By Jack Wax

Virtually every black walnut that makes its way to any grocer’s shelf gets there via Stockton, Mo., the unofficial, but incontestable black walnut capital of the world. The head of state of this capital is 55-year-old Brian Hammons, third-generation president and CEO of Hammons Products Company.

In an average year, Hammons oversees the processing of 25 million pounds of black walnuts. In the small world of nut-cracking operations, Brian Hammons is the last man standing. The other 10 major companies that used to crack black walnuts have long since disappeared, partly due to the difficulty of relying on an inherently fluctuating crop.

Unlike English walnuts (Juglans regia) that are cultivated in orchards in California, where the growing conditions are just right for these trees native to southeastern Europe, the North American native black walnut (Juglans nigra) is mostly a wild crop that grows in fields, forests and urban landscapes. The trees are as likely to be planted by squirrels abandoning nuts as by intention. Across its natural range throughout much of the Midwest and eastern U.S., the black walnut crop would rot in the field without the help of the thousands of amateur nut-gatherers, who trade in their nuts for cash to Hammons.

Although Hammons runs a multimillion-dollar family business — employing about 85 people in Stockton — his impact extends far beyond the economy and food industry. Each year, thousands of people get a little closer to nature and develop a deeper appreciation of our relationship to trees because of Brian Hammons and the unique way his company operates. “We rely on people picking up a wild crop each year,” he says. A network of 250 hulling stations scattered throughout 16 Midwestern states makes the harvest possible. Anyone with a five-gallon bucket or a brown paper sack can pick black walnuts off the ground near their home and sell them at the nearest Hammons hulling station. “For some people, the money is important. Others are trying to teach lessons to their kids about taking care of resources,” says Hammons. “There’s nothing like a beautiful October day with nuts on the ground, and you go out in a pickup with the kids and grandkids. Those are memories that connect people.”

The 250 hulling stations, each operated by a local contractor, can be found mostly in small towns or on farmland just outside city limits. A trip to any of the stations is an entertaining lesson in old-fashioned ingenuity. The contraption that removes the walnuts’ smooth, green husks looks like a cross between an old-time hay baler and a thresher. Turn it on and feed it a bushel of walnuts, and it lets out a high-decibel clattering that sounds like a giant corn popper loaded with metal ball bearings instead of corn. After a few moments, it starts spitting out nuts, still in their wrinkly, brown shells, while the green-skinned husks travel a conveyer belt to be dumped in a pile. The husks, which make good fertilizer, are usually spread on nearby fields. The nuts are bagged and stored on site until shipment to Stockton is arranged.

Hammons Products Company is located a block off Stockton’s main square. Unlike the low-tech hulling stations, the main offices and processing center are part of a sophisticated 20,000-square-foot operation. An assortment of computerized and laser-equipped stainless steel machinery transforms the harvested nuts into packaged foods. The nuts are cleaned, then dumped into a giant nutcracker that pops them open. Nutmeat is separated from shell, sorted by size and inspected by machines and humans before being packaged and boxed. The bits of shell are saved and sold to industrial customers who use them in a variety of ways — as an abrasive for cleaning and cosmetics, as a sealing agent in oil wells and as filtration media to separate oil from water.

It’s a business that is built on three generations’ worth of knowledge about walnuts. It also depends on Hammons’ understanding of tree biology, weather patterns and the economy. Wild black walnut trees are alternate bearing — meaning that a good crop of nuts is produced every other year. To ensure that he can meet the growing demand for black walnuts during lean years as well as plentiful ones, Hammons dries and sets aside a portion of the harvest in strong years.

Although the supply of black walnut trees is holding steady, Hammons says that any increase in demand for nuts will require the growth of profitable commercial orchards. To create a path for growth, he promotes and participates in research that is developing improved nut-bearing black walnut trees. At an orchard 13 miles outside of Stockton, he monitors progress on commercially grown trees — cultivated through traditional methods of cross-breeding and grafting — that have proven themselves viable at the University of Missouri’s Center for Agroforestry in New Franklin, about 150 miles north of Stockton. This joint research project is already yielding results, with some cultivars producing nuts with a ratio of 38 percent nutmeat to shell — three to four times more than the wild variety.

Maintaining the economic viability of black walnuts isn’t just good for business — it’s good for the wild trees as well, bolstering recognition and preservation of the tree. Says Hammons, “New trees are growing up and people in the area where the nuts are strong recognize the value of the nuts and will leave their black walnut trees to grow, hoping someday they’ll have a good.”

The future of black walnuts as a wild resource, a food and an industry depends in part on Hammons and the university convincing potential nut farmers that commercial orchards make good economic sense. Considering that Hammons estimates it takes about a decade from planting a black walnut orchard to seeing significant crops of nuts, the future will most likely involve a young man whose office is down the hall from his own. That office is occupied by David Hammons, currently the vice president of marketing, who represents the fourth generation of the first family of black walnuts.

Jack Wax is a freelance writer, graduate of the University of Missouri-Columbia School of Journalism and occasional black walnut harvester.

The post A Wild Crop and Backyard Harvest appeared first on American Forests.

By Joseph Love

Deep in the wilderness of North Carolina, Cataloochee Valley echoes with deep, melodic bugling, at once formidable and alluring. It comes from the chest and throat of a huge, solitary bull elk — also known by their Shawnee name, wapiti. For nearly two centuries, the valley and much of the surrounding Appalachians were silent, devoid of the signature notes of the bull elk’s cry. Today, the cry echoes again, but the elk grazing in the open fields, knocking antlers in play and surveying their harems are not the same ones that once migrated through these hills.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF EASTERN ELK

These are transplanted Manitoban elk (Cervus elaphus manitobensis), whose natural range includes Manitoba and eastern Saskatchewan. The bulls can weigh up to 700 pounds and cows up to 500. However, their predecessors, the eastern elk (Cervus elaphus canadensis), were much larger. Bulls stood five feet at the shoulder, weighed up to 1,000 pounds and sported massive antlers up to six feet long. More importantly, they weren’t isolated to pockets of forest as their modern counterparts are. Rather, they occupied most of North America east of the Mississippi River, from deep in Louisiana to as far north as Manitoba.

And they weren’t the only ones. Eastern elk were one of six subspecies of elk, including Manitoban elk, that once roamed North America. So dense were elk populations that Lewis and Clark used their hides to bind their journals, then wrote in those very same journals about encountering the endless herds from the Mississippi River to the Rocky Mountains. Eastern elk, known for their adaptability and somewhat fearless nature, were more frequently sighted by settlers and explorers than bison and white-tailed deer. It is this bravery that brought eastern elk populations to extinction. When settlers expanded and the colonies grew, deer and bison kept to the outskirts of the settlements, while the bold, blithe elk continued to graze and roam where they always had.

On the occasion that their bravery does fail them, their fear can be just as deadly. In their unique way, elk are just as apt to seek refuge from a predatory bird as they are to stand steadfast in the way of loud, murderous rifle fire. As Theodore Roosevelt would later observe, “The wapiti is undoubtedly subject to queer freaks of panic stupidity or what seems like a mixture of tameness and puzzled terror … In the old days, it was not uncommon for a professional hunter to destroy an entire herd of wapiti when one of these fits of confusion was on them.”

