalo robes and elk-horn racks, snatched from their rightful American-Indian owners.
Over the objections of local environmentalists, Vail was about to add almost 1,000 acres of new skiing terrain and twelve miles of roads in the last known habitat of the mountain lynx, a reclusive animal that hadn't been sighted in the Rockies for twenty years.