By Julia Shipley

Tonight, in the boughs of towering spruces, cedars and oaks, ordinary people are getting ready for bed. As they settle in, they can feel their tree gently sway, maybe they hear the burble of a creek far below; when an owl hoots, it sounds as if it’s in the next limb. Sensations like these are why the childhood treehouse is currently enjoying a full-grown renaissance. As master treehouse builder Pete Nelson says, falling asleep in the arms of a tree represents “the ultimate return to nature.”

For forest enthusiasts wanting to take their relationship to a new level, roosting in a treehouse can present a more intimate experience than meandering around the forest floor.

This is why Pete Nelson of Fall City, Wash., whose vision is “connecting people through personal encounters with trees,” has built Treehouse Point — six treetop bowers amid the trunks of his large spruces. Nelson, who built his first edifice at age five, has made a career of his boyhood enterprise, building forts and bowers for adults. In addition to renting out his Parthenon-inspired tree forts, he’s a frequent consultant on the TV series, “Treehouse Masters,” and has helped numerous others “break bark” to get started on designing and constructing their own elevated rooms with a view.

Bill Compher of Ashford, Wash., also believes that a reprieve in the canopy can transform one’s relationship with the surrounding woods. In 1998, Compher built the Cedar Creek Treehouse on his land near Mt. Rainier National Park, on the edge of Gifford Pinchot National Forest. His rentable, 256-square-foot aerie sits 50 feet — five stories — above the ground, in the boughs of a 200-year-old western redcedar. The tree grows though the floor and out the roof, offering a new meaning to the word “host.”

Unlike your old childhood hideaway, Compher’s is outfitted for longer stays. Though all water must be carried in, there’s a butane stove for cooking, an icebox for perishables, solar electricity for light and even a bathroom on the premises.

For almost two decades, Compher’s guests have repeatedly inscribed the words “peace” and “magic” in the guest log. Science corroborates their experience. A University of Washington study found that people who view nature are less stressed and have decreased feelings of fear, anger or aggression. The more explicit among Compher’s guests share how falling asleep, rocked by the tree, helped them see themselves as part of a bigger picture. As one guest writes, “having a tree at the center of our daily activities was an amazing reminder part of a larger ecosystem.”

Across the country in Canadys, S.C., Scott and Anne Kennedy share this same ethos — to help visitors cultivate a visceral awareness of the forest. Their flock of three treehouses perch 16 feet in the air, supported by the trunks of bald cypresses, water oaks and swamp tupelos. Built along the Edisto River in 1992, 2002 and 2006 by Scott Kennedy and his son, Beau, each treehouse is constructed on a platform stationed between a pair of trees with similar diameters. Like Compher, the Kennedys also rent their hideouts, which are accessible only by canoe along the river through a 300-acre privately owned forest. These low-impact treehouses are equipped with propane grills, oil candles and torches in lieu of electricity.

Anne Kennedy explains that many of their customers are searching for a way to “plug back in to nature” because, “as a lot of folks tell us, ‘We’d forgotten what it sounds like to hear wind through the leaves.’”

“I love the land and I love the river,” Scott Kennedy says, but he wants others to care, too. As he puts it, “If you don’t know about a fish, how can you care about a fish?” To help others discover and subsequently care about a swamp forest, his treehouses facilitate a sort of immersion course, allowing guests to meet sturgeon and turtles as they paddle along the river and to imagine the life of a heron or swallow-tailed kite as they mount stairs to dwell among trees for the night.

The Kennedys’ treehouse guest logs brim with enthusiastic testimonies. On page after page, guests describe sighting their neighbors — Cooper’s hawks, wood ducks, egrets — and offer glowing praise for the region’s seven different subspecies of fireflies. Kennedy says he hopes his guests, whether arriving from nearby Atlanta or distant Athens, Greece, leave with a more personal relationship to the forest community and all its diverse inhabitants — the lizards and the bullfrogs, the wild ginger and huckleberries.

Treetop lodgings such as those offered by Bill Compher and the Kennedys abound across the country. In Vermont, a treehouse B&B nestled among the maples overlooks Green Mountain National Forest; in California, a redwood cradles an abode for rent; and on the edge of Shawnee National Forest in Illinois, one can wake up in a white oak. Lodgings range from $100 to $900 per night, depending on the spectrum of amenities, but each treehouse affords its inhabitants the chance to witness and temporarily reside on a higher level. As a recent guest to Cedar Creek advised: “Take time to adjust to life in the trees. Spend time doing nothing.”

These grown-up hideaways all offer a squirrel’s eye view of the forest surroundings and the chance to feel like a woodland creature, sleeping in the arms of the canopy.

Julia Shipley is an independent journalist, poet and small farmer in northern Vermont.

The post Rock-a-bye appeared first on American Forests.

By Tate Williams

Clint McFarland didn’t want to believe the pictures he was looking at on his smartphone.

Late on a Friday afternoon in July 2010, he was at a gathering in Worcester, Mass., to recognize federal and state staff who had been working long, hard hours for two years to wrangle the city’s runaway Asian longhorned beetle (ALB) infestation, the country’s largest by far. By the time a homeowner reported it in 2008, the invasive beetles had already been boring their way across the heavily forested city in the center of the state, frighteningly close to the edge of contiguous forests that span New England and reach into Canada.

While work was far from over, the worst months of 16-hour days, cutting down and chipping more than 25,000 trees in one year, had appeared to be behind them. So it hit McFarland hard when he saw pictures of what he knew was damage from beetles gnawing tunnels through a handful of red maples in Boston, just 44 miles east. And the news got worse — almost surreally so — as the hospital parking lot where the infested trees were located was directly across the street from Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum, home to a priceless, world-class tree collection.

Back in Worcester in 2008, as USDA’s McFarland put it, a multi-agency partnership to eradicate ALB in Massachusetts thought it had drawn a line in the sand. The idea of a similar situation, now in Boston, was difficult for the head of the Massachusetts eradication effort to stomach.

