At the bottom of the world's largest known Douglas fir, Will Koomjian perches on a 3-foot-wide fallen limb and aims a giant slingshot at a thick branch overhead. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. Then he shouts "headache" to warn the ground crew, pulls back on the rubber tubing and shoots a small lead-weighted orange pouch about 180 feet up.
The fishing line connected to the pouch zips off its spindle and loops the branch. Koomjian and climbing partner Brian French attach a thicker line to the fishing line, pull it over the branch, then attach a climbing rope and haul it up and over. They tie off the rope and head to camp for grilled steak, potatoes and corn.
An hour later, as the September sun sinks, they return. The air is wet and chilly in this deep forest of Vancouver Island as Koomjian and French ascend in a series of smooth movements. "I can see the ocean, the mountain ranges," Koomjian calls down to the crew, "and the sunset is just beautiful." The sky darkens until the climbers seem to disappear. Finally, they rappel down, planning to climb to the top the next morning.
This Douglas fir is the world champion Pseudotsuga menziesii. The Portland men want to climb and measure all the largest trees in the world, and the Doug fir is their 10th champion since they started in February. With thousands of species, Koomjian and French know they'll never finish. So the realistic mission -- to call attention to the plight of trees and educate people about the giants -- is something they feel they can accomplish. Because -- while trees help people when they soak up carbon dioxide and pollutants; prevent erosion; and provide shade, food and habitat -- people can be trees' biggest enemies. The climbers also hope to change that.
A publicist, filmmaker, a Web designer and others have volunteered to help Koomjian and French spread their gospel. But as their project gains attention -- CNN has interviewed them -- concern comes with it. Some tree scientists and canopy researchers have always worried that recreational tree climbing will become the new extreme sport and attract a huge yahoo crowd.
At age 10, Brian French built a forest in his Kentucky bedroom using pots of ferns, cedars and pines. His mother grounded him. A few years later, he met an arborist and realized he could make a living climbing trees. At 22, he became one of the youngest certified arborists in the country.
"I really identify with trees," he says. "To a certain extent, I feel like they have more wisdom and more rights than anything else on this planet."
Koomjian grew up outside Chicago and when he was 15, his family took a vacation to Oregon. He fell in love with the tree-filled landscapes. After high school he enrolled at Reed College, but he dropped out after a few semesters to become an arborist.
"Being out here in Oregon has everything to do with trees," he says. "Being an arborist has everything to do with me being here. So really, being in these old-growth groves has been a long time coming."
Koomjian and French work at Collier Arbor Care in Clackamas. For months they kicked around the idea of climbing big trees while they lounged on the porch of the house Koomjian shares with seven housemates and enjoyed the occasional Mirror Pond Ale. But they also did a lot of research.
They discover that individual states list biggest trees and that the organization American Forests lists national champions, the biggest trees in the country. The pair decide to climb the Oregon champion western red cedar in the nearby Mount Hood National Forest. On a February day with temperatures in the 20s, Koomjian and French slog through the forest with 60 pounds of ropes, carabiners, helmets and other climbing gear. They find the 187-foot tree, scale it and bushwhack their way out through the snow and ice.
Their project, which they dub "Ascending the Giants," is born.
Portland arborist Kevin Hillery has worked with tree scientists and canopy researchers since the 1970s. When French and Koomjian contact him, hoping for his support, they meet their first serious critic. No matter how carefully they climb, Hillery tells them, they can't avoid some harm. Even minimal damage to the tree canopy can take centuries to repair. And worse, he worries the publicity will draw careless climbers.
"There's so much unexplored," he says, "scientists don't even know what's up there."
Most trees can be measured from the ground with lasers and basic geometry, Hillery argues, so Koomjian and French don't need to climb. But laser measurement needs a clear line of sight from the bottom to the top. Dense, old-growth forests often don't have that, says Blake Thomas, a Portland certified arborist for 23 years. "You get a much more accurate measurement by climbing."
For some scientists, the debate comes down to numbers.
"If one person climbs a tree carefully and compresses a little bit of moss or breaks a twig here or there, that's all right," says Barbara Bond, a professor of tree physiology at Oregon State University.
"But if a bunch of people find out about this and think, 'Wow, that's the coolest thing!' and go out and do it, that would be a horrible thing."
The popularity of recreational tree-climbing is growing, whether the scientists like it or not. Dave Shaw, a forest health specialist for the OSU Extension Service, thinks the key might be to teach people low-impact techniques and instill a code of ethics.
"We need to really push the education," he says, "so people understand the potential for tree-climbing to do damage."
Likewise, a legendary climber and businesswoman, Sophia Sparks, wants new climbers to do it right. As the co-founder of New Tribe, a Grants Pass company that teaches tree-climbing and makes tree gear, her goal is to stress ethics and low-impact techniques. Sparks was leery of French and Koomjian when they approached her looking for sponsorship. But after meeting with them, she donated equipment.
"The potential Brian and Will have to open people's hearts and minds to a better relationship with trees is far greater than any minor impact they might have," she says.
They preach low impact: Where ropes loop over branches, they run them through tubes called cambium savers so bark doesn't get rubbed. Koomjian and French don't use spikes on their shoes, but dangle from the ropes, and rarely move into the trees or onto limbs.