With its massive size and favorable venison — reportedly better tasting than all other wild game meats — this ease of hunting made eastern elk the sport of choice. While North America’s eastern elk population peaked in the 1600s, it would take less than two centuries to hunt them to extinction. They disappeared first from South Carolina in 1737, and over the next 130 years were essentially wiped out. John James Audubon reported in 1810 that elk in Kentucky were rare, and 40 years later, they were officially gone. By 1870, the last eastern elk were killed in Pennsylvania.

Even more unnerving, though, is that the relentless hunting of elk continued out west following their eastern extinction. In 1920, Munsey’s Magazine published a report in which the practice of elk tusk excision was revealed to be a major threat to elk populations in the Rockies. Elk possess two historic ivory molars — remnants of ancient protruding tusks. Still used to grind up grasses and nuts, elk not shot or bludgeoned to death were left without their ivories and, therefore, incapable of chewing.

ELK IN THE CONSERVATION ERA

But the poachers’ reign would not last. The emerging conscience of the 20th century was one of preservation and conservation. The eradication of eastern elk was seen as having been a major abuse of hunting privileges; its subsequent prevention and reversal were attempted throughout the 1900s without much success. The first successful elk transplant attempt was in 1913, when the Pennsylvania Game Commission, sympathetic to the plight of overpopulated Rocky Mountain elk (Cervus elaphus nelsoni), purchased some from Yellowstone National Park to reintroduce to the Allegheny Mountains. Nearly a century later, in 1997, another transplant attempt was successful when Kentucky brought elk into their borders — many of them to Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area. Some of these reintroduced elk were the same Manitoban elk that would eventually end up in Cataloochee Valley in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

The National Park Service considers preserving native wildlife one of their primary missions and sometimes reintroducing native species that have become regionally extinct is one component of that mission. The U.S. Forest Service, which oversees Land Between the Lakes, has similar goals of advocating a conservation ethic and promoting diversity on their lands. In the case of animals like elk, though, there are also economic reasons to reintroduce: Elk are large, imposing creatures that draw large, imposing crowds. Those crowds, in turn, benefit local economies by shopping at local businesses or eating at local restaurants. Additionally, by keeping visitor numbers up, parks can afford proper staffing and large maintenance projects.

But for all the benefits, building up elk populations is quite complex. Since transplanted elk aren’t native, they’re highly susceptible to disease and previously unknown predators. The brain worm that eastern elk, in their great, healthy numbers, would have contracted from white-tailed deer would not have been a major threat to the species’ overall population and, in fact, would have helped with natural population control. Small numbers of transplanted elk, however, can be totally wiped out by brain worms, which cause loss of motor control and death. Likewise, an elk that has never seen a black bear has no perception of danger to her calf.

For these reasons, when Kentucky took on the task of reintroducing elk within its borders in 1997, it did so with large enough numbers that the elk could thrive despite disease and predatory threat. With an initial transplant of 1,800 elk, just seven years later it was estimated that nearly 4,500 elk thrived in eastern Kentucky and even, unexpectedly, into neighboring Virginia. Kentucky’s abundant elk population became Virginia’s pest problem, and Virginia declared open season on elk for hunters. It’s hard to champion an animal perceived as obtrusive, a nuisance or even dangerous, as elk can be when they become too accustomed to humans. As Roosevelt once said of his beloved wapiti, “In domestication, the bulls are very dangerous to human beings and will kill a man at once if he can get him at a disadvantage, but in a state of nature, they rarely indeed overcome their abject terror of humanity, even when wounded and cornered.”

The elk need such a state of nature and, nestled in the hills between North Carolina and Tennessee, isolated Cataloochee Valley fits that bill. With one long and unpaved road by which to access the valley, Cataloochee is both a natural and historic preserve. Churches, cabins and barns from centuries past still stand and are in use by the park service. Within the walls of the surrounding mountains, located on flat, sunlit plains, harems of cow and calf graze and wander, accompanied always by a handful of bulls. Land Between the Lakes worked with Great Smoky Mountains National Park to send some of their abundant elk population into the secluded valley, and others were transplanted from Canada. The elk roam slowly from field to field, laying in the sun, sparring, bugling and grazing.

KEEPING TABS ON ELK

Their numbers have grown slowly since they came to the park. In 2001, 25 elk were released into the park, in 2002, another 27. Because such small numbers are susceptible to disease, their movement was monitored daily with radio and GPS collars. Park rangers constantly monitor collared animals and respond to prolonged lack of movement, which indicates illness or death. A death results in a field necropsy to determine any potential risks for the rest of the herd. Initially, all the elk released into the park were collared, but as they age, collars die or break and fall off, and adults spread out and give birth far away from the ranger station. Still, when rangers see a calf without a collar, they take action immediately, sedating the calf and fitting it with a small adjustable collar.

As of October 2011, it’s estimated that there are between 140 and 150 elk roaming in or around Cataloochee Valley. They lounge by the gravel road, slowly chewing on grass or lazily knocking antlers. Other than the bulky radio collar adorning most necks, the elk look as they might have looked to settlers, surrounded by century-old barns and churches. They’re serene to watch, happy in their protected existence.

But it’s the allure of this bucolic scene that can threaten its peace. On any given day, tourists hoping to get a closer look come within 20 feet of bulls and their harems. While signs are posted from one end of the park to the other and volunteers patrol to make sure onlookers keep their distance, it’s the primary duty of park rangers to keep the elk wary.

Joe Yarkovich is a wildlife biologist for Cataloochee Valley and has lived there for the last four years, monitoring the elk daily. He performs necropsies in the field to determine causes of death and to record disease and has been witness to nearly every nuanced behavior of the species. However, Yarkovich’s daily concern is crowd control. “Wildlife management is people management — 100 percent,” he says in a lively tone, distinct from the scientific matter-of-factness that dominates most of the conversation. “We haven’t had anyone hurt yet, but we’ve had people charged and chased before.”

Yarkovich’s radio has chirped during most of the interview, turned down to a distant, occasional hiss. He can still hear what’s going on in the park, and as the interview ends, he catches something worthwhile and heads to the main road. He rushes into a field where the elk have gotten too close to the visitors for his liking. Down the road, he flashes a bright orange pistol and asks another ranger for something to bait a lone bull. The other ranger offers a half-eaten apple.

Telling a tourist to back off is only effective to that particular tourist, since visitors cycle in and out so regularly. Therefore, Yarkovich prefers to show the elk that humans are to be avoided. The orange pistol shoots pepper foam, which burns as badly as pepper spray, but will stick to whatever it hits. Yarkovich’s target is a problem bull — one that routinely approaches guests seeking handouts. Undoubtedly, the bull has been fed by guests in the past, but still eyes the rangers with suspicion as they venture toward him in the field, not 10 feet from the road.

He seems to recognize Yarkovich as a sort of killjoy. The bull wants the apple and, unaffected by the camera’s shutter, allows an approach — close enough to hear the deep, equine-like breathing. The standoff lasts less than a minute before the bull turns and wanders away. It’s a missed opportunity, and Yarkovich is disappointed. Without the negative reinforcement of the pepper foam, the bull learns no healthy fear of humans and is more likely to approach guests again.

