By Michelle Johnson

Just off the coast of Maine sits a large, rugged, rocky island that has been home to various groups of people for thousands of years. In 1604, French explorer Samuel de Champlain noted the large, knob-like peaks that occupied the otherwise barren landscape and gave the island the name Mount Desert, which it’s still known by today.

It wasn’t until the mid-1800s, however, that Mount Desert’s popularity began to rise as artists flocked to the island hoping to capture its pristine landscapes on canvas. Mount Desert quickly became a hot spot for painters and writers. With its rise in popularity, dozens of hotels were established to accommodate the influx of visitors, and tourism soon became a thriving industry in the area. Not long after, wealthy Easterners fell in love with artists’ renditions of the picturesque island, and they, too, quickly made Mount Desert a favorite summer escape. However, the humble lodgings just weren’t suitable to this new breed of visitors, so prime plots of land were purchased by well-to-do families to build extravagant summer “cottages,” as they were called. The construction of these lavish homes began to worry local residents Charles Eliot and George B. Dorr.

Working under Frederick Law Olmsted as a landscape architect, Eliot was inspired to protect natural landscapes, and soon developed his own ideas about how to conserve his favorite vacation spot. Unfortunately, before he was able to put his plans into motion, Eliot contracted meningitis and died suddenly at age 38.

While sorting through his son’s possessions, Eliot’s father, Charles W. Eliot, came across the younger Eliot’s plans for preserving Mount Desert. Determined to see his son’s dreams carried out, he established the Hancock County Trustees of Public Reservations, a nonprofit group of private citizens committed to preserving historic and scenic lands by buying and managing those areas for future public use.

Like the younger Eliot, George Dorr came from a wealthy Boston family that vacationed at Mount Desert. As a young man, Dorr decided to make the island his primary home. He was committed to preserving the natural beauty of his island home, and as a member of the Hancock County Trustees, he spent his days buying up property around Mount Desert and persuading others to donate their land for protection under Maine’s state legislature. Eventually, the trustees acquired a large part of the island, but Dorr soon learned that the state legislature wanted to revoke the trustees’ nonprofit status, which would mean that the land they had acquired would no longer be protected. Dorr quickly set out to bypass the state and appealed to the federal government for greater protection for Mount Desert.

In Washington, D.C., Dorr learned that his herculean efforts were the first of their kind. Never before had a private citizen sought to protect privately donated lands under the status of a national park. After a two-year battle that required him to make frequent visits to Washington to plead his case for the establishment of a national park at Mount Desert, Dorr opted to have the lands established as a national monument, which needed only presidential approval. Though Dorr would have preferred national park status for his beloved land, national monument status would at least offer greater protection while Dorr waited to receive national park status through congressional approval. In 1916, President Woodrow Wilson signed into existence Sieur de Monts National Monument on Mount Desert.

Later that same year, President Wilson signed a bill officially establishing the National Park Service to serve as the agency “to conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and wildlife therein, and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such a manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.” Dorr made certain that Sieur de Monts was in line to receive protection as a national park under the control of this new agency. His goal for the land was finally achieved in 1919, when Sieur de Monts National Monument officially became Lafayette National Park, the first national park east of the Mississippi River.

But Dorr did not stop there. He was soon introduced to John D. Rockefeller Jr., who also owned an estate on Mount Desert, and the two put into motion Rockefeller’s plans for an intricate carriage road system throughout the island. Rockefeller envisioned a system of motor-free byways, following the natural contours of the terrain, to travel into the heart of the island, which would take advantage of breathtaking vistas while sparing trees from destruction and preserving the line of hillsides.

The project would be a huge undertaking, so Dorr enlisted the help of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) — a group created by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt as part of his “New Deal” to overcome the hardships endured during the Great Depression. The CCC was comprised of out-of-work men who were looking for a way to not only financially support their families, but also find meaning and purpose in their lives. The group became known as the “Tree Army,” working in forests, parks and rangelands across the country on projects that benefitted the land.

To complete the impressive 57-mile-long project on Mount Desert, Rockefeller himself began buying up additional land on the island to donate to the cause. Each path along the carriage-road system was constructed using quarried island granite for road materials and native vegetation for landscaping, all of which made the roadways able to endure Maine’s often harsh weather and blend into the natural scenery, while keeping the area free of the pollution associated with motor-powered vehicles. Today, this network of roadways stands as an exceptional example of broken-stone roads and is still the best way to take in the views around the island.

Dorr’s dedication to preserving Mount Desert was so great that nearly every dime he had was spent on maintaining and protecting this land. He went on to serve as the first superintendent of the national park, a title he held for 25 years.

Today, the tremendous efforts of Eliot, Dorr, Rockefeller, the CCC and all those who worked tirelessly along with them haven’t gone unappreciated. The park — renamed Acadia National Park in 1929 after the Greek “arcadia” meaning “simple pleasure” — attracts more than two million visitors each year, offers recreational opportunities including hiking, kayaking and wildlife viewing and is open year-round. To plan your trip or to learn more about the park, visit www.nps.gov/acadia.

The post By the People, For the People appeared first on American Forests.

