New demographics and cultures are defining the next American West. Newcomers, urban and affluent, are escaping cities to build better lives. They work with information and manipulate symbols rather than stuff, and bring with them an utterly different value system for the land. A value system based on a romantic notion of the West's ecosystems and communities.

To them, it is not the commodity, but the amenity values of lands that matter most-wilderness, open space, fish and wildlife, recreation. They demand that theirs be the majority voice in protecting those values. Many locals are resentful.

Change often generates more anger and frustration rather than adaptation and cooperation. Few newcomers appreciate the skill, tenacity, and hard labor that traditional Western jobs require. And long-time residents need to honestly wrestle with the perspectives and ideas of newcomers. Both must recognize that the West's metamorphosis requires compromise.

Fundamental to this negotiation is respect for the underlying qualities and values that have long defined the West. Here's a story from a recent trip to Oregon State University, the Vatican of saw log forestry, that frames the debate for me. I share it to illustrate that as we rush toward a new West we're in danger of losing more than old-growth and open spaces.

I used to work in the woods. Mainly in the northern Rockies of Montana and Idaho. I had always wanted to work in the big timber of the Pacific Northwest, and in 1977, I finally got the chance. On sabbatical leave from my regular university post, I taught a forest policy course at Oregon State University. This left plenty of time to work in the woods.

Nearly 20 years later I was back at O.S.U., with my wife Ramona, who had a few days of meetings. Corvallis now sports Starbucks Coffee, Birkenstocks and other signs of fundamental change. While Ramona worked with her fellow academics, I rode my bike. One afternoon, I pedaled the 12 miles to Lebanon, the town where I lived while working in the Oregon timber. I wanted to visit the saw shop that kept timber fallers supplied and maintained. In particular, I wanted to see Ken, the shop owner. Also, I needed a new saw.

The last saw from my days in the woods, my first Husqvarna, recently died. I had bought it at the Lebanon Saw Shop. It spent its declining years on our ranch near Bozeman, cutting fence posts and firewood. That's an easy life for a pro saw, so it lasted a long time.

Peddling into town, I found the shop was in the same place, the storefront more faded, the front windows more dusty and greasy. It's hard-core, a good place to find recipes for spotted owl. My Lycra was on trespass in corked-boot territory. Inside, the rich petroleum smell of 2-cycle exhaust was the same. The owner, Ken, last saw me when I worked nearby bucking old-growth Doug fir on Weyerhaeuser land for a contract cutter. He looked up from his work as I entered.

"Hi, Ken," I said. "Remember a guy from Montana who came in here around 1977? Wanted leads on a job in the woods, but he could only work three days a week? You found him a job and later said that you wouldn't have if you'd known he was professor." I took off my Bolles.

"Damn! Hi, John." He grinned and stuck out a calloused hand. We exchanged news and he told me things were great for business, but for all the wrong reasons. "With the federal lands shut down, we're selling saws to every farmer and wood lot owner with a few second and third growth trees," he said. "Less wood more saws. Not many pros in the woods anymore." He is looking towards the future. When he gets out of the saw business he'll cut his retirement, a wood lot he's owned for years. The changing values of the new West aren't for Ken.

"Ken, the last saw I got from you just wore out. Will you send me a new one? I can't carry it on my bike, and I don't have cash with me," I said, "but I have a Visa card."

"Hell, don't bother. Just send me a check when you get home."

The Husqvarna was there when I got back-a bright, new orange saw with an extra chain, a 6-pack of oil and a black gimme cap that says:

LEBANON

Saw Shop Lebanon,

Oregon

I put it on to finish writing this essay. And I thought about trust-about how relationships built of shared experiences yield trust. Twenty years and a 900 miles away, I got my new saw on the promises implicit in work honorably done.

I want to foster a new West that respects these values of the old. Trust that comes from working together is high on my list. Its presence in my own life is a recognition that those of us who now work with symbols instead of stuff have no monopoly on what's worth preserving.

This column was adapted from a chapter in the Gallatin Institute's book forthcoming from Island Press, The Next West, Don Snow and John Baden contributing editors.