The four-year operation that followed would, however, provide a unique microcosm of the many interlocking pieces needed to stop an invasive pest.

A SLOW, QUIET BURN

To fully understand why the discovery in Boston was so frightening, consider that, to date, ALB has been responsible for the removal of 133,000 trees in the United States since its discovery in 1996 in Brooklyn. Infestations have since popped up in New York, Illinois, New Jersey, Massachusetts and Ohio, with eradication efforts costing $550 million so far. The beetle is slow, but it is hungry, with 13 known genera of host trees. Maple is a favorite, making ALB a major economic threat to syrup and timber industries, plus tourism drawn to New England’s signature fall foliage. If unchecked, one estimate of potential cost in urban trees alone is nearly $700 billion, nationwide.

An ALB infestation tends to be a slow, quiet burn, with multiple generations often feeding on the same tree or those very nearby. The pest’s life cycle starts with eggs laid along the trunk or sturdy branches, where chubby, cream-colored larvae that can grow as long as 2 inches hatch. Larvae bore tunnels through the trees during the winter, feeding their way to pupal stage and then, in the summer, chew their way out of perfectly round holes about the size of dimes.

The whole process normally takes a year, and while the black, white-spotted beetle can fly, it’s a lazy bug, so the spread is slow.

But as with all invasive pests, the real problem is us. Just as they first hitchhiked here from overseas in wood packing material, the beetles can hitchhike for miles in firewood in the back of a pickup headed to a camping spot in New Hampshire or Vermont, for example. If beetles take hold in a new location, it’s like a spark, starting a whole new, quiet burn.

“I couldn’t sleep that night, from trying to think about how gross was this, how large was this infestation?” says McFarland, who heads the Massachusetts eradication effort led by the USDA’s Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service (APHIS) and the state’s Department of Conservation and Recreation (DCR). ALB has been his world for about 13 years now, starting with the original infestation in New York, but he became something of a general in the battle when he took over the Worcester operation in 2008. He teamed up with DCR’s Ken Gooch to run a multiagency operation that would grow to employ about 100 people.

McFarland, who has a gruff, no-nonsense way of talking that’s balanced by a friendly laugh, left for Boston early Saturday morning to spend the day searching the area for signs of the pest and firing off texts to anyone else he could mobilize.

MAPLE ZERO

Faulkner Hospital’s grounds supervisor, Deb LaScaleia, arrived at the hospital grounds Sunday morning to find federal employees swinging from her trees and a small team’s makeshift operation setting up in her parking lot.

Days earlier, she had spotted piles of sawdust-like material at the base of some of her trees while walking the grounds. “Upon closer inspection, you realize the volume and the quantity of what had been going on.” She saw the exit holes, and wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but had taken plenty of classes and seen the latest on invasive pests at trade shows. She called the hospital’s arborist, who called APHIS in D.C., which kicked off the whirlwind in what she thinks of as her own yard.

The site of the reported infestation was a row of six red maples in the landscaped parking lot area in front of Faulkner Hospital, a 17-acre property facing the Arboretum to the southeast. To its west lie the Allandale Woods, Boston’s second-largest unfragmented woodlands, full of sugar maple — all of which is surrounded by some of the city’s greenest neighborhoods like Roslindale and Jamaica Plain.

One alarming turn of events that day was that, while there were no fresh holes when McFarland left on Saturday, there now were two. Overnight, two adult beetles had emerged. After hours of searching, a group of six people found both of the adult beetles crawling on the trees.   What followed, as LaScaleia describes, was like something out of CSI. The team downed the six maples and began peeling them apart with chisels and hand axes. They found 33 larvae and 13 adults, some of which were getting ready to emerge, but were now destined for the lab.

“Because there were only six trees, we could do all the forensics. It was pretty wild,” says Gooch, who is now DCR Forest Health Program supervisor and had also been working with ALB on some level since the first New York infestation.

Investigators started doing several “trackbacks,” including checking whether the beetles could have come in the nursery stock (nope), tracking the serial numbers of medical equipment deliveries the hospital had received from Europe (nope). They did genetic testing on the beetles and were able to eventually confirm that they were connected to the infestation in Worcester.

While they weren’t seeing other signs of infestation, no discovery in North America had ever been just a handful of trees. Even the smallest infestation, in Illinois, had ended up downing around 1,800 trees. To use a phrase that would come up more than once, people were freaking out.

AN ACCOMMODATING ARBORETUM

That Monday, Stephen Schneider hadn’t turned on his Blackberry yet. It was a national holiday and the manager of horticulture at Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum was at home unwinding. When he finally did turn on his phone, it was exploding.

“All of these messages came up and I was like, ‘What? What is going on here?’,” says Schneider. “There were messages from the mayor’s office, there were messages from Harvard University.”

Arnold Arboretum is 281 acres of research grounds established in 1872 and designed by Frederick Law Olmsted. It’s a meticulously curated collection of 15,000 living specimens from around the world, and its maple collection alone ranked as the most significant in the world in a 2010 survey by Botanic Gardens Conservation International. It is adored by the city and beyond.

Fortunately, shortly before the Faulkner discovery, the Arboretum staff had finished two scoutings for ALB, albeit looking at random samplings and the perimeter, so Schneider felt reasonably confident. His biggest concern was a naturalized area right near the hospital called Central Woods that the Arboretum doesn’t curate, but is full of beetle food.

When there’s an ALB infestation, the feds take control and move fast, and everyone at Arnold — where they usually have 100 percent control — knew that. Schneider and his team’s strategy was to be as accommodating as possible. For example, he first met the APHIS and DCR team before a press conference with “gifts in hand,” reams of records about the site.

This approach wasn’t entirely altruistic. Schneider not only hoped to work in suggestions when it came to things such as the process for any potential tree removal, he also wanted to get the investigators in and out as quickly as possible, limiting any disruption to a sensitive collection.

And while they feared the feds would have a “we’ve got this, thanks” attitude, Schneider said the tone was far more inclusive.