Koomjian and French have also crossed paths with the government. In October, two months after they climbed the champion Port Orford cedar in the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest, they got an e-mail saying they had broken the law. It took a week to sort out. After French reached Tim Chesley, acting forest supervisor at the time, turns out they hadn't broken any laws.
"They didn't do anything wrong," Chesley says. The climbers' methods passed muster. Chesley recognized their knowledge of the cedar and tree disease and the special care they took to protect the mosses, ferns and other plants living in it.
But the incident is a wake-up call for French and Koomjian.
"Everything we're trying to do that's positive is going to get railroaded by this debate over tree-climbing being good or bad," Koomjian says, "We want to promote the trees, not ourselves and not climbing."
Between climbs in spring and summer, Koomjian and French explore everything from getting sponsored to public speaking to educational programs. In August, they give a tree-climbing presentation on ethics and techniques at a rock climbing competition at Smith Rock in Terrebonne.
In October, they call the National Center for Conservation Science and Policy in Ashland to pass along measurements of three trees. The center has maintained the Oregon Big Tree Registry since August 2006 because the state Fish and Wildlife Department couldn't pay for its upkeep. Just as Koomjian and French turn up, the center finds a crisis on its hands.
"We didn't realize that American Forests had implemented a new rule," says Cindy Deacon Williams, who oversees the big tree program for the center. All national champions need to be verified at least every 10 years or be delisted. The deadline: Nov. 1.
With 25 of Oregon's 36 national champions needing to be remeasured and only a handful of people qualified to do it, Deacon Williams is desperate. She gets Koomjian and French to agree to measure seven of them. If any champions aren't remeasured, the center plans to submit them next year.
The timing is terrible for everyone.
Koomjian and French schedule one climbing trip a month, but after Vancouver Island in September, which cost about $2,000, they wanted to skip a month to recuperate financially. They finance their climbs out of pocket. Gasoline, camping fees and food add up fast.
Also, Koomjian wants to catch up on research for future climbs and hang out with his friends. French wants time with his wife, Rachel, and their children, Aidan, 4, and Malise, 7.
"It's a constructive thing, and what he's doing is important and important to him," says Rachel French. "It's not so hard for me as it is for the kids."
Instead of time off, Koomjian and French schedule back-to-back weekends with multiple trees each trip. Normally, they climb one tree on a two-day trip. The first of those weekends, on a misty October morning on Sauvie Island, turns up an 80-foot-tall Oregon white ash. They think it's the new national champion. Then the climbers find two national champions chopped down: the Pacific dogwood lying in a field, and the grove where the nation's largest Cascara buckthorn once lived, nothing but stumps.
Koomjian and French also visit the owner of the national champion big leaf maple in Clatsop County. When they met him in August, he was wary about their proposal to measure his tree. When they return in October, his whole attitude is about pride of ownership. He tells Koomjian and French he talked to the city forester to verify it is a national champion.
"He's connected to that tree now," Koomjian says.
French adds: "That was actually a pretty big moment for us. It was confirmation that what we're doing is helping."
By the end of October, Koomjian and French measure seven of Oregon's national champion trees and verify two have been cut down -- the Pacific dogwood and the Cascara buckthorn. They also discover the national champion Baker cypress fallen, so nominate a 98-foot-tall tree from the same grove in its place.
"We've been struggling with our role within this project," Koomjian says. They plan to keep working with Oregon Big Tree Registry. "This is what I can contribute as a climber and an arborist."
Logistics can get in the way -- getting permission, researching and dealing with the media take up time Koomjian and French would rather spend climbing. But even a rainy autumn day in the treetops is a good day.
Up a Sitka spruce, in a forest where about a half-mile away a disc jockey tests his sound system, French radios the ground crew.
"Is anyone down there, or are you all at the rave?"
"We're here," someone responds.
"The squirrels have surrounded us," he whispers. "They've chewed through our ropes. It's us or them."
For the rest of that day, jokes about the imaginary predatory squirrel distract them from the noise and the unrelenting downpour.
French rigs a hammock-like Treeboat between two limbs about 150 feet off the ground and hops in. Mist swirls between the trees in gauzy sheer layers as if the mountains are breathing. In the tree, drops of rain cover the gray-blue lichen on the branches and cling to the ends of the needles. French sleeps for an hour, until it's time to go.
Koomjian descends, crossing from one of the trees' multiple trunks to another, sliding down his rope as his body swings out and arches across space. He lands as lightly as a moth and grabs the limb with one hand to steady himself for one last measurement.
"When I have a really cool climb, I think back to it for weeks," he says. "I can remember those few movements that were just perfect, and it feels like a dance. Your mind and your body are totally focused and you have total mental clarity. You feel it in your muscles. I just love that."
Freelance journalist Melissa Bearns has gone on five climbs with Koomjian and French. She intends to continue to document their project. To contact her: www.melissabearns.com. Photographer Sean O'Connor, who volunteers for the project, has a Portland-based business, Freesolo Photography. To contact him: www.freesolophotography.com.The Oregonian