By Ruth A. Wilson

Bosque — Spanish for woods — was one of the first new words I learned after moving from the rainforest of Olympia, Wash., to the desert of Albuquerque, N.M. I discovered this word — and an entirely new idea about what constitutes a forest — on my first visit to Rio Grande Valley State Park, where the bosque is dominant. A bosque ecosystem encompasses a riparian forest and floodplains that surround a river. In the U.S., this type of ecosystem is found almost exclusively in the arid Southwest, mostly along the Rio Grande.

A Living Oasis

Jodi Hedderig, manager of the Open Space Visitor Center, describes the area’s bosque as “a forest supported by a riparian environment — in the desert.” The Rio Grande, flowing through the center of the bosque, sustains this forested oasis, as the river and woodland combine to become one riparian ecosystem. The combination makes the bosque a haven for an unusual variety of flora and fauna that rely on both the river and the forest.

A recently published field guide lists more than 500 different species of animals living in New Mexico’s bosque. While many of the animals are difficult to see — such as bats due to their nocturnal nature — others are frequently encountered on walks through the woods, including desert cottontails, rock squirrels, muskrats, porcupines and coyotes. The American beaver is another bosque resident. This aquatic rodent’s diet consists primarily of the cambial tissue under the bark of cottonwood and willow growing in the woodland. Walking through the bosque, gnawed tree trunks and stripped bark provide clear evidence of beaver activity. Along the river, beaver tracks can be found in the mud and burrows in the bank.

Hedderig explains that the bosque also is an excellent migration route, providing food, shelter and water for large numbers of ducks, geese, sandhill cranes and a host of other migratory birds. Many of these birds, like herons and egrets, are wading birds and not typically found in forests.

The cottonwood trees, with heart- or triangular-shaped leaves, are sometimes referred to as the heart of the bosque, as they provide critical habitat for many of the birds, mammals, insects, spiders and crustaceans of the riparian ecosystem. Resident birds of the bosque include Cooper’s hawk, red-tailed hawk, American kestrel, roadrunner and a variety of hummingbirds, woodpeckers and owls. Porcupines rest high in the branches of cottonwood trees, and toads seek shelter in the leaf litter on the forest floor.

The Importance of Cottonwood

Rio Grande cottonwoods have been growing in the bosque for more than a million years and are heavily dependent on a reliable water supply for germination and survival. Rio Grande cottonwoods reproduce by seeding. Cottonwood seeds, carried by downy white tufts, are easily dispersed long distances by wind or water. For germination, they need bare soil, moisture and plenty of sunshine. Cottonwoods flower in the spring before their leaves come out, around the same time that spring rains cause the river to flood over its banks, which creates open, muddy flats where seeds can germinate and establish seedlings.

Today, the cottonwoods and the bosque ecosystem that depends on them face serious threats to their survival. Farming, river-control projects and urban development have dramatically decreased the water supply, seriously compromising the health of the bosque. Beginning in the 1950s, thousands of jetty jacks — large, steel, cross-like structures — were installed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to trap sediments and stabilize riverbanks in times of flooding. These jacks, along with conveyance channels, levees and dams, changed the Rio Grande from a meandering, free-flowing stream to a highly modified water storage and transportation system. Several irrigation ditches, along with water gates and frames, are visible from the walking paths in the Rio Grande bosque.

With these changes to the river came dramatic changes for the entire forest and ecosystem. Deprived of the floods that spread their seeds, the cottonwood trees cannot to regenerate naturally. As older cottonwoods die, holes are left in the canopy, and the ecosystem has no new trees to fill them.

Protecting the Bosque

With changes in water management threatening the bosque, people have been working to protect it for many years. Aldo Leopold, who served as a forest manager in New Mexico for a period of time, was one of the first to develop a philosophy of management focusing on preservation, instead of the more common emphasis on utilization. Leopold once said, “A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise.” A part of the bosque — now designated as Aldo Leopold Forest — honors Leopold’s legacy in New Mexico by promoting his vision of an ethical relationship with the land.

Today, concerned people and organizations have initiated a number of programs to monitor and protect the beauty and integrity of the bosque. The Open Space Division plants thousands of cottonwoods and other native bosque trees and shrubs each year in an effort to replace the aging forest and reclaim burned areas. A similar initiative can be found in the Bosque Ecosystem Monitoring Program, a joint effort coordinated by the University of New Mexico and Bosque School. Bosque School, a college preparatory school for grades six through 12, is surrounded by the riparian forest and provides students many opportunities to study and gather data related to the overall condition of the bosque.

The U.S. Forest Service is developing another education program, where 20 acres of forestland along the Rio Grande will become the Children’s Bosque, a place where elementary children will have the opportunity to hike on trails through the cottonwood forest, climb onto an elevated fort and observe the different plants and animals of the riparian ecosystem. Through restoration and education programs like these, we can hope that appreciation for the bosque as a rare and valuable ecosystem will spread, and more steps will be taken toward preserving it.

EXPERIENCING THE BOSQUE

Walking trails from the Open Space Visitor Center took me into the bosque and along the riverbanks of the Rio Grande. I didn’t realize, at first, that I was walking through a forest, as my understanding of the term was a densely wooded area with mosses, ferns, grasses and vines. I saw nothing like this as I entered the bosque. What I saw were aging cottonwood trees with very little understory. Instead of ferns and grasses, the ground was sandy and covered by a layer of dead branches, dried leaves and woody debris. But regardless of its appearance, the bosque offers many of the same opportunities as other forests throughout the country.