ELK IN THE APPALACHIANS

Encounters with humans may not be the only consequence of elk reintroduction. Because elk have been out of the region for so long, their long-term impact on the environment isn’t well understood. Elk populations “have the possibility of ballooning and causing … substantial impacts on the environment,” Yarkovich explains. “We want to know that as soon as it starts to happen.”

One way Yarkovich and the team are monitoring these impacts are exclosures in the woods. The exclosures are 39-square-foot plots closed off by high-tensile wire. There are 15 exclosures hidden in the park, a part of the elk program mostly unknown by the general public. They’re designed so that bears, deer and smaller animals can get in and out without hindrance, but an elk is simply too big to enter. The exclosures allow rangers to collect data that looks at plant growth and diversity both where elk forage and where they cannot.

When foraging is high, or unsustainable, there is little diversity, and plant growth is typically stunted. Poor foraging translates to poor nutrition for elk and other herbivores, large and small. At the moment, the number of elk in Cataloochee Valley seems to be in a very good place — the elks’ grazing is active enough to stimulate constant plant regeneration. They keep fields relatively clear and easy to navigate for smaller animals, such as rabbit or turkey, and also make it easier for birds of prey to hunt through shorter grasses. However, Yarkovich estimates it could take 10 to 15 years to gather enough data to truly determine how the elk impact this particular environment.

Turning the observation around, the environment’s effects on the introduced elk are more immediately noticeable. Says Yarkovich, “What we’ve seen over the years is they’re using forested resources more. The first couple of years, they weren’t eating acorns; now, they’ve figured out that here in the East, acorns are a great food source.” And their body masses prove it, perhaps shedding light on the disparities in size between eastern elk and their western cousins. Antler size, body mass and birth weight all increased as the reintroduced elk discovered better foraging on the forest floor, compared with a diet of mostly plains grasses out west.

That’s been food for graduate students as well, who look to quantify this sort of data to back up Yarkovich’s observations in the field. Dr. Jennifer Murrow, whose doctoral work is specifically on the release of elk in the Smokies, has collected data from Cataloochee Valley that will be used in years ahead. The short-term effects appear to be negligible, and population growth looks positive. “So far, so good,” reports Murrow. “The human factor in that equation is the real question. Can humans adapt to having elk back in the area? Our behaviors, tolerances, and management regimes will have to adapt, too.”

If elk thrive in the Smokies, it will be the realization of the hopes of early conservationists. As Theodore Roosevelt wrote a century ago: “f the people only have foresight, they can, through the power of the State, keep the game in perpetuity … the stately and beautiful wapiti, can be kept on the public lands.”

Joseph Love is a freelance writer from Tennessee, a state whose beauty is carved in limestone and framed by waterfalls. 

The post Reintroducing Elk to the Great Smoky Mountains appeared first on American Forests.

Through the ages and in all corners of the globe, people have looked to trees to make sense of our lives, honoring their transcendental qualities in a variety of ways. How has our interconnectedness with trees manifested itself? The answers are many, but these pages present just a few examples — culled from my own experience and that of others, including the research of Dr. Nalini Nadkarni, discussed in her book “Between Earth and Sky: Our Intimate Connections to Trees” — of how trees meet our needs at every level of human experience.

TREES AND OUR PHYSICAL SELVES

Our strong connections with trees may be based, in part, on the fact that trees and humans share similar physical characteristics. We stand upright, have a crown on top and mobile limbs stemming from a central trunk. The pattern of the tubular branches (bronchi) in our lungs is similar to the root system of many trees.

At the physical level, trees provide oxygen, food and other material necessities, such as paper and building materials.

Trees also provide physical security in the form of shelter, windbreaks and a sense of place — of rootedness. Humans have a strong preference for landscapes with trees or wooded areas. In the real estate market, we find that trees increase the property value of homes by four to 15 percent. In areas where 30 percent or more of the land is federally protected, employment growth over the last 40 years has been three times higher than average, and commercial areas with trees tend to attract more customers, who shop longer and spend up to 12 percent more.

Trees play a role in the context of play and recreation, as well. We use trees for crafting musical instruments and constructing boats and canoes. We have picnics under the trees and take walks through the woods. Eight of the 25 most popular tourist destinations in the United States are on National Park Service land.

TREES AND OUR SPIRITUAL SELVES

At the spiritual level, trees help us become more aware of our connections with something larger than ourselves. In mythology, trees are sometimes portrayed as the abodes of nature spirits. We even have a special word — dendrolatry — in reference to the way we worship trees. Dr. Nadkarni suggests that trees call us to a state of “mindfulness,” where we become better in tune with and more compassionate toward our surroundings.

Perhaps this is why sacred groves have been an important part of various cultures throughout the world. Examples include cedar groves in Lebanon, redwood groves along the Pacific coast of North America, the Shaman forests in south Peru and the Garden of Gethsemane in Israel. In Japan, a large number of Shinto and Buddhist groves are cherished as sacred natural sites, while people in other parts of the world and with different religions have established specific wooded areas as monastic groves.

Early Greeks, Persians and other ancient peoples throughout the globe used the world tree motif — with its roots wrapped around the Earth and its branches in the heavens — to symbolize the potential ascent of humans from the realm of matter to the higher reaches of the spirit or the possibility of mystic access from one plane of being to another.

We also look to trees for healing — not only in the medicinal sense, but for spiritual healing, comfort and solace. We thus find trees in therapeutic gardens and cemeteries and understand why some individuals request having their ashes buried at the foot of a tree or scattered in a beloved forest.

TREES AND OUR ARTISTIC SELVES

Forests and trees have inspired works of literature, art and architecture.

In literature, Thoreau writes about the “living spirit of the tree” and declares a tree to be “full of poetry.” Poet Joyce Kilmer says that he’ll “never see a poem lovely as a tree.”

In art, the tree of life is a common motif used in various forms to represent harmony, unity and connections between heaven and Earth, the past and present, death and rebirth. The symbol takes various forms, but basic elements include roots, trunk, branches and leaves, blossoms or fruit. In the Jewish and Christian traditions, the tree of life is often used to represent the cycle of life, death and rebirth. The Mexican tree of life often depicts religious stories, such as the tale of Adam and Eve or the story of Noah’s ark. The motif is also a traditional Celtic symbol, where it is often depicted as one big circle connecting all forms of life. We use the same tree of life design in “family trees” to depict connections within a family group.

In architecture, we find various components of buildings inspired by trees. Some columns, for example, clearly represent tree trunks; others incorporate different parts of the tree. The palmiform column depicts eight palm fronds tied to a central pole. The palmette — often found in the design of a frieze or border — represents the fan-shaped leaves of a palm tree. Famous American architect Frank Lloyd Wright used the tree of life design in one of his most popular art-glass panels in the 1904 Darwin Martin House.

TREES AND OUR CEREMONIES

Trees are sometimes planted to commemorate special events, such as the birth of a baby, a graduation or a Bar/Bat Mitzvah. In some instances, trees are used as monuments, such as the Survivor Tree at the Oklahoma City National Memorial, to serve as a witness to tragedy and a symbol of strength.