What followed was a survey of every potential host tree in the 10 square miles surrounding the six maples — slightly more than 90,000 trees in the arboretum and the surrounding area. The area was also put under quarantine, meaning no host wood could leave, and anyone working with host wood in the area needed special training.

Outreach was crucial. APHIS freed up a separate $30,000 budget to immediately run advertising in the area. The team worked with the city parks, green organizations, nonprofit “Friends of” groups, neighborhood associations and anyone else they could to distribute information.

CONTENTION AND COMPROMISE

By the end of 2010, surveys still hadn’t found more infested trees, and people were feeling like they had dodged a bullet. But APHIS protocol calls for treatment with imidacloprid, a common pesticide that is effective against ALB as a prophylactic. The plan was to make trunk injections in a quarter-mile radius of the six maples, once a year, for three years.

When McFarland and Gooch first brought this up, Schneider wasn’t happy, and wanted to find an alternative. The Arboretum uses pesticides, but on a very strict basis. Not only that, they’re surrounded by a highly environmentally conscious demographic that includes many young families, and imidacloprid — which has shown up in discussions of possible contributing factors of colony collapse disorder among honeybees — has been gaining a bad reputation.

The Arboretum was in a tight spot, made more complicated by the fact that Harvard actually uses the land on a 1,000-year lease from the city of Boston. As landlord, it appeared the city could authorize treatment. “Spirited debates” followed.

Eventually, compromise — and technology — saved the day. Schneider and a research fellow used a newly acquired mapping program to take a scalpel to the USDA’s treatment zone. One way to think of it — when it comes to the size of the treatment area, USDA rounds up to be on the safe side, the Arboretum had tight enough records it could round back down, ultimately reducing the number of trees that received pesticide treatment — mostly by soil injection, to limit damage to trees — by half.

With Schneider and the Arboretum satisfied, APHIS still had to engage with a concerned public. This is when, you might say, the love fest ended. A petition was started to stop the Arboretum’s soil treatments. APHIS fielded many calls and held a series of public meetings. “A lot of those public meetings were quite contentious,” McFarland recalls, but ultimately, most residents accepted the treatment, with 95 percent of host trees in the radius receiving the pesticide. Outside of the arboretum, most trees received trunk injections instead of the soil injections that were the source of much of the public’s objection.

In summer 2014, with the 10-square-mile area surveyed once, and the core of the infestation surveyed multiple times, the program held a press conference to announce eradication. They now believe a vehicle that parked at the hospital was carrying materials that contained ALB, which crawled out and found a nice little row of maples and never made it any farther.

ERADICATION NATION

Back in Worcester County, now October 2014, I’m tagging along with a survey crew in an outlying neighborhood, the kind of beautiful, gold- and scarlet-lined street that makes fall in New England incredible. A team of six tree-climbers scrambles up a stand of maples behind a private backyard. With every tree cleared, they mark their initials with chalk and update their records on a handheld device.

About 5 million trees have been surveyed and 34,000 trees have been removed in the Worcester area to date. For comparison, Central Park in New York has about 25,000 trees. In 2008 and 2009, nearly 17,000 infested trees were found in Worcester. As I walked through the city with the survey crew in October, that number was down to fewer than 300 for all of 2014. The city is replanting with much higher diversity. “In 10 years, it’s going to be the ideal urban forest,” Gooch says.

But the larger question remains whether nationwide eradication is possible. Regulations on global shipping materials have been clamped down since 2002. But Ohio is fighting infestation. Long Island, once thought clean of the beetle, has a new infestation.

Experts I talked to believe ALB is one invasive pest that has a good possibility of eradication. The wild card where opinions differ is how much ALB is currently out there. Worcester’s infestation went undetected for 12 years.

“We’re going to find more,” says Gooch. “I kept saying that to everybody and everybody’s saying, ‘No, no. It’s isolated here.’ But I kept saying, ‘No, it’s been here a long time.’ And people work here. People move stuff, wood, in and out, all the time.”

He still thinks the agencies need to start branching out more, hunting ALB down. And a new, joint program with the U.S. Forest Service, APHIS and DCR will begin sending out teams of surveyors to investigate high-risk areas in Massachusetts.

But the USDA will never have the funding to go everywhere the beetle might be, and that’s where the public is important. Gooch and McFarland both believe part of the reason the Worcester infestation got so out of hand is because, after earlier infestations were contained, people let their guards down and agencies could have done better at outreach.

These days, the USDA has an annual outreach budget of around $1 million, including ads of all sorts, partnerships and social media. The agency received 184 online reports of the beetle — mostly false alarms — in just one recent month, 72 from Massachusetts. At the height of the Boston operation, Deb LaScaleia would come to work and find specimen jars of all kinds of insects, mostly stinkbugs, left for her by concerned hospital staff.

That kind of diligence is how Clint McFarland, the optimist, thinks they’ll win. The telltale holes peppering maple trees might show up in a new, far-off location. But eradication can still be won if that next dreaded email on McFarland’s phone is reporting another Boston and not another Worcester.

Tate Williams writes from the Boston area about science, the environment and culture. Read more of his work at www.tatewilliams.org and follow on Twitter @tatejw. 

The post Eradication Nation appeared first on American Forests.

By Tom Persinger

It will take just over two hours to reach the old farmstead. I left before dawn and the sun is rising behind me as I drive west on Highway 94. I always enjoy driving with the sun illuminating the route stretched out before me in long, cool rays of golden light.

Unlike when early conservationist John Muir first made this journey in 1849, my trip is easy. Developed highways and well-marked secondary roads paved with asphalt carry me the distance. Muir’s 100-plus mile trek from Milwaukee to the farm via a hired wagon took place in early spring on recently thawed roads. They were thick with mud and not easy for travelers to navigate. Muir’s father, like many homesteaders, compounded the problem by bringing far too much luggage, including a cast iron stove and cookware set that weighed several hundred pounds. The Muirs paid a wheat farmer 30 dollars to ferry them in his wagon to their new home. The combination of poor road conditions and excessive baggage had the farmer in fits. He fumed and declared that he would “never again be tempted to haul such a horse-killing load.”