The part of the bosque that lies within the city of Albuquerque is almost exclusively designated as a nature reserve or education and recreation area. The Paseo del Bosque Trail provides bikers and walkers with a scenic 16-mile paved path through the forest. Other unpaved trails on both sides of the river are used frequently by hikers, horse or bike riders and bird watchers.

While the bosque offers many opportunities for recreation and education, people also find inspiration in it. Responses to a recent invitation by the Open Space Division to submit original haikus reflect strong emotional connections to the bosque. More than 200 submissions in 2012 included the following haiku by Lee Mann, a volunteer at the Open Space Visitor Center:

Bosque trails beckon
The way to thoughtful silence
Our sanctuary

The post Beauty of the Bosque appeared first on American Forests.

Summer time is camping time. After the erratic weather of spring and before the chill of fall, no time of year beckons our primal bonds like the warmth of a summer evening. And no environment wraps us in close embrace quite like a summer forest, robust and alive during the time of high sun. So get out there: into the woods, up to the high country, down along the creeks and under canopies of pine needles, oak leaves and cedar boughs. Breathe some good air. Get grubby. Melt into the womb of America’s forests. It’s summer.

There are summertime forest haunts across North America, from ocean to ocean and tropics to tundra. Picking just a few camping locales is no easy task. The places featured here showcase a variety of forest environments — from the famous to the forgotten, with a focus on the unusual. Should you undertake a camping mission to one of these places, a pleasant surprise is likely in store because no amount of reading can prepare you for the smells and sounds and sights of actually being there.

MOGOLLON RIM

One might not think of Arizona as a place to camp in a forest. This is the land of cactus crags and red-rock vistas, right? True enough, but sandwiched between the scorching Sonoran Desert in the south and the vast, wind-swept plateaus in the north lies the Mogollon (pronounced Mogey-own) Rim — a 7,000-foot-high island of forest.

The Rim forms the southern margin of the Colorado Plateau — that desert province of surreal beauty that is home to Grand Canyon, Arches and a half-dozen other non-forest-oriented parks. The southern prow of the Colorado Plateau, however, efficiently captures approaching moisture, and annual precipitation on the Rim exceeds 30 inches, downright damp for the arid Southwest.

The result is the largest contiguous ponderosa pine forest in the world. This is a stately, open woodland, where the underbrush is so minimal that one can stroll anywhere among the pines — trail or no trail. Dive into one of the Rim’s shady canyons and the story changes, with dense pockets of white and Douglas fir, prickly New Mexico locust, quaking aspen and delicate bigtooth maple.

Backpacking opportunities exist in these quiet draws (check out East Clear Creek for cool forest splendor or the Highline Trail for Rim majesty), while developed campgrounds perch in the flat forests above. There are many miles of backroads in “Rim Country,” as the locals call it, where one can pull aside onto a cushion of pine needles and call it camp. If you need a water fix in this humidity-starved highland, man-made lakes dot the forests of the Rim.

When to go:
June is achingly dry, often with campfire bans in effect.
July ushers in needed summer showers from the south.
August typically has clear mornings with thunderstorms by afternoon.

More Information:
Apache and Sitgreaves National Forest:
www.fs.usda.gov/asnf

---

LAND OF CANAAN

If the mugginess of summer has you longing for Canada, but the burden of such a journey is just too much, take solace: Canaan is near. Deep within the rural fortress of Appalachia exists a little slice of the north, a place where spruce trees line tundra-scapes and a chill breeze blows, even in July.

West Virginia’s Canaan (pronounced Kah-nane) Valley and Dolly Sods Wilderness sit astride the eastern continental divide, occupying a northland niche on the roof of Appalachia. The Canaan Valley floor is more than 3,000 feet in elevation. The “Sods,” as the locals call their mountaintop meadows, are 1,000 feet higher still. In three directions, this is the highest rise of land for hundreds of miles, hauling down more than 150 inches of snow annually (250 inches in 2010) and furthering a red spruce forest of epic stature.

The lure of this rich forest actually cursed the area a century ago, as voracious logging denuded the mountains surrounding Canaan. The leftover humus layer of soil burned to bedrock in many places, prompting the Civilian Conservation Corps to conduct an ambitious topsoil replacement project in the ’30s, along with reforestation efforts. Today, the old-growth might be gone, but the area has recovered well. Burgeoning forests of balsam fir, hemlock and 80-year-old spruce thickets remain. Big Bend and Red Creek Campgrounds will place you close to the forest depths.

Perhaps the most intriguing habitat in the area, however, is where the trees don’t grow. Dolly Sods is an open stretch of heath barrens that hold Pleistocene plant remnants and a decidedly Alaskan feel. It’s hardly a stretch of the imagination to walk, in a single day, from arctic tundra to Quebec-esque spruce swamps to Appalachian hardwood forest. The largest tree ever recorded in West Virginia grew near here, a white oak that was 10 feet in diameter at 30 feet off the ground! Behemoths like this are a thing of the past, but excellent stands of black cherry thrive near Canaan these days. You can’t get that in Alaska.