A tree might also be planted in memory of a loved one who has died. Some people may plant these memorial trees in their backyards or in a cemetery plot, while others may have them planted in forests as a way to honor the deceased’s love for the outdoors. Many people have trees planted through American Forests’ Gift of Trees in Memory program as a way to honor their loved one’s memory.

In other instances, people choose to be buried under trees or have their ashes put into biodegradable urns from which a tree will grow.

TREES AND OUR ENVIRONMENTAL ADVOCACY

At times, deep, personal experiences with trees inspire environmental advocacy. Take Julia Butterfly Hill, for example. Beginning in 1997, Julia spent two years living in the branches of a 1,000-year-old redwood to draw attention to the clear-cutting of old-growth forests. Her actions not only led to an agreement with the Pacific Lumber Co. to preserve what came to be known as “Julia’s tree” and other trees within 200 feet of it, but also to awareness of the need to preserve forests, leading to public support for sustainable forestry research. Yet, for all the impact her vigil in the tree and her advocacy had, they were entirely unplanned. Julia was traveling through northern California when an impromptu stop and a short walk in the redwood forest changed her life forever. It was the spirit of the forest, she said, that gripped her and called her to do what she could to protect the majestic cathedral of the woods.

Author, conservationist and former vice president of American Forests Aldo Leopold (1887-1948) was also inspired by the forest and dedicated himself to nature preservation — not just for the physical well-being of humans, but to maintain the integrity of nature itself. Leopold worked as a forester during a time when forest management was based on a utilitarian view, defined by what is useful for humans. He proposed a dramatic change in how we view and relate to the natural world, advocating a “land ethic” based on preserving the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community. His 1925 American Forests’ magazine article, “The Last Stand of the Wilderness,” became the basis for American Forests’ national campaign for wilderness preservation.

TREES AND OUR SENSE OF PLACE

My own experience — which I am sure is shared by many others — also suggests that trees can foster a sense of place. I moved frequently to different parts of the country and found that I could always depend on trees to help me connect with the place where I lived.

I grew up in Ohio, where maple trees framed my life and helped me learn about seasons and cycles and the way things work. I soon learned to anticipate the buds and emerging leaves in spring, shade in summer, brightly colored leaves in fall and the quiet dormancy of winter. In Florida, I found the scent and taste of oranges, grapefruit and lemons more reflective of the Sunshine State than miles of sandy beaches. While living in Washington, I found inspiration in the ponderosa pine and sitka spruce of the Olympic rainforest. These giant trees seemed undeterred in their striving to reach the heavens. I now live in New Mexico, where juniper and pinyon pine stand firm, even in sandy ground and through the onslaught of drought and strong winds. Trees, in each of these very different places, helped me understand and adjust to the environment in which I lived.

Unless moved by humans, trees remain rooted in one place throughout their lifetime, preserving their native character. They stand tall, solid and strong, rooted in the earth. They become an integral part of the place where they live, a contributing member of the biotic community. Perhaps there is no better example for us, as humans, to emulate. Listening to the trees, we can learn not only about a particular geographic place, but also about our place in the larger community of life.

Ruth Wilson writes from Cochiti Lake, N.M., and can be reached at wilson.rutha@gmail.com

The post People and Trees: An Intimate Connection appeared first on American Forests.

By Tyler Williams

Imagine a world of idyll, where a chorus of wavering lime-green leaves creates an ethereal backdrop to columns of bright white trunks. Ferns grow waist high; songbirds flit, matching the symphonic flutter of the leaves. This is an aspen grove, one of millions that make our world a natural paradise.

It’s no wonder that the word “aspen” has served as a title for perfumes, iconic mountain towns and children’s names. We love this tree, and there are a lot of them to love. Aspen range from the barren fringes of Alaska’s Brooks Range to the fecund tropical highlands of central Mexico. They intermingle with hardwood forests in West Virginia, dominate the North Woods of Wisconsin and carpet mountainsides of the American West. Quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) is the most widely distributed tree in North America, and its cousins reach around the world. In the Far East, there is Chinese aspen (Populus adenopoda) and Japanese aspen (Populus sieboldii). Eurasia and northern Africa harbor European aspen (Populus tremula), the aspen species most similar to North America’s P. tremuloides. In fact, aspen is so adaptable that it is one of a select group of trees dubbed “circumglobal super species,” spanning continents in strikingly similar forms.

With such wide-ranging parameters, one might think that aspen would be nicely poised to bend with the curves of climate change. Unfortunately for aspen — and for the myriad species that call aspen groves home and communities that depend on aspen to help regulate their water supply — just the opposite could be true. And given aspen’s global presence, ecosystems around the world could experience the consequences.

THE ADAPTABLE ASPEN

Here in North America, we have two aspen: the common P. tremuloides and bigtooth aspen (Populus grandidentata), distinguished by its darker bark and bigger leaves. Bigtooth aspen grow from Missouri to Quebec and west to North Dakota, but the species curiously hybridizes with P. tremuloides in a disjunct population along Nebraska’s Niobrara River. This isolated aspen melting pot is a unique ice age remnant, where aspen, once common across the Pleistocene Great Plains, has held on in a sheltered cold pocket after the glaciers receded. As unusual as the Niobrara population is, it’s not the only hybridization of aspen. In Alaska, black cottonwoods (Populus trichocarpa) have been documented to hybridize, in rare instances, with P. tremuloides.

Despite the different varieties, aspen is easily recognized whether in Mexico or Manitoba. No other tree has that familiar quiver that gives the tree its common name, quaking aspen — or sometimes trembling aspen. Its leaves are distinctly shaped — rounded, nearly heart-shaped and finely saw-toothed. The bark is almost always whitish, but varies significantly with region and age. In Arizona, trunks are often so clean and white that they look artificially painted, but a beige-white or green tint is most common, indicative of the photosynthesis that takes place through aspen bark. Older trees develop grayish, furrowed bark. Not that many aspen get the opportunity to develop these wrinkles of wisdom, however, because aspen is a relatively short-lived tree. Quaking aspen has an average lifespan of 60-70 years, while bigtooth aspen may live closer to 100 years. There are anomalies, though.

The oldest recorded aspen was 226 years old. It grew in California’s White Mountains, the same rot-free environment that produces 4,000-yearold bristelcone pine — the world’s oldest trees. By contrast, the humid and dynamic climate of the upper Midwest yields lifespans of just 60 to 75 years, a product of persistent rot sometimes followed by violent winds. Drier, less fungal environments aid in aspen longevity, and although any P. tremuloides more than 200 years of age is rare, many specimens in the West survive for well more than a century. These older trees of the West also have time on their side when it comes to attaining maximum size. Before 2007, the national champion P. tremuloides grew in eastern Oregon. The current champ hails surprisingly from the Pinaleno Mountains of southeastern Arizona, a vertically prominent range in Coronado National Forest known as a sky island because of its botanical isolation amidst the desert valleys that surround it. The Pinaleno aspen grows 130 feet tall with a four-foot diameter trunk, about twice the size of a thriving, mature, average tree.

But average is hardly a word one can use with this species, for aspen can grow as a stunted subalpine hedge, a spindly and tall canyon dweller or a maze of crooked trunks, bent into incomprehensible “s”-turns by winter’s drifting snow. Most aspen habitats hold at least a modest snowpack because one thing this adaptable species requires is a high water table. Aspen only thrives where annual precipitation exceeds annual evapotranspiration. That can come as 40 inches of rainfall in Mexican highlands or six inches of water stored in a dry Alaskan snowpack that persists for nine months a year.