The Muir family’s journey had begun just over six weeks earlier on February 19, 1849 when they sailed from Scotland to America. John Muir, his father Daniel, sister Sarah and brother David — leaving his mother and four other members of the family behind in Scotland until the new homestead was ready — arrived in New York after rough travel over the wild Atlantic Ocean. From New York City they traveled by steamer ship to Buffalo and then on to Wisconsin. Muir’s father had left Scotland intending to become a wheat farmer and settle in Canada, but while in Buffalo he heard of the abundant grain harvests in Wisconsin and Michigan, changed his plans and headed toward Milwaukee.

I’m in Milwaukee for a few days visiting family for the December holidays and decided to take a long day and travel to the site of John Muir’s boyhood home. The lake and 150-acre area around it is now a protected park that I’ve long wanted to visit. Many agree that this is where Muir’s revolutionary idea to preserve lands for their own sake first took shape. If you like cold and snow, December is a terrific time to travel in Wisconsin. If not, you might be best served waiting for warmer months. This particular day is biting cold with an occasional stiff, chilly wind.

Shortly after I drive through the small town of Portage I turn on to County Road F and cross the mostly frozen French Creek Wildlife area. The wildlife area is a 4,000-acre marsh filled with a great variety of plants and animals. A native sedge known as wiregrass was once farmed here and made into grass rugs. Bald eagles also make their homes here, but sadly none reveal themselves to me today. A few minutes after passing the wildlife area, I turn into the park’s snow-filled parking lot.

The entrance is not well marked and is easy to miss. Today’s snow isn’t deep, but it’s crusty and slippery. Fortunately, my car has all-wheel drive and I skate up the slight hill, pull over towards the left, and park near the trailhead to admire the magnificent view of the prairie through the windshield. Sipping hot coffee, I eat the last of a breakfast sandwich and reflect on the land before me. It was carved over 12,000 years ago by the retreating Green Bay Lobe of the Wisconsin glaciation. When huge pieces of ice began to recede here they exposed an area of bare sand and gravel that concealed a large chunk of buried ice. The buried ice gradually melted and formed the lake that now, partially frozen, sits placidly to the right.

I open the car door and step out. The cold air fills my lungs and the snow squeaks underfoot. The squelch of snow with each step indicates that the pressure from my boot isn’t melting the snow, but is crushing it which means the air temperature is not warmer than 14°F. I grab my day pack, camera gear and tripod and walk down the small hill onto the prairie. In the spring and summer, this area is alive with the magnificent colors of false indigo, butterfly milkweed, bergamot, prairie coneflowers and many other brilliant blooming prairie plants. Today, however, it’s a glorious snowfield under an open sky interrupted by brambles and branches from trees and plants dormant for the long winter.

The trail is a loop slightly less than three miles that circles the 30-acre Ennis Lake. It might be short, but it contains a stunning number of plant species and traverses a surprising variety of landscapes: prairie, willow groves, oak, pine and tamarack forests, a sedge meadow and an open bog. Even though the area is varied, diverse and beautiful by today’s standards, some might find it easy to overlook as a fairly unremarkable place. There are no grand vistas or majestic cathedral mountains, no geysers, canyons, hot springs, glaciers or soaring waterfalls. In this place, beauty is found in the details. For the young John Muir this “glorious Wisconsin wilderness” was filled with everything “new and pure.” It was a world away from the streets and alleys of Glasgow, Scotland.

The snowy trail I walk marks a division in the land: to the right lie the remains of a native mesic prairie while the land to the left, once part of the same prairie, was developed but is no longer used for farming. Mesic prairies, characterized by good drainage and high moisture levels throughout the growing season, are the most threatened types of prairie land because many were converted for agricultural use. They also generally display the most diverse wildflower populations. The former prairie-turned-farm may recover, and nonprofit restoration efforts are underway, but it’s a long, arduous process with no guarantee.

The trail moves through a clump of willows and then on toward a cluster of oak trees. It’s possible that these trees once marked the western edge of the Muir property line. Looking at the trees, I wonder if Muir may have walked here as a boy doing chores. There are bur and black oaks and, down the way, a shagbark hickory or two. Each has distinctly different leaf shapes and is easy to identify, but bur oaks also have a unique, thick, cork-like bark that is deeply grooved. It’s because of their unique bark that bur oaks can survive the hot, intense wildfires of the prairie.

I continue on through the snow and come to a simple wooden footbridge that crosses a small, frozen stream. I walk to the middle of the bridge and pause to look toward the north. The stream slides down a hill out of a sedge meadow that holds more than a few dogwood trees. Just up the hill and beyond the meadow is the place where Daniel Muir built the first family homestead. Here, on a hot Wisconsin summer night, the young John Muir watched what appeared to be millions of fireflies flickering and illuminating the meadow. Later, he would write that the event was “so strange and beautiful it seemed far too marvelous to be real.” Today, only a few nuthatches and chickadees flit among frozen trees; otherwise, it is quiet and still. A light snow begins to fall.

I turn and glance toward the lake. The place where the stream joins the frozen waters isn’t far, but the distance between is filled with trees and bushes including a clump of now bare tamarack. I’ve long found the tamarack to be a curiosity. It is a coniferous tree by classification and appearance, but one that drops its leaves in autumn like its deciduous cousins. Though I can’t see the confluence from here, I know this stream is one of many that feed the lake. Now called Ennis Lake after a later landowner, Muir’s father named it Fountain Lake because of the many springs and streams that bubbled up and ran over the ground, feeding the lake a steady diet of fresh, cold water. It’s not miraculous, but it is beautiful.