When to go:
June catch the Canaan Valley birding and nature festival early in the month.
August come to see the Eriophorum bloom (a.k.a. cotton grass).
September brings the start of hardwood color.
In October, autumn is on its way out in these far-north boreal bogs of West Virginia.

More Information
Monongahela National Forest:
www.fs.usda.gov/mnf
Canaan Valley National Wildlife Refuge:
www.fws.gov/canaanvalley

 

---

NORTHERN IDAHO

Most forest campers are familiar with the woods of the Pacific Northwest because of the region’s towering conifers and rich alpine meadows. Once east of the Cascade Range, however, the fecundity is supplanted by aridity, and the great forests of the coast are thoroughly absent. In Idaho’s Clearwater and Bitterroot Mountains, the transition reverses itself, back to Northwest lush. This far east, Pacific storms have recharged enough to bathe Northern Idaho with steady rains, nourishing a dense cloak of forest that covers a miasma of steep mountains.

This is interior montane forest, once home to legendary stands of Pinus monticola, western white pine. An Asian blister rust introduced to North America in the early 1900s decimated much of the highly valued white pine forest, but decades of silviculture science developed a rust-resistant strain of monticola. Now, white pines sprinkle a forest they once dominated, while luxuriant grand firs occupy much of the pine’s former habitat.

Western larch, ponderosa pine and Douglas-fir thrive here too, but the signature tree of the region is western redcedar. Their lime-green canopies flow in sinuous patterns across the hills, and their fresh scent permeates the atmosphere. In swampy bottoms, redcedar trunks expand to mammoth proportions. The Hobo Cedar Grove near Clarkia, Idaho, holds some of the most impressive specimens. The roadside Devoto Grove along Highway 12 is one of the most accessible.

The Devoto ancient cedars line the banks of the Lochsa (Lock-saw) River, a whitewater gem that runs cold and high in springtime, slower but still challenging in July and usually too low for raft trips by August. Between rapids, the river settles into pools that reflect green from the surrounding forest. There is plenty of riverside camping along the lovely Lochsa, but if scenic route 12 is too busy for you, the wild Selway River flows clear and green just over the next ridge. A dirt road runs along the Selway’s lower reaches. Above that, there is nothing but perfectly rugged trails penetrating the largest roadless tract in the lower 48 states. When you stumble out of the wilds, a hot jacuzzi beckons at Three Rivers Campground, located at the confluence of the rivers. Sit back and gaze at the cedars, firs and pines because despite being removed from the coast by a major mountain range and one desert, you are definitely in the Northwest.

When to go:
June Soaking spring rains can linger here.
July is prime time.
August and September are glorious,
except when forest fires drop palls of smoke into the river canyons.

More Information:
Clearwater National Forest:
www.fs.fed.us/r1/clearwater
Nez Perce National Forest:
www.fs.usda.gov/nezperce
Three Rivers Campground:
www.threeriversresort.com

---

JOYCE KILMER-SLICKROCK WILDERNESS

The Southern Appalachians are an assemblage of hazy, blue mountains, where rich forests recycle a moist subtropical atmosphere. Clouds hang lazily over rhododendron valleys, prompting mountain range monikers of “Smoky” and “Unicoi” — a derivation of white in the native Cherokee language. Beneath the mists, robust trees flourish.

Logging was slow to gain a foothold in these rugged backwoods. Still, by the early 1900s, most of the big trees were harvested — but not all, as the momentum of industry crossed itself in the heavily timbered Slickrock Creek basin in 1922. That year, a downstream dam flooded railroad tracks that accessed the valley, effectively cutting off the forest from the long arm of the saw. A decade later, the U.S. Forest Service purchased ripe bottomlands along the creek valleys, protecting the spectacular groves. Today, a full third of the Slickrock Creek watershed remains intact across North Carolina and eastern Tennessee, home to arguably the finest old growth in the Southeast. The sheltered, mid-elevation valleys here are known as cove forests, where predominately deciduous species thrive. White oak, red oak, basswood and yellow poplar create a forest of rare grandeur.

Many of the finest specimens can be found along the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest Trail, a two-mile, figure-eight loop offering a glimpse into the pre-European Appalachian forest. If the humid cove groves feel suffocating, you might take a drive to nearby Stratton Bald. From the 5,300-foot summit, one can gaze across a sea of forest furtively peeking through curtains of cloud. More than 60 miles of trail wend through Joyce Kilmer-Slickrock Wilderness below, a backpacking haven. If car camping is your thing, Horse Cove Campground is located near the incomparable Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest grove. Quiet nooks lurk everywhere. Pack your bags because the Southeast holds plenty of misty mountains.

When to go:

June through August Classic Southeast balminess reigns.
September cools slightly.
October starts the color season.

More Information:
Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest:
joycekilmerslickrock.org
Cherokee National Forest:
www.fs.usda.gov/cherokee

 

---

CALIFORNIA’S NORTH COAST

To most, Northern California means greater San Francisco or maybe wine country. But continue north on Highway 101, a full six hours from the Golden Gate, and you’re still in Northern California. Yet, this place is very much its own. This is the North Coast, home to the world’s tallest trees, spectacular coastlines and a touch of the unexpected.