ASPEN IN DECLINE

What could be the culprit in the decline of a tree that has proven itself able to survive in such variable conditions? The answer may not be as simple as we once believed.

Aspen die-offs have been recognized in various regions of North America over the past half century, from British Columbia’s Kootenay Region to Wyoming’s Yellowstone National Park to New Mexico’s Gila Wilderness. The culprits for these declines, it was generally agreed, were fire suppression and elk browsing. Aspen is a pioneer species after a burn, taking advantage of the loss of shade-producing conifers to soak up the sun. So, no fire, no new aspen groves. When a new grove does begin to develop, ungulates — primarily elk, their numbers having risen with the loss of their natural predators — swoop in vigorously, hungry for the fresh young saplings.

This meant loss of habitat for all the critters that prefer or depend on aspen groves for their homes. Snowpack also generally melts faster if aspen are not present, which can cause increased flooding downstream and trouble for communities whose water supply depends on the snowpack. And aspen groves help prevent wildfires from spreading, meaning that their loss leaves communities in hot, dry regions of the West more vulnerable. The silver lining was that fire and game could be managed by land agencies, allowing us an opportunity to deal with aspen decline.

Or so we thought. In the early 2000s, major aspen failures were recognized in eastern and western Canada, the central Rockies and the Southwest. This was a different kind of die-back, coined SAD — Sudden Aspen Decline — by forest pathologist James Worrall. Aspen groves over wide areas were dying rapidly, unlike the generalized landscape shifts of the past. The new millennia seemed to bring a new paradigm, where the old answers — more fire and less elk — no longer worked. Now, looking back with a decade of hindsight, the aspen conundrum seems obvious.

From 2000 to 2003, drought persisted in all of the aforementioned die-off regions, and temperatures were higher than average, sometimes record high. The century began with the warmest six-month period on record in New Mexico and the second warmest for Arizona, Colorado and Utah. The next year, 2001, provided some relief to those areas in the form of near-normal snowpacks, but nationwide, the year made the top five for all-time hottest. In 2002, the heat stayed on — it was the third hottest year on record in the Southwest — and it was coupled with unprecedented drought. For many aspen groves, this was the tipping point.

Aspen are more sensitive to drought than their coniferous counterparts because each spring, they must put energy into a glorious green transpiring leaf. A major grove can produce enough transpiring leaves to create a micro climate of cooler temperatures and higher humidities, capable of repelling crown fires that gobble adjacent pine and fir stands. Along Arizona’s San Francisco Peaks, the devastating Schultz Fire of 2010 left aspen groves standing in stark green contrast to the charred landscape that surrounded them on all sides. Stopping a wildfire takes serious energy, requiring a tree to suck moisture through its roots, up its trunk, out its limbs, into its leaves and out to the world. When a severe drought exists, there just isn’t enough juice to feed the cycle. Aspen are unable to pump enough water to their crowns through a process scientists call “xylem cavitation.” If a drought-stressed tree is unable to do this, the affliction is known as “hydraulic failure.”

Effects were not apparent right away, but by 2004, widespread dead and dying aspen were recognizable. By 2006, another hot and dry year, 150,000 acres of aspen were documented as dying in Colorado alone. Alberta and Saskatchewan showed a 35 percent aspen mortality rate. In Arizona, groves near their lower-elevation threshold were 90 percent dead.

It takes a dramatic drought and high temperatures to induce this scenario, but even mildly warm and dry conditions can stress aspen enough to make them susceptible to insect attack from tent caterpillars, oystershell scales and poplar borers. Like mountain pine beetles[see American Forests Fall 2012], poplar borers are having a population boom due to fewer extended cold snaps in winter and fewer killing frosts in spring and fall — symptoms of climate change. When a late freeze does arrive to mercifully reduce the borers, aspen can still be doomed if an early thaw — another symptom of climate change — has prematurely melted the insulating snowpack, as aspen roots can be damaged by severe cold.

THE FUTURE OF ASPEN

So what does the future hold for aspen in a warming world? The answers may depend in part on how the aspen reproduce. Aspen have two means of reproduction: Some are seed spreaders, and some are sprouters. In the East, where aspen are seeders — reproducing via cottony seeds floating on the wind — the future looks brighter. Like many trees, they may be able to simply move up in elevation to find suitable habitats in a warmer world. However, aspen is not a dominant species in these forests, nor is it likely to be in the future.

In the West, where aspen play a bigger role in forest composition, they might be slower to make the transition because there, they are sprouters, not seed spreaders. Most aspen in the West reproduce from the roots of existing trees, sprouting new trunks, called ramets, in a steady march across the landscape. Entire groves, then, can be clones of a single original tree.

The largest of these clonal groves ever documented is a 108-acre stand in Utah called “Pando,” Latin for “I spread.” The Pando Grove contains more than 40,000 trees and is estimated to have existed for at least tens of thousands of years. For a single clonal grove to be successful, it must have just enough disturbance to keep conifers from taking over, while escaping any grove-eliminating catastrophic events. Pando, in the rolling snow-covered plateau country of central Utah, has found that perfect place.

Groves of clones like Pando add a unique beauty to the landscape: They can be distinguished from neighboring aspen families during spring, when the trees leaf out, because a single clonal grove will usually leaf at the same time. The same visible distinctions are seen in autumn, when aspen turn their brilliant yellow and orange, sometimes directly adjacent to a grove that still retains its summer green.

Fall colors in the relatively drab West might be the single most attractive element of aspen to humans, but food and shelter are primary drivers for a multitude of animal species that call aspen groves home. Mice, voles, picas, rabbits, beaver, porcupine, deer, moose and elk all prefer aspen-dominated habitats. Ruffed grouse depend on them for forage, breeding and nesting. Goshawk, Cooper’s hawk, sharp-shinned hawk and pygmy owl nest and hunt and live there, too.

For these aspen-loving species, the forecast doesn’t look good. On the one hand, more droughts and warmer temperatures — conditions forecasted by most climate scientists for much of the aspen’s prime range — spell disaster for this moisture-loving species. There is little doubt that in marginal habitats — Arizona’s pine-oak woodlands, Colorado’s south-facing slopes, Alberta’s prairie edges — aspen is on its way out. Conversely, more forest fires could open new habitat for aspen, and some studies have shown an increase in atmospheric carbon dioxide aids aspen, producing longer roots and faster growth rates. The prevailing consensus, however, is that while some areas might see more aspen in the years ahead, overall aspen range is retracting. “I think aspen will have a more difficult time adjusting to climate change than many other species,” says Dr. Kathryn Ireland, who researched aspen decline in the Southwest at Northern Arizona University’s School of Forestry.