I look off to my right and see the dog-like track of a coyote. The fresh snow reveals which travelers have passed, and I have seen many animal tracks today including deer, raccoon, fox, turkey, rabbit and squirrel. The trail begins to gently rise up a slight hill that’s slick with snow and ice. I scramble to the top and walk through a pleasing forest of mixed oaks. It’s a nice walk through some tall trees with a terrific view of the lake. After a short while, the trail descends to lake level, skirts the bottom of a hill of oaks and follows the outside edge of a sedge meadow. This trail most likely follows the lake’s old shoreline, but the sedge that now lies between the trail and the water has been gradually expanding. It has moved further and further into the lake and filled the open water with layer upon layer of peat. Over thousands of years, an entire lake can be consumed by a growing sedge meadow.

From here the trail follows the edge of the sedge around the southern end of the lake before entering a woodland of young oaks. This young forest is on the opposite side of the lake from the Muir homestead, but I expect that John Muir spent time walking and exploring here. Their nearest neighbor was four miles away, so there was ample space for exploration, but time was always a problem. Daniel Muir was a firm task master who often kept John and his siblings occupied with long, arduous days of farm chores. There was often some free time after church on Sunday and occasionally some time was granted in the evening to hunt or fish, but mostly their days were filled with farming. John’s days were so full that to find some time for himself he would often rise at 1 a.m.!

Following the trail around the lake, I emerge on the western side and circle a very large spring fen. A fen is a type of wetland characterized by marshy land that lacks tree cover and is filled with living peat-forming plants and pH-neutral to alkaline water. I soon arrive at another footbridge that affords passage over a small, snow-rimmed stream. Its bubbling, clear, cold water runs swiftly over the sandy dark brown and black stream bed. The view east over the cattails of the fen and toward the hills of the oak forest is terrific. The winter landscape is a muted palette of pale whites, browns and beige brought alive by splashes of deep burgundy branches.

The Muirs would only live at Fountain Lake for about eight years. Despite all of their hard work — and perhaps also because of it — the thin, sandy soil was quickly farmed out. Around 1857, when Muir was 17 years old, they moved six miles southeast to a new farm. But it was the memory of Fountain Lake that Muir carried with him as he walked to the Gulf, spent a summer in the Sierra, when he camped with Theodore Roosevelt, and while he tirelessly advocated for the preservation of American wild places.

There are many who feel that this land and lake was as important to Muir as Walden Pond was to Thoreau. There are three occasions when Muir tried to purchase the land from his brother, but was refused each time. The area is a wonderful collection of various plant communities and wetlands. It is now owned by Marquette County and has been protected as a State Natural Area since 1972. In September 2014, negotiations were completed with a private land-owner who owned a section of the Muir homestead to the north of the existing park, and that land will soon become part of the preserved property. It is currently slated to be dedicated in the spring of 2015.

After crossing the bridge, the trail opens into a field and from behind a tree my car comes into view. As I approach my vehicle, I reflect on this place. John Muir made this space a place of significance for the entire country. Its beauty is subtle, but striking for those willing to take the time to look. Muir changed the way we consider open spaces. He intensely advocated to preserve them for themselves, beyond any idea of economic use or function. Today, I wonder about the place where I live. It’s easy to take for granted the familiar places we see every day, but what if we took a moment to get out and turn over stones, do a little research and consider them with fresh eyes — the kind of eyes with which John Muir saw wild places? We might be as inspired by our own “ordinary” backyards as young Muir was by his.

Tom Persinger is a photographer and writer based in Pittsburgh, Pa. Read more at www.tompersinger.com. 

The post Beauty in the Details appeared first on American Forests.

By Jeffrey Ling

“Bugs are here, bugs are there,
Everywhere you find ’em,
For little fleas have lesser fleas,
. . . and so on, ad infinitum.”

THE GREAT WEB

I memorized that version of a nursery rhyme a long time ago and have seen its truth in my work as an arborist ever since. Insects are common in modern forests and landscapes and so are vertebrates. Urban and suburban landscapes have been shaped by human needs. Yet, every landscape, every collection of plants, every cluster of trees, is a focus point for animals, no matter its complexity, context, character, age or location. We must remember that whatever other purposes it serves for us, a landscape is also a home for animals. Even a “bad” landscape — one with incorrect assumptions or mistaken choices in the site’s design and plant selection — is still a habitat. Within this ‘web of life’ — from the debris on the ground, to understory plants, to the tops of trees — animals of all sizes can and do grow and thrive.

Arborists have always acknowledged this reality. We meet many animals as we climb and work in trees. However, the tree owners are often unaware of the interlocking connections of one animal to another or the relationships between animals and the landscape features around them.

For example, it has been reported that upwards of 20 different species of mites can reside and interact in a single spruce. Some feed on the tree’s tissues and some on each other as they all become food for insects and birds.

In the urban forest, some of the most significant insects are aphids and adelgid species that inhabit and feed on trees. From an ornamental horticulture perspective, they are universally ruled unacceptable and routinely treated to stop damages and to deter the mess of dripping trees. Yet, these bugs offer significant food sourcing for both other insects and hummingbirds. In this way, the tree is the base on which all insects, living to their own ends, create a foundation for the hierarchy of species found in the trees. Squirrels bound in and around the trees. Deer nibble on foliage, fruit and twigs beneath, while raccoons and opossums claim cavities as their winter dens. The urban and suburban forest supports wildlife large and small.

BIRDS: PLAYING BY THE RULES

Nowhere in the urban forest is the relationship between animals and woody perennials more frequently seen — or more unique to each species — than in the case of birds. Urban and suburban trees directly impact the types and numbers of birds on a site, in a neighborhood or throughout a city. All trees, whether specifically planted or volunteer trees — those that spring up on residential property on their own — will create avian habitats, food sources and rearing sites.

But why do some trees fill certain roles for some birds and not others? Examining birds’ interactions with our landscapes, it becomes clear that there are rules that apply to the bird-tree relationship. Three prime directives rule birds’ selection of a particular property and even an individual tree. Familiarity with these rules can help homeowners wishing to create a welcoming habitat for bird populations.