Just miles away from the dank redwood rainforests of Jedediah Smith State Park, mountainsides open into rocky scrublands of stunted pine. The dramatic change occurs due to nutrient-depleted serpentine soils, which play host to several rare plant species, most notably Darlingtonia californica, or pitcher plant. The sparse slopes contrast sharply against dense thickets of fir, madrone and oak, mingling to form some of the most diverse forests in North America.
This botanical splendor rises above the Smith River, a crystalline jewel that forms the centerpiece of Smith River National Recreation Area. This public land tract offers plentiful camping options. Stroll the ocean beach. Car camp on an open ridge. Fish the Smith. Stare into the canopy of stupefyingly huge redwoods. Scramble to a remote swimming hole. Now, this is summer camping.

When to go:
July through September
Summer brings regular fog to the coast and lower river valleys, adding an ethereal element to hikes in the big trees. If the cool of the clouds gets you down, head inland and upwards. Hot sunshine awaits. Although the area receives more than 60 inches of rainfall annually, very little falls from July through September.

More Information:
Redwood National Park:
www.nps.gov/redw/index.htm
Smith River National Recreation Area:
www.fs.usda.gov/main/srnf/home
Smith River Alliance:
www.smithriveralliance.org

 

---

LEAVE NO TRACE

Camping is a chance to get off the concrete, feel the mud between your toes and un-civilize for a spell. Embrace that. When I enter forests, I feel like a guest of that environment, honored with the opportunity to visit wild nature. With this perspective, it’s easy to move lightly on the land and respect all of its elements. The guidelines of Leave No Trace — principles directing outdoor enthusiasts to minimize the impact their activities leave on natural spaces — become less a set of rules and more a way of life: existing simply, purely and naturally and leaving no trace. This attitude is more essential than any list. Still, here are a few tips for camping minimally, without leaving your mark.

Disperse
If an area is pristine when you arrive, spreading your camping footprint will help maintain that quality. For instance, walk away from camp to spit out toothpaste, preferably in an organically rich place. If you have biodegradable items like coffee grounds to discard, go into the forest and sling them in a wide swath. A thousand little grounds absorb faster than a single mound.

Be natural
Walk at least 200 feet from water (and camp) to defecate. If in doubt, walk farther. Dig a hole about six inches deep and bury feces. If the ground is too hard to dig an adequate hole, find a rock or log that you can lift, and replace it afterward. Pack toilet paper in a zip-able bag, or use a natural substitute — a smooth stick (not poison ivy or poison oak!) does the job just as well. You’ll survive, I promise.

Fire Down
During the long days and warm nights of summer, campfires are unnecessary. However, it’s hard to make s’mores without one. So if you have a campfire, construct it in an existing fire ring. If none exists, make a small clearing (a ring of rocks is not needed) for your small fire. Before leaving, douse the ashes until cold, throw any unburned sticks into the woods and re-cover the clearing as if you were never there.

For more information on the Leave No Trace movement, please visit www.lnt.org.

Big-tree-hunter and adventure-seeker Tyler Williams writes from Flagstaff, Arizona, and can be reached on his website at www.funhogpress.com.

The post Camping Under a Canopy appeared first on American Forests.

Imagine you are an alien from outer space, intelligent of course, who came to observe Earth and its less intelligent life forms around 200,000 years BP (before present). Your lifespan is in the millions of years, so you are quite patient and park yourself in a stationary orbit above the equator a few hundred miles west of the Galapagos Islands. At a glance, you can see all of North and South America, half the Pacific Ocean, much of the western Atlantic and a sliver of Antarctica. You have a partner in stationary orbit on the opposite side of the world, who soon discovers two-legged animals that make stone tools and control fire. After meticulous observations, you must report, “No sign of intelligent life,” from your side of the world.

While lots of interesting things are recorded by your antipodal partner, you are forced to repeat the same observation for the next 185,000 years. You amuse yourself by watching the forests of North America migrate and change composition in a dance with the advancing and retreating glaciers, but you curse the luck that gave you the uninhabited side of Earth to observe.

Then, around 15,000 years ago, up in the far northwestern corner of North America, small bands of humans dressed in the furs of their prey slowly make their way across Beringia and into Alaska before the rising seas drown the ice age land bridge behind them. Intelligent life forms have finally arrived on your side of the world, and your future suddenly looks a lot brighter.

EARLY AMERICANS

North and South America are the New World not only because Columbus blundered into them, making them new for western civilization in the 1400s, but because people from eastern Siberia wandered there about 14,500 years earlier and made them new for all of humankind. A thousand or so years later, nearly one third of the habitable world in the Americas had been discovered and populated by these first Americans. Previously, the flora and fauna of North America had an evolutionary and ecological history completely apart from the influence of humans. But that was all about to change.

Not long after humans made it to North America, they developed the Clovis culture, known for its distinctive stone spear points up to eight inches long with fluted bases. These people hunted mammoths, mastodons and other large mammals — likely causing their extinction. Within a couple thousand years, North America had lost all its mammoths, mastodons, giant ground-sloths, tapirs, camels, llamas, glyptodonts, giant beavers and other large species. Gone were 19 herbivorous mammals bigger than elk, with seven of them ranging from the size of bison to elephants.