In many ways, aspen is a resilient tree, boasting two means of reproduction, high levels of genetic variability and productive living bark. It’s little wonder that P. tremuloides spans from the Arctic Circle to the Tropic of Cancer. In a changing world, however, its time of glory might be waning. A lauded study by Gerald Rehfeldt of the U.S. Forest Service’s Rocky Mountain Research Station used three future climate models to extrapolate aspen success for the remainder of this century. The verdict? More than half of current aspen stands in the central Rockies will no longer be there by 2060. The huge iconic groves of the Rockies will have to rely on high-altitude fires to clear out spruce forests adjacent to existing aspen groves, where new ramets can crawl uphill. Will they be able to keep up? Only time will tell.

Tyler Williams is a big-tree hunter, adventure seeker and author of Big Tree Hikes of the Redwood Coast: A Guide to the Giants. To learn more, visit his website www.funhogpress.com.

The post Aspen in a Changing World appeared first on American Forests.

It sounded like a good idea at first — a nice long ride through the woods and across the mountains. Now, as I stand here in a cold rain on a gravel road 20 miles from civilization, I’m not so sure. It’s late afternoon, and I haven’t seen another human being all day. Actually, I haven’t seen another creature all day since the animals and birds apparently have more sense than to be out in this weather. I started the day by going up and over a snowy mountain pass, doing more bike pushing than bike riding, and now, I’m looking forward to a nice dinner and a warm motel room. Those amenities are, however, a chilly and damp couple of hours away.

I’m riding in a bicycle race of sorts called the Tour Divide. I say “of sorts” because it is a totally unofficial, unorganized event that has no entry fee and no prizes. Well, no cash prizes, anyway; it’s hard to place a value on three to four weeks of cycling through some of the most remote, untraveled and breathtakingly beautiful areas in the western United States. It’s also unique among races in the sense that, although there is intense competition amongst the leaders to see who will finish first, most participants are more concerned with completing the whole route than with keeping track of who has finished ahead of or behind them. The challenge for all riders is to complete, as quickly as possible, the entire 2,800 miles of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route (GDMBR), designed by the Adventure Cycling Association (ACA) to stay within 50 miles of the Continental Divide. It’s more the type of thing a bunch of friends might plan while having a few beers at a picnic than a regular race: “Hey, who wants to get together and see how fast we can cycle from Canada to Mexico?”

But the internet makes the picnic global, with riders coming from Australia, England, New Zealand, France, Spain, Italy, Israel, Germany, Canada and the U.S., to name a few. More than 100 people rolled south on the second Friday in June 2012, most starting in Banff, Alberta, although some opted to ride the route from south to north instead, starting at Antelope Wells, N.M., on the Mexican border. Heading northbound means less chance of snow by the time the riders get to Montana and Canada, but since the cues and maps are written for a traditional southbound journey, navigation is more of a challenge.

The Tour Divide has two overarching agreed-upon rules: A cyclist must ride the published route, and they must be self-sufficient. This means no help from friends and family and no support vehicles — everything a rider needs must be carried on the bike or purchased along the way. Gear is kept to a minimum: My bivy sack, sleeping bag and air mattress together weighed a total of 3.5 pounds. There’s also an expectation that even the slowest riders will average around 100 miles per day. The current records for the route are 15 days, 16 hours, four minutes for men, and 19 days, three hours, 35 minutes for women. That’s an average of about 177 miles per day for men and 146 miles per day for women.

A DAY IN THE LIFE

A typical day for a GDMBR rider is to get up early — 5 a.m. is not uncommon — pack, have a bite of something and get on the bike. With luck, there will be some sort of civilization within the next 30 miles or so where a breakfast stop can be made. Then, it’s back on the bike for more hours of riding. Much of the day is taken up with planning; if you miscalculate, you will go hungry and thirsty, so it pays to know how far the next store, lake or stream is and whether or not it’s on the other side of a mountain pass.

Other than that, it’s just a matter of pedaling and sightseeing all day long. Once you get the legs going around, it can be fun to watch the scenery go past, from alpine vistas through dense forest to hot, dry deserts. Wildlife abounds along the route, from the grizzlies up north to the pronghorns of Wyoming and all the other small critters — not to mention the trees and wildflowers. Interesting cultural artifacts are scattered along the route as well. There are mining ruins across Montana, traces of the settlers who passed through Wyoming, old railway grades and buildings in Colorado and ancient missions and sleepy settlements in New Mexico. One sight you don’t see too often is humans. Although the route follows public roads, jeep trails and such — with only a scant few miles of single-track bike trail — it’s rare to see many people outside of the towns. Many of the U.S. Forest Service roads only see significant traffic during hunting season.

As a day winds down, it’s time to start thinking about bed. I’ve heard it said that there is always a good camping spot within five miles of wherever you are; most national forest land allows undesignated camping anywhere, and there are formal campgrounds as well. If you end up at a town, a motel might be an option. After a bit of personal and bike maintenance, it’s off to sleep for another early start the next day. A lot of mental fortitude is needed to keep this schedule up for three weeks or more.

Not everyone can muster the fortitude to complete the race, though, and I would ultimately find myself among the nearly 50 percent who leave the race as the pace and conditions take their toll. Some riders drop for medical reasons ranging from torn Achilles tendons to giardia. Others drop due to catastrophic mechanical failures like broken bike frames, and still others drop for emotional or mental health reasons. It is very hard to stay focused on a goal that is so far off and requires so much effort day after day. Some people ride for a cause like MS or diabetes research as a way to keep going through the rough patches, but most just try to tough it out and keep moving. On the other hand, there have been riders who have kept going after contracting pneumonia or having a frame broken. One particularly tenacious rider, Eric Foster, dislocated his knee in a fall in 2012 and used the bike as a fulcrum to pop the knee back in place. He kept going for a few hundred more miles on painkillers before deciding that the route would still be there the following year.

For now, I manage to cycle those last 20 soggy miles into the town of Elkford, British Columbia, and the meal and warm bed are every bit as satisfying as I anticipated. One hundred and ten miles down, less than 2,700 to go! As it turns out, I actually had it easier than some of the other riders because the rain I had ridden through had fallen as an additional six inches of snow on the pass behind me. The following day, I tackle another pass with five miles of sloppy leftover winter snow, but I am getting used to it. It wouldn’t really be an adventure without a challenge or two!

BORDER TO BORDER

The Canadian section has some of the most spectacular scenery and remote riding of the entire route. After the towns of Elkford and Sparwood, the route goes through the remote Flathead River Valley, an area that has been dubbed the “Serengeti of the North” due to its diverse wildlife population; it has the highest density of grizzly bears anywhere in the interior of Canada. Other than a few other Tour Divide riders, I saw no humans for the entire 90 miles and no actual bears either, although there were plenty of scat, tracks and one enormous skeleton. What I did see were miles of forest and some truly breathtaking views from mountain passes and across pristine valleys. Although logging and other activities are nibbling at the edges of this area, it remains largely untouched except for a few lonely gravel roads.

Crossing over into Montana, the route passes through towns and a few cities as it winds its way through the state. Most of the route follows Forest Service roads through miles upon miles of national forest land. In his book “Two Wheels on My Wagon,” Tour Divide veteran Paul Howard describes quitting early one day after freaking himself out over the “vertiginous, crowding trees” that lined the route for 100 miles. “Rarely can agoraphobia and claustrophobia have been so closely intertwined,” was his assessment. For those of us who live and play daily in the woods, this verdant abundance is a much more appealing prospect than it was for a Yorkshire-man like Paul. Another highlight of the Montana section is Richmond Peak, which is immediately adjacent to Bob Marshall Wilderness and passes through an area called Grizzly Basin. “Bearanoia” is a term that gets used a lot by those who have described getting caught by darkness near Richmond Peak and seeing huge bear tracks — and little cub tracks — joining the tire tracks left by earlier riders. Most riders have bear bells on their bikes, bear whistles around their necks and quite a few carry bear-repelling pepper spray as well.