• All birds have tolerances and preference ranges that lead them to accept or reject a site.
  Every bird makes “value judgments.” They respond to their surroundings or react to changes therein. It doesn’t matter if the change is a radical alteration like tree removal or an incremental change like that of trees growing or being pruned over time. The avian community fostered in every habitat is a result of the positive and negative influences of the landscape’s character at that time.
• All birds learn over time.
  Birds are intelligent and learn from new experiences. Many relate what they learn to offspring as well. Any bird hatched on a site or in a landscape feature will consider it home, but sites that can foster and support more individuals will do so over time as birds learn about the spot. As an environment changes, birds will learn that it has become more or less hospitable, and areas that attract birds once are more likely to see future generations as well.
• Feeders bring visitors; harbors bring residents.
  Across America, bird feeding supplies are sold to homeowners desiring to watch birds in their yards. The installation of feeders — whether seeds, suet or sugar water — is primarily for the entertainment of people; it seldom impacts the local bird population over time. Most birds that visit feeders are either locals or migrants passing through. Consistency over the years — coupled with environmental support — is needed to have any real impact on any bird species. Feeding alone will not significantly increase bird populations; birds need a place to live, too.

PICKY, PICKY

To see these rules in practice, let’s take a look at some of the ways tree features influence birds’ decisions and therefore affect the numbers and types of birds in a given area. The height at which birds fly, roost and nest is species-specific. So too is their preferred tree structure and texture. Some species of birds demand a specific height for their nest. Cardinals and bluebirds, for example, will not nest above 15 feet while others, like orioles, demand high, exposed branches. Most birds require a specific density of cover and others seek a specific branch angle. Bird species that nest in rookeries need a tree or grove that can hold dozens or even hundreds of nests. If a bird’s exacting requirements are not met, it moves on.

A number of bird species need cavities to nest; some may be manufactured by woodpeckers for self-use, then appropriated by other species. Larger cavities and tree hollows are possessed by mammals and larger birds, like owls and wood ducks. Landscapes with these harbors will naturally draw more birds to them.

Food sources provided by trees are also important. Just like you and me, birds want food sources that are filling and reliable. A great example of this is the new cultivars of crabapple (Malus spp.) and their “persistent fruiting habit.” Almost universally, these trees are planted by homeowners for their multiseason traits, but it is their habit of growing small, colored fruits that hang on the twigs all winter that makes them interesting to birds. These fruits are not palatable for northern birds in November, but they turn to softened pulp after freezing, and become a primary source of food later in winter.

In America, probably no tree is more influential to several bird species than the ornamental pear (Pyrus calleryana). Though exotic, the species is not invasive and is a preferred urban specimen, planted extensively over the last 30 years, and would certainly appear on any list of the most predominant trees in landscapes and along streets or parking lots in much of America. Their density draws many birds, and their abundant and persistent small fruits are a welcomed food supply in the very early spring when it is difficult for many birds to find enough sustenance.

It’s not just ornamentals at work. The creation of “urban scrub” — shrubs and small trees — has also enlarged the populations of birds like cardinals (Cardinalis virginianus) and robins (Turdus migratorius). For both of these birds, as well as goldfinches, (Spinus tristis), purple finches, (Carpodacus purpureus) and many sparrows (Passeridae), the scrub provides the necessary type of roosting and nesting site.

Recently, many people in the Midwest have reported seeing robins in the snow, arriving to northern climates much earlier than expected. This may or may not be a function of global climate change, but it is certainly a reflection of micro-environment change — specifically, localized heat islands and persistent fruiting. All three rules are at work here: While urban buildings and concrete create warm harbors for the robins and other birds, it is the abundance of persistently fruiting trees that feed them in February and March, changing their calendar. Also, the lower canopy of ornamental trees has proven to be their preferred nesting habitat. Once birds have hatched in a location, they learn that “this is my home, my neighborhood” and teach that to their offspring as well.

CHANGING POPULATIONS

The robins have certainly benefitted from our warmer cities and abundant food sources, but one invasive species seems to have benefitted even more, judging by the explosion of its population. Hundreds of millions of European starlings (Sturnus vulgaris) now flock in the winter, almost darkening the skies in some areas, leaving trouble and messes in their wakes. These birds, like the robin, rely on persistent fruiting trees. Unlike the robin, they are omnivores, subsisting on any and all food sources.

What the passenger pigeon (Ectopistes migratorius), a native species, was to 19th century America, the starling is for much of the country today in terms of numbers. In winter, the large black clouds of these birds are the new urban wildlife reality for many sites, particularly in the Mississippi, Missouri and Ohio River regions. Not only are their nighttime roosts loud, but their huge nightly deposits of manure — 1,000 birds can produce more than 70 pounds of manure nightly — leave homeowners and city managers discouraged. In this, the behavior of starlings mirrors 19th century reports of the now-extinct passenger pigeon that routinely killed forest trees with its high-ammoniate manures. Part of the passenger pigeons’ demise was uncontrolled hunting, but a greater influence was the loss of the forest habitat that supported the pigeons. The starling has a broader tolerance and has found urban America and its urban trees and landscapes to its liking.

Another change in America’s bird population is the population growth of crows and ravens (Corvus) in urban settings. Among the smartest birds on the continent, they adapt readily to manmade landscapes. But these birds are gregarious in both their roosts (winter nighttime resting places) and rookeries (nesting/rearing sites). They demand tall trees in groupings to handle their numbers and branches stout enough to hold their collective weight. As urban forests mature, trees planted in groupings can be selected by these birds.

These birds also find natural food sources in urban environments in the form of small acorns. Pin oak (Quercus palustris), northern pin oak (Quercus ellipsoidalis), shingle oak (Quercus imbricaria) and willow oak (Quercus phellos) all set acorns that can be swallowed by these birds. These oaks are preferred in urban plantings, and it is no surprise that, as these trees proliferate and grow larger, Corvus populations increase in response to both the food source and the availability of high platforms for roosting and nesting.