All the tree species we know today were present before the first Americans arrived, but their distribution across forest habitats was likely altered by the loss of so many large herbivores and seed dispersers. These effects are not easy to detect in the fossil record, but are strongly suggested by known ecology. Just one modern elephant, for example, can consume nearly 1,000 pounds of vegetation in a single day, topple or break sizeable trees and disperse tree seeds up to 35 miles from the parent tree. Imagine how millions of mammoths and mastodons would have affected the trees and forests of North America.

Recently, scientists have discovered that even much smaller herbivores, like elk, can greatly affect the distribution of trees. After wolves were eliminated from Yellowstone National Park in 1926, cottonwood tree regeneration dropped precipitously, as elk could then munch on saplings without risk of being hunted. By 1995, when wolves were reintroduced to the park, the park’s cottonwood trees were either seedlings or mature trees more than 70 years old thanks to the elk population. Since then, the wolves have reduced the elk population and forced them to avoid open riparian areas, where cottonwood saplings have now made a dramatic comeback. Who knows how, and in what ways, now-extinct ice-age mammals influenced forests and other habitats across North America.

CHANGING CULTURES

After the big mammals became extinct, early Americans did not just melt into ecological insignificance. Nor did they, despite popular belief, live in perfect balance with nature. If you think all North American forests were natural, old-growth icons at the time of Columbus, you are in the vast but mistaken majority. By that time, American Indians had already been modifying forest habitats for millennia.

Paleoindians used fire to open forests for more grass, herbs, shrubs and tree saplings favored by elk, deer, bison and other animals they hunted. Burning along trails made travel easier and eliminated hiding places for predators and human enemies. As long as these people were strict hunter-gatherers, the economy of that lifestyle forced most groups — and their ecological impacts — to remain small and dispersed. When they began to practice agriculture around 4,500 BP, things changed.

Farming allowed human population densities to rise and cluster into villages and chiefdoms. By about 1,000 BP, significant areas of forest were converted to intensive agriculture use for maize, squash and beans. Based on archaeological excavations of their village as described by ecologists Paul and Hazel Delcourt, the Cahokia people in Illinois (800-700 BP) cut one million trees to house 25,000 people. They also surrounded the village with a two-mile-long stockade composed of 15,000 oak and hickory logs 21 feet tall. Add all the trees they cut for fuel, and it wasn’t long before the Cahokia had leveled the forest within nine miles of their village.

Forests were also changed or eliminated by many other activities. Fires were still set to augment hunting opportunities, but the woods were also burned to make way for specific tree species. Oaks and hickories, which produce abundant, nutritious fruits in certain years, were spared or actively propagated. Northern beech and maple forests were converted into oak and pine woods interspersed with fields. The result of these management activities was a mosaic of agriculture, grassland, savanna, woodlands and forests, rather than an unbroken expanse of natural forest.

If this sounds at odds with the accounts of early explorers and settlers of pristine forests, there is a tragic reason: American Indians lacked immunity to European diseases, like smallpox and influenza, which wiped out 25 to 50 percent — sometimes 90 percent — of tribal populations. These diseases spread so quickly that, by the time a majority of European explorers arrived in an area, Indian populations had long been decimated. This allowed trees to invade the old fields, savannas and other open areas the Indians had long maintained, giving the advancing colonists a false impression of a continent-wide, untrammeled wilderness.

After Columbus, Europeans and their descendants also modified forests for their benefit, but with major differences. Paramount was the near-universal perspective that forests were either a threat that hid enemies, an obstacle to settlement, a resource to be converted to profit or all the above. In 1807, Irish author Isaac Weld wrote that Americans had an “unconquerable aversion to trees.” This attitude was backed up by steel axes, saws and plows that greatly increased the efficiency of converting forests to pastureland and crop fields. Selling fuel wood, bark for tanning and other wood products helped cover the cost of clearing the forest or provided extra income for established farmers. Initially, the pace of clearance was relatively slow, but the impacts accelerated with the ever-expanding population, which, by the 1800s, was doubling every 20 to 30 years. By 1850, the lowland forests of the Atlantic seaboard, New England and much of the Midwest had largely been cleared.

INTRODUCING INDUSTRY

In mid-1800s, the Great Lakes, Appalachia, Southeast and West were still relatively unscathed. Then, perhaps the most sudden and drastic change to American forests ensued with the Industrial Revolution. Railroads and steam-generated power helped make lumber a large-scale industrial commodity. This vastly increased the demand for lumber far beyond local needs. For the first time in history, large-scale deforestation took place for no local reason, and mountain slopes were no longer a safe haven for forests.

Timber production soared from one billion board feet in 1840 to 46 billion board feet in 1904, enough to fill more than 10,000,000 modern logging trucks. By 1880, lumber had overtaken agriculture as the most important driver of deforestation. By 1920, more than two-thirds of American forests had been leveled at least once, including the vast majority of eastern forests. Timber companies simply harvested the forest and moved on, from the Great Lakes to the South and across the West, leaving behind stumps, fire prone slash and dead or dying lumber towns. Finally, they were stopped by the Pacific Ocean and forced to begin replanting practices.

Although deforestation continued apace, the overall decline in forest cover finally plateaued around 1920, as trees reclaimed a portion of abandoned farms and clearcuts. Now, in the 48 contiguous states, logging mainly takes place on lands that have been previously harvested, and agricultural land use has generally stabilized. Although a relatively small fraction of forest is currently being lost to urbanization, the amount is increasing, and none of it will be returned to forest anytime soon. Today, the total amount of forested lands is about 70 percent of the original cover, but that’s just the quantitative story.