The route spends only a short time in Idaho — around 70 miles — so it’s an easy accomplishment to tick that state off the list. The defining feature of Idaho from a cyclist’s viewpoint is the rail trail that extends south from near Big Springs for about 30 miles. It also serves as an ATV trail, making it a soft, sandy, washboarded mess.

The route then enters Wyoming in Caribou-Targhee National Forest between Yellowstone National Park and the Tetons. Right about here is where rider Jim Stansbury was laid up with pneumonia in 2012. Amazingly, he continued on after a few days of antibiotics and rest. Northern Wyoming features some high and lonesome riding, followed by a couple hundred treeless miles through the Great Basin — a sort of no-man’s land for rain and home to wild horses, pronghorn antelope and a few cowboys. This area doesn’t drain to the Pacific or Atlantic — what scant precipitation falls there, stays there. This area is sometimes a vast desert, but if rainfall increases, it becomes a vast lake. Cyclists tend to either love this stretch or hate it for its exposed, wide-open spaces and wind.

Southern Wyoming brings the return of trees in Medicine Bow National Forest, followed by the crossing into Colorado, where the beauty continues and the passes get bigger. There’s also something about the Colorado state line that all riders look forward to: the Brush Mountain Ranch near Slater. The owner, Kristin — who has been referred to as an “angel” by more than one weary rider — offers food, drink, accommodations and encouragement. Colorado boasts several passes more than 10,000 feet in elevation, although most have reasonable grades due to the fact that they follow old rail lines.

New Mexico is the final state and perhaps the most challenging, as the roads are some of the most primitive and services like food and lodging are few and far apart. However, no one drops out willingly after crossing the New Mexico state line — it’s the final leg of the race. One of the highlights for riders is Pie Town, a little crossroads of a place whose claim to fame is the existence of two cafes that serve some of the best homemade pies in New Mexico. Timing is everything, though, as Kent Peterson found out in 2005, arriving late in the day when both cafes were closed. After a call home to share his dejection and an inventory of his supplies, he settled for a Pop-Tart instead, deciding that it was “more of a comedy than a tragedy.” South of Pie Town, participants encounter some of the toughest-going of the entire route as they pass through Gila National Forest with its sawtooth ridges and valleys. The route rather inconsiderately crosses these at right angles, resulting in a series of steep, energy-sapping climbs and descents. The scenery, however, is fantastic, as the route follows a narrow corridor between Gila Wilderness to the west and Aldo Leopold Wilderness to the east. The Beaverhead Work Center is located along the route here, and its Coke machine is eagerly anticipated while riding through the New Mexican heat. One rider ran out of food here and subsisted on four cans of soda until he could reach the next store.

My own southbound Tour Divide attempt didn’t get this far — it came to an end in the town of Eureka, Mont., just inside the U.S. border. I was not making the sort of time I thought I should so I threw in the towel. Many others did make it all the way to the Mexican border in 2012, though, including Jim Stansbury, who provided some of the pictures for this article. Over the years, people have made the trip not just on conventional geared mountain bikes, but also on singlespeeds, fixed-gear bikes, cross bikes and even tandems and unicycles. The husband and wife team of Jay and Tracey Petervary came in third overall on a tandem in 2009, finishing in 18 1/2 days. Unicyclists Gracie Sorbello and Matt Burney took a total of 76 days to complete the route, and Gracie’s Tour Divide unicycle now resides in the U.S. Bicycling Hall of Fame in Davis, Calif.

Does this type of adventure sound interesting to you? In general, this sort of travel by bike is known as “bikepacking” and has a lot of similarities to traditional backpacking, except it’s possible to cover a lot more ground in a day. Like backpacking, there are also degrees of self-sufficiency. While the Tour Divide is great fun and provides a sense of camaraderie, those who want to undertake a less strenuous trip by bike might opt to skip such events and ride according to their own rules. Anyone may ride the GDMBR at any time and many do, taking two months or more to complete it. The ACA produces maps of the route that include information on services along the way, and Michael McCoy’s “Cycling the Great Divide,” a new revision of which is due to be released in October, breaks the route down into easily managed segments. It is also possible to complete the trip in the company of a non-biking friend or relative who could drive to the next stop and set up camp, lightening the bike load.

The trail — and the race — have attracted seasoned racers, novice mountain bikers, moms, dads, dreamers and an assortment of certified characters. Come on out and join them sometime; it’s a ride like no other!

Bob Marr writes from a hand-built log cabin in Michigan’s wild and beautiful Keweenaw Peninsula.

The post The Long Ride appeared first on American Forests.

When and why did you become a nature photographer?

I’m a travel photographer and picturing the nature of a particular place makes a complete story. I gradually came to still photography from motion picture films in the 1980s.

Do you have a favorite story from your quest for beautiful photographs?

Every trip has a story — or several of them — including some happy and safe escapes. There are moments in time when everything comes together — not only in terms of story-telling and photo composition, but also in terms of local human communications and a sense of presence.

Where is your favorite shooting location?

Any location where the creative process takes me. It can be either outdoors or in a studio.

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

A sinking boat in the Pacific; I was on that boat.

Do you have a favorite photo?

I have a few — they may change from year to year. One of them is a portrait of an old tribal Shaman created many years ago in a remote eastern Siberian village.

Which other photographers do you admire?

Among nature photographers, I appreciate the work of Frans Lanting and George Lepp. They are my teachers.

Do you prefer digital or film, and why?

I studied film photography and used to work exclusively with endless miles of color reversal film. After many years, it was no surprise when I became allergic to color developers. Stages of digital process are technically complex, but they are non-toxic. I also prefer digital because of its quality.

The post Close Up With Nature Photographer Tatiana Boyle appeared first on American Forests.

On June 18, the Doce Fire broke out in Prescott National Forest, Ariz., consuming more than 6,700 acres of forest. The national co-champion alligator juniper was saved thanks to the Granite Mountain Hotshots, who headed up the mountain, cleared away thick brush at the base of the tree and cut a fire line around it, a week before 19 of them lost their lives bravely fighting the Yarnell Hill Fire.

Prescott resident Cathleen Cherry shares what the alligator juniper and its survival has meant to the local community during its time of grief and loss.

Like many, I find myself drawn to trees. I long for summer picnics beneath the elms that shade my town’s heart — the courthouse square in the center of downtown Prescott, Ariz. I gauge the changing of seasons by the color of the cottonwoods that line Willow Creek south of my home, and my family once took a 600-mile drive in order to walk among the largest trees on Earth in Sequoia National Park. In January 2011, this fascination with trees took us on a much shorter trek to see a majestic tree right in Prescott’s backyard.