Perhaps the ultimate success story of wildlife adapting to urban, man-directed sites is the non- migratory Canada goose (Branta canadensis maxima). Nearly extinct in the 1950s, this bird is now found in almost every state in the continental U.S. and across Canada. The total population is estimated at over 100 million individuals. This impressive increase is due in part to one landscape feature: the retention pond. This, blended with the installation of short-blade, high-fertility turf like golf courses, as well as protection by international treaties and the ability for the female goose to re-ovulate if the first clutch of eggs are lost, has created a nearly miraculous population explosion in half a century. These birds, interestingly enough, are inhibited by trees, not encouraged!

All birds differ — by size, by physiology, by need — yet all are attracted to or discouraged from a potential habitat site by how it allows or restricts species-specific behaviors. The success of micro- and macro-populations is governed by these same principles, whether a substantial woodlot, a homestead garden or a street tree planting.

By knowing and exercising these rules, tree owners can offer stimuli for more desired birds or control numbers of “undesirable” birds. Most importantly, if there is a bird issue, don’t blame the birds. They are almost always responding to what humans have done within the micro-environment that we share.

Registered Consulting Arborist Jeffrey Ling is the founder of Arborwise, Ltd. with his wife, Victoria Ling. He writes from Fort Wayne, Ind. 

The post Backyard For the Birds appeared first on American Forests.

I wondered how the world’s first universally accessible treehouse could finesse an entrance that a wheelchair might roll in on, while still maintaining the secluded feel of a hideaway tucked up amid branches and leaves. Turns out the Forever Young Treehouse perched in South Burlington, Vt., has all the character of a great backyard fort, including the feel of being concealed in the woods, of hovering 15 feet above the ground, of sharing intimate territory with birds and squirrels — all this plus easy access along a level walkway less than 50 feet from the Oakledge Park parking lot.

Designed and built in 2004 by the Tree House Guys, a team of craftsmen based in Waitsfield, Vt., this mid-air edifice is one of a half-dozen wheelchair accessible treehouses they’ve erected across the county, from Charles Wilson Park in Torrance, Calif., to Citizen’s Park in Barrington, Ill., to Nay Aug Park in Scranton, Pa., to Warrior’s Path State Park in Kingsport, Tenn.

Here, at Oakledge Park, Tree House Guys Chris Haake and James Roth utilized this park’s natural features — a stout red oak growing below an outcrop of ledge. They constructed a broad wooden pier leading from the ledge into the oak, allowing visitors to coast aboard the 500-square-foot platform hovering near the tree’s upper boughs. This tin roofed porch-house has a whimsical, Dr. Seussean feel — all that’s missing is a crooked twist of stovepipe. And if perchance a Cat in the Hat were to scurry by, anyone sheltered in this haven you’re never too old for would have the best view of all.

Julia Shipley is an independent journalist, poet and small farmer in northern Vermont.

The post A Whimsical Hideaway with Access for All appeared first on American Forests.

When and why did you become a nature photographer?

My mother is a photography enthusiast, and I learned a lot about photography from her. At first, it was the basics of film SLR cameras. We used mostly Zenit cameras, which were very popular in the Soviet Union. Later, when the digital era began, I started using the Casio QV-3000 and was impressed by its ability to capture a tiny world, almost unseen by the naked eye.

Why snowflakes, in particular?

Like many beginners, I started photography with flowers and ladybugs and didn’t even think of trying anything else for several years. But one day, I saw two shots of snowflakes on the internet (unfortunately, I do not remember the photographer’s name) and was amazed by their cold, crystal-like beauty. The following winter, I started shooting snowflakes. In the beginning, I made many mistakes. My early snowflake shots were terrible, but I was happy, because I was seeing snowflake shapes and patterns, which hadn’t seen before.

What was the most difficult image you ever tried to capture?

Among all my snowflake photos, the ones that are the biggest headache to process are the huge, fernlike dendrite crystals, like those shown above. This is because I make several masks to remove noise, and masks for these snowflakes are really big and complex.

Your mother also photographs snowflakes. Would you say it runs in the family? Do you work on your photography together?

My mom became interested in snowflake photography after my very first efforts, and we often shoot together, using almost identical techniques. The biggest difference between our photos is that my mother does quick processing, rarely spending more than 10 minutes on a photo, while I spend several hours of work per photo trying to create a composite image of maximum quality out of several individual shots.

Do you have a favorite photo?

Among my earlier snowflake photos, my favorite is “Darkside,” which appears in American Forests Vol. 121, No. 1. Some people say they see the Imperial Crest from the Star Wars movies at its center, and I named it for this reason. Among my more recent snowflake photos, it’s difficult to choose a favorite. Maybe, the 12-sided crystal image I call “12 months” is the most intriguing from last winter’s series.

Please tell us a little bit about your technique.

My technique is very inexpensive. I shoot my snowflake pictures on the open balcony of our house using two methods. The first is dark shots with bright snowflakes taken in natural light, using dark gray woolen fabric as a background. I place this fabric on a stool and wait for a good crystal to fall on it, then start shooting. I shoot at angle using a small desktop tripod.

The second method is shooting the snowflake on a backlit glass surface. For this, I turn the stool upside down on the balcony and place a large sheet of glass across the legs to create a surface. Unlike the darker shots, I shoot these vertically from above, not at an angle. In order to set the camera up for this without any shaking, I created a simple tool. From a small plastic bottle I cut out a cylinder that fits over the camera’s lens to a length that allows the lens to rest 1 centimeter above the glass, the minimum focusing distance of my camera in macro mode. When snowflakes falls on the glass, I just place this tube with the camera inserted over the snowflake and shoot with a 2-second delay, which allows me to remove my hands from camera. Then, I light the snowflake from beneath the glass with a simple LED flashlight. This light is strong enough for shooting even at night. I try to light at an angle to give the crystal more dark and light detail and contours.