NOT ALL FORESTS ARE CREATED EQUAL

Human impacts, from colonial times to the present, have drastically changed not just the size, but the nature of American forests, whether you consider the baseline for what is natural to be 1492 CE or 15,000 BP.

The trees in mature forests are adapted to soil characteristics, light intensities and moisture levels created by the forest’s species themselves. Remove these species, and all those factors change. The resulting forest is now composed of pioneer species — those first to grow in a tree-less location, like aspen, birch and alder. The old-growth forest species must wait until the pioneer species recreate their required soil, light and moisture conditions to reemerge. Similar changes in forest composition are created by natural events such as fires and wind storms, and the mature forest regenerates naturally. The difference is that most managed forests today are harvested so frequently that they never reach the optimal conditions for the species that prefer mature conditions. Instead of a complex, old-growth structure of multi-layered canopies with a spectrum of young to ancient trees and tree fall gaps, decaying down wood, standing dead trees and high species diversity, forests today have relatively young, dense, even-aged and even-canopied stands of fewer species.

Simply replanting trees does not always mean the forest has returned. In places where timber companies have replanted with native trees — whether in rows on a plantation or less orderly in wilder areas — the new forest is a monoculture of commercial species that lacks most of the biodiversity associated with the original forest. Smaller patches of forest, or forest fragmentation, has also reduced forest biodiversity because the smaller fragments cannot support wide-ranging wildlife species. In addition, the small, isolated populations of other species, including some trees, are more susceptible to local extinction.

Other post-Columbian human activities have caused changes rarely or  never before seen in our forests. Commercial interests and overseas trade introduced many pathogens and pests that have significantly reduced the health and abundance of various trees. The chestnut blight fungus — accidentally imported from Europe around 1900 — took only 40 years to reduce mighty groves of American chestnuts, which had comprised up to 24 percent of many eastern forests, to scattered saplings that never mature. Other species affected by non-native disease or insects include the eastern white pine (pine blister rust), American elm (Dutch elm disease), oaks (sudden oak death syndrome), ash (emerald ash borer) and hemlocks (woolly adelgid). The introduction of foreign trees also displaced native trees, as imported trees became invasive, like the tamarisk and Russian olive in the West and the cajeput tree in the Everglades.

Sometimes even the best of intentions have resulted in wholescale transformations of our forests. In the Smoky Bear era, fire suppression allowed the buildup of dead woody debris. Now, instead of frequent small fires that rarely reach the crowns of trees, we often have large conflagrations that destroy hundreds of thousands of acres.

A CHANGING FUTURE
The forests of North America have endured many changes wrought by glaciers, climate fluctuations, sea levels, the rise and fall of mountains and the wholesale movement of the continent. In response, some tree species and forest types disappeared, while others flourished in their wake or simply bided their time in a protected refuge. Usually, the changes were slow enough that most species and habitats survived by migrating.

In recent decades, however, human impacts on climate change have eclipsed the natural variation caused by the slow changes in Earth’s orbit, solar output, ocean currents and natural emissions of greenhouse gases from volcanoes and other sources. In the last two decades, the death rate of trees in western old-growth forests has doubled. The northward and higher-elevation migrations of many tree species has already begun, as the trees in the hottest and driest parts of their geographic ranges are increasingly susceptible to fire, disease and pests. Climate has always pushed trees around the continent, but now, many of their escape routes have been cut off by roads, cities and farms.

As the old comic strip character Pogo famously proclaimed, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” It doesn’t matter if the “us” is a spear-wielding Clovis hunter, a Cahokia Indian farmer, an 18^th-century settler, a modern logger, a low-MPG driver,  an office worker who only prints on one side of the paper or even the most dedicated conservationist. We all use and impact forests to some degree. Their future and ours will depend largely on how well we understand how different tree species and forest types across North America change in response to the forces of both nature and humanity. We have learned to value trees not just for their products as wood, paper and fuel, but for their aesthetic and ecosystem-service values as living and life-giving forests. Now, unlike most of our ancestors, we know that there are no more frontiers. There is only a future with the forests we have and the consequences of the decisions we make.

Whit Bronaugh writes from Eugene, Oregon. 

This article concludes a two-part series on the history of North American forests. Read part one, “North American Forests in the Age of Nature,” in our Spring 2012 Issue.

The post North American Forests in the Age of Man appeared first on American Forests.

By Paula Dobbyn

Jim Leslie’s life used to revolve around cutting old-growth timber. These days the Vietnam vet and longtime resident of Wrangell, Alaska, makes his living behind the wheel of jet boats, ferrying visitors to picturesque areas to view wildlife, glaciers and salmon.

“My bread and butter is the independent traveler,” he says.

Leslie’s career transition is not uncommon these days in towns scattered across the 17-million-acre Tongass National Forest, a lush and remote place known more for its heated environmental battles than for its tidewater glaciers, humpback whales and zip-line adventures. But change is afoot in this far-flung corner of the United States.