This tree, a Juniperus deppeana, or alligator juniper, is the largest of its species in the nation and was nominated for inclusion in American Forests’ National Register of Big Trees in 1998 by the Contreras brothers, a long-time ranching family in Yavapai County. But its significance to our community would increase when, two years after my family’s visit, it was saved from the Doce Fire by the Granite Mountain Hotshots just a week before their deaths in the Yarnell Hill Fire on June 30, 2013.

As my family hiked to the alligator juniper that January 2011 morning, I wondered how big it could really be. Alligator junipers are large trees to begin with, often reaching up to 55 feet in height. I’d seen plenty of this species before and couldn’t quite picture what might make this tree special enough to be a destination in and of itself. I can even recall wondering if we’d really know that we’d arrived if we didn’t have the guidance of a GPS and my expert-at-maps husband.

It seems silly to me now that I had these doubts about the tree’s magnitude. It was unmistakable. This tree is massive: Alligator junipers typically reach three to seven feet in circumference. This one was nearly 26 feet around.

As we took photographs, cradled and dwarfed amid the multiple trunks, I thought about how, like many others, I go outside when I need renewal inside. In nature, we can find the healing salves we seek: the unparalleled vista of Yosemite Valley, the light changing the colors of the Grand Canyon walls, the violence of a summer monsoon in the desert. It is humbling to think that all this exists without our presence and in spite of our interference. And trees are a part of that, too. Standing inside the base of a sequoia that has weathered centuries of fires, storms and drought, you will feel the strength of its silence, in an era of ubiquitous technology in which it seems increasingly difficult to wow our senses.

As I look at the photographs from that day, following the tragedy that touched so many of us, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to the men and women who devote their lives to protecting us when we need it most — and also for defending and ultimately leaving behind legacies like this tree.

As the reports of containment of the Doce Fire and the neighborhoods spared came in, many in Prescott wondered aloud if the juniper had burned. We already knew how lucky we were to have emerged from the smoke without serious casualty or property loss, and then word came that our tree had also survived. And not only had it survived, but it had been specifically saved by a firebreak created by the Granite Mountain Hotshot crew.

Later, as word reached us of the tragedies of June 30^th — both the Yarnell Hill Fire that consumed much of the mountain hamlet of Yarnell and the deaths of 19 of the men who tried to save that community — the reality of the close call that northwest Prescott had had with the Doce Fire sunk in.

Our loss — our community’s loss — of these brave and courageous young men will reverberate for many years. Nothing can mitigate that. Perhaps, though, those who seek comfort can find it in the massive arms of this alligator juniper that was proudly honored by these brave men. If Mother Nature teaches us anything, it is that we are small, temporary beings. At the same time, though, we are learning already from the Doce Fire, and will, in time, from the Yarnell Hill Fire, that hardiness is one of nature’s gifts. Already, the greening has begun, sprouting from the ashes and blackened soil.

The alligator juniper in Prescott National Forest will stand as a memorial for not only the 19 who gave their lives, but also as a symbol of strength and resilience to our community as we come to terms with this loss and our grief. This tree has so much to teach us. We only need to take the time to listen.

American Forests thanks the Granite Mountain Hotshots for protecting our forests and is planting 1,900 trees in memory of the 19 Hotshots who lost their lives doing a job they loved a week after saving this champion tree.

The post To Save a Tree appeared first on American Forests.

Measuring Guidelines Working Group member Dr. Philip J. Radtke is an associate professor of forest biometrics with the Department of Forest Resources and Environmental Conservation at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University (Virginia Tech), where he teaches forest mensuration, including complex sampling and measurement applications. He received his doctorate in forestry from the University of Minnesota in 1999.

Why did you choose to go into your field?

My first job after technical college was as a cook in a big hotel kitchen in Minneapolis. I always noticed what large quantities of food scraps we’d throw out every day. I started reading about sustainable systems, such as composting and waste-water filtration with constructed wetlands. Before long, I decided to return to school and major in natural resources and environmental studies to become part of solutions like resource management and conservation.

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

I love working with people who are looking for the same kinds of solutions to natural resources problems as I am. My job is done mainly indoors, but it also includes fieldwork that sometimes lets me spend time in wonderful natural outdoor places — mainly forests.

What is the most surprising thing that you have learned or discovered?

Knowledge about forests and natural systems is seldom complete. Even though people know a lot about how living things grow and function, our needs are constantly changing; therefore, we always need to learn new things about the world we live in. Every day, it seems I learn about some new, interesting and important questions people need answers for in order to improve our lives and how we balance our needs with the natural environment.

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

Communicating the relevance and validity of model results to non-technical audiences can be a really big challenge. Most of my work involves models, which are equations and computer algorithms that help explain how forests and trees will respond to environmental changes. We need models to help us with decision-making because often, no better answers are available. People have a healthy suspicion of models, but after years of working closely with them, I’ve come to appreciate how they can help us, even though they don’t always give perfect answers.

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

My favorite stories all involve getting lost, caught in storms or having mechanical troubles while far from any help or shelter. Anyone who spends time working in the woods has had to change a tire on a truck along a muddy road, use a winch to pull a vehicle out of a ditch or run a chainsaw to clear a fallen tree from a road or trail. I never tire of telling (or hearing) stories about those kinds of adventures.

Where was the most interesting, most intriguing, most impactful or favorite place you were able to travel to in the name of science and why?

My work has taken me to a number of places where scientists study the interactions between forests and the atmosphere — places like carbon flux towers in northern Wisconsin, where researchers study the exchanges of carbon dioxide and water vapor in forest canopies, or the oak savannas of east-central Minnesota, where carbon dioxide enrichment studies are examining how plants respond to increased atmospheric CO2. I love climbing towers to places high in the canopy, where high-tech instruments are continuously measuring what’s happening with forest processes like photosynthesis or respiration.

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

Without a doubt, the biggest threats involve changes in forests caused by human activities, such as introducing pests, diseases and exotic species; replacing forests with suburban developments or country homes; climate change brought about by greenhouse gases in the atmosphere; and a general lack of understanding of the cause-and-effect relationships between our decisions and their impacts on forests.

Who is your favorite fictional scientist and why?

Samantha Wildman is a fictional xenobiologist on the television series “Star Trek: Voyager” — yes, I’m a bit of a Trekkie. Besides thinking she has a really cool job — xenobiologists study alien life forms — I’m a fan because the character was inspired by a real-life person who was an organ donor. My family’s been touched by people who generously donated to help others overcome critical health problems. It’s a tremendously generous and thoughtful act, which I admire a lot.

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

I love working with my hands and figuring out how to make things. Maybe I’d be an engineer.

Where is your favorite spot to experience nature and why?

The Superior-Quetico wilderness in Minnesota and Ontario is probably my favorite place in nature. I love all the water in lakes that are so clean and clear you can drink right from them. The changes in the forests from year to year, especially following major storms and wildfires, are great reminders that trees and forests — no matter how magnificent and majestic they may seem — eventually fall over and get replaced by seedlings. And, no matter how impressive the tree, it was once a seedling, too — often not as long ago as you might think!

What is your favorite tree and why?

That’s a tough one. Trees are like songs to me. For a while, I can’t stop thinking of a particular one, but eventually, something changes and I get a new favorite. Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time noticing white oaks (Quercus alba). They are like great old songs that you can listen to over and over without ever getting tired of them.

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