Veteran Who 'Doesn't Mark Anything' Placing Twelfth Flagging Ribbon of the Morning

The twelfth ribbon was already cinched to the branch when Martin Vane turned around and said he doesn't mark anything.

Vane has walked with the society since 2007 and has delivered the anti-flagging speech roughly once per ribbon this morning, holding the ratio at one to one. "Newcomers come back with spray paint," he said, knotting number twelve beneath a fallen oak. "Paint stays on that tree for years. This is here until I've had a proper look at it."

The rationales climbed in order. Ribbon one was for the group, not for him. Ribbon two marked where the group had already covered, so people would stop combing the same duff. Ribbon three was temporary. Ribbon four was temporary and, he conceded, in a spot he intended to photograph. By ribbon seven the argument had hardened into a sentence he can deliver while tying one: a ribbon tied with the intention of removal is not a marker, it is a reminder with a deadline.

I logged twelve ribbons against a stated count of zero and filed the difference as measured, not estimated. for The Forager's Folio retires claims when the evidence changes, and rarely has a claim retired itself eleven times before lunch.

Mid-morning, Vane's eighth ribbon and a newcomer's first came to rest on the same fallen trunk three centimetres apart. Both parties called over Vera Pike. Vane asked her to confirm that his did not count. The newcomer asked her to confirm that a ribbon tied under instruction was a different thing entirely. Pike untied neither and has been blamed by both ever since, which she described afterward as a normal Tuesday.

The ridge's other group came back at lunch carrying a bundle. "We found these," said Nadia Evers, who runs the competing walk and shares half its members with this one, holding the coil out at arm's length. "We didn't want them." Vane took it back and said it was his temporary marking, not lost property.

At the end of the walk he untied all twelve in order and dropped them into his jacket pocket, since temporary things come home. Then he reached for ribbon thirteen, found the spool empty, and held it out to the newcomer. "Here," he said. "You mark it. Yours won't count either."

The society's order for two replacement spools came through under the line item "habitat restoration materials." I record the invoice before I accept the purchase story, so here it is: twelve ribbons, one empty spool, and a signature beside a claim I have now retired.

"I don't mark spots," Vane said, pen down. "I mark intentions."