Two years ago, instead of single shots of each snowflake, I started to take short series (usually 8-10 shots, sometimes more) of identical shots of each crystal. These shots can then be averaged and merged into one picture, greatly lowering noise and revealing small and subtle crystal details which no single shot reveals on its own. Shooting is easy, but processing of picture takes significant time.

When I started, I was shooting snowflakes with just a camera, without any add-ons. The final resolution of the pictures I shot this way varies from 640 x 480 pixels to about 1024 x 768. This is enough for posting online or making collages, but not for prints. Recently, I began using a simple home-made optical add-on for my camera which allows for higher resolutions for print. You can read more about this method on my blog.

Which other photographers do you admire?

Of course, Wilson Bentley, the pioneer of snowflake photography, who dedicated his life to this craft.

Also, I admire the work of Kenneth G. Libbrecht, professor of physics and excellent snowflake photographer. In addition to taking photos of natural snowflakes, he also grows artificial snowflakes in a laboratory, and they look absolutely fantastic!

Don Komarechka is a wonderful Canadian snowflake photographer who recently published a great book about snowflake physics and photography. Not only do his snowflake photos reveal amazing details, but he also explains how each one formed with its particular shape and features.

See more snowflake photography from Alexey Kljatov below and read more on his blog, The Keys to December.

The post Close Up with Nature Photographer Alexey Kljatov appeared first on American Forests.

Why did you choose to go into forest hydrology?

The profession of forestry and the sub-field of hydrology have always been a good fit for my interests, skills and sensibilities. My father set the stage for a career focused on forests and water by taking me trout fishing, hiking, camping and canoeing as a young boy. My great uncle (and surrogate grandfather), a forester, carefully planted the seed when he suggested the New York State Ranger School to me as a young teenager. I have Peter Black and Arthur Eschner, emeritus professors at SUNY Environmental Science and Forestry, and Ken Brooks at the University of Minnesota, also an emeritus professor, to thank for their encouragement and mentoring in forest hydrology and watershed management and their example of dedicated service as professors.

Why did you decide to join the American Forests Science Advisory Board?

Research and scholarship have their own rewards, but working with a highly respected organization like American Forests opens a door to a new range of opportunities and experiences. This is especially important in an applied field like forestry and is an excellent source of project ideas, case studies for teaching and new perspectives and insights for writing. In addition, having served on other boards and committees in the U.S. and Canada, I value the opportunity to meet and interact with colleagues from other universities, agencies and conservation organizations.

What aspect of American Forests’ work do you hope to engage with?

Water is the most essential forest product for many people and communities and can serve as the impetus for conservation. I coined the widely used phrase ”from the forest to the faucet” 15 years ago to highlight this imperative. Protecting or restoring the “regulation of streamflow” by forests was one of the primary motives for the 19^th century forest conservation movement in which American Forests (then the American Forestry Association) played such a large role. This aspect of forests is as important, if not more important, in the 21^st century.

What is your favorite aspect or favorite part of your field?

At the basic science and research end of the spectrum, I continue to be fascinated by the patterns and processes of water movement through forest ecosystems. At the applied end of the spectrum, it is gratifying when forest hydrology and land use impacts research is used to guide natural resources policy and management. A focus on forests, water and people also reminds us to honor our obligations to future generations.

What do you think the biggest issue facing forest health is today?

Confusion and complacency about climate change.

What was the most difficult moment or encounter that you’ve experienced in pursuit of your work?

In 2005, I was asked to chair a committee to review and update the regulations associated with the Massachusetts Forest Cutting Practices Act (last revised in 1986). After two years of very contentious monthly meetings, we hammered out a much improved set of regulations with consensus support. Then, a new governor took office, a new commissioner was appointed and the entire effort — which by then involved a very diverse group of nearly 80 people — went straight into the recycling barrel. As the old saying goes, “I farmed in northern Minnesota for two years and all I got was rocks and experience.”

Do you have a favorite story from your years in the field?

About 20 years ago, I was working on a watershed study in southern New England. Having used up my budget for electronic sensors, I needed to recycle an older mechanical instrument to measure water level fluctuations in a forested wetland. These older precision instruments used a clock-driven drum fitted with special graph paper and a very sensitive float and counterweight mechanism to drive a pen filled with bright purple ink. If this ink were to leak in your field vest it would go through many layers of clothes and leave a purple blotch on your skin that will not wash off for a month or more. So, I left it in the locked plywood shelter. Some time later, a black bear came out of hibernation and — with a sense smell seven times more acute than a bloodhound’s — smashed the heavy plywood shelter, chewed up the plastic bottle of faintly sweet-smelling ink (I found it about 100 feet away) and ended up with a bright purple mouth and muzzle for the next several months. Note to self: put the ink in a Ziploc bag and bring it back to the lab.

Where was the most impactful place you were able to travel to in the name of science and why?

The boreal forest region of northwestern Saskatchewan; I was there at a time in my career when I was beginning to work on large-scale interdisciplinary projects, in this case the project covered up to 5 million acres. This complex landscape of aspen, white spruce and jack pine forests, massive wetlands and lakes, and meandering rivers challenged me to think about fundamental ecosystem processes. Working with the senior staff at Mistik Management Ltd., Cree community leaders, provincial and federal officials and Canadian colleagues from academia and environmental organizations broadened my view of the inherent complexity and practical limitations of sustainable forest management.

If you weren’t a scientist, what would you be and why?

I would probably still be a land surveyor in the Catskill Mountain region of New York and a woodworker in the winter. I love to be outside in all kinds of weather (except the worst of black fly and mosquito seasons). The historical aspects and the technical and physical challenges all come together when you re-trace a boundary line up a mountain, find the old stone-on-end corner referenced in the deed, notice the ancient chestnut oak with the faint scar of an axe blaze, take in the beautiful view and realize the last person on this spot was likely to have been the first surveyor (with a name like Wynkoop or Van kleeck) in the late 1700s.

The post Forest Hydrologist Dr. Paul Barten appeared first on American Forests.