Increasingly, the rain-drenched Tongass of Southeast Alaska is becoming known as a salmon forest and a tourist destination. As the economy of Tongass dramatically shifts, the area’s main landlord — the U.S. Forest Service — is counting on people like Leslie to chart a new course for America’s largest and most rugged national forest.

In the words of Regional Forester Beth Pendleton, top Forest Service official in Tongass, “This time is ripe for an infusion of new opportunities and energy.”

A FOREST OF FISH

Created by President Theodore Roosevelt more than a century ago, Tongass is a coastal temperate rainforest roughly the size of West Virginia. With precious little old-growth forest left in the U.S., Tongass offers the country’s largest remaining swath of ancient forest, as well as an estimated one third of the world’s remaining temperate rainforest. Species that have declined or disappeared elsewhere, such as brown bears and wild salmon, flourish here.

The western hemlock, Sitka spruce, western redcedar and Alaska cedar stands that dominate Tongass are dense and sometimes nearly impenetrable. It’s not just the towering height of the trees that makes Tongass formidable. Devil’s Club, a medicinal but monstrously thorny shrub that makes contact with skin a painful affair, is common throughout the forest. Where there’s no Devil’s Club, downed logs, streams, lakes or muskeg typically define the Tongass landscape. For humans to navigate Tongass, it takes an established trail, a boat or an aircraft. For salmon, it’s quite different.

Some 15,700 miles of rivers and another 4,100 lakes and ponds in Tongass are home to salmon, making the forest a giant breeding and nursing ground. The river systems and estuaries act like a complex freeway system through which salmon navigate to reach their desired destinations. Tongass’ pink, silver, sockeye, Chinook and chum salmon spend their early life in the forest’s freshwater arteries before trading the forest environment for the ocean. After several years and thousands of miles of saltwater migration, salmon use their internal homing mechanisms to return to their natal streams to spawn.

Every year, Tongass produces prodigious volumes of all five species of Pacific salmon found in North America. An estimated 70 percent of all salmon harvested from national forests originate in Tongass, largely because of the extent of intact habitat that remains in Southeast Alaska.

“It’s an incredible fish factory,” says Trout Unlimited’s Southeast Alaska project director and former fly-fishing guide  Mark Kaelke.

On average, commercial fishermen in Southeast Alaska catch 48 million wild salmon each year in what is considered a tightly regulated and well-managed fishery with healthy population numbers. Sport fishermen catch another million.

Besides salmon and trout, which support one in 10 regional jobs, other fish species that abound in Tongass include steelhead, Dolly Varden, halibut, lingcod, crab and shrimp, to name a few. According to the Alaska Seafood Marketing Institute, gross earnings from commercial fishing in Southeast Alaska in 2009 totaled $173.4 million. That same year, Southeast Alaska had a seafood industry workforce of some 10,150.

While fishing is booming in this part of the world, the once-robust timber industry, by contrast, is in sharp decline. According to the Forest Service, Tongass timber sales in 2011 generated just $3.3 million in revenue. The logging industry supported only 200 private-sector jobs, the lowest level in five decades.

In the 1990s, Leslie saw this change coming.

THE DECLINE OF TIMBER

For many years, Leslie owned a logging company. He employed about 75 people in seven camps throughout Tongass. Times were good for about two decades for Leslie Cutting Inc., with employees logging between 180 and 220 million board feet a year of hemlock, spruce and cedar trees. Leslie’s company attracted family men like himself who wanted to put down roots and work hard.

“When I got into the industry, it was rough and tumble. One of my goals was to bring civility to it,” Leslie says.

A former board member of the Alaska Forest Association, the state’s main timber trade group, Leslie figured he would operate his company until retirement. But changing market conditions, growing public opposition to clear-cut logging of national forests and passage of the Tongass Timber Reform Act crippled the business environment. Lack of available timber forced Leslie to close his business in 1992. Wrangell’s primary employer, a large sawmill a few miles outside town, closed in 1995. Hundreds of residents lost jobs.

Leslie admits he felt bitter. “I had a chip on my shoulder as large as a load of logs,” he says.

But Leslie isn’t one to mope. From Wrangell’s downtown harbor, he noticed cruise ships starting to bring hundreds of thousands of visitors to Southeast Alaska, and he figured he might have a shot at cashing in. Soon after closing his original business, Leslie became president of the Wrangell Chamber of Commerce and opened a new company — Alaska Waters Inc., an adventure-tourism operation that offers bear and glacier viewing, bird watching, and geological and Alaska native cultural excursions.

The company has allowed Leslie to move on. While the recession took a bite out of business, it’s coming back, he says. And he has few regrets about the changes life forced upon him: “I don’t look back.”

A TIME OF TRANSITION

During the first half of the 20^th century, logging in Tongass was small scale. But in 1954, the U.S. government signed a 50-year contract and agreed to supply a newly built Ketchikan-based pulp mill with a massive volume of timber — some 8.25 billion board feet.

Four years later, a second large pulp mill opened in Sitka, also underpinned by a 50-year contract with the Forest Service for 5.25 billion board feet of Tongass old-growth timber.

In their heyday, the Alaska pulp mills employed hundreds of people and, for many years, operated with little notice. In the late 1960s, with the rise of the environmental movement and the subsequent passage of federal clean water and air laws, attitudes toward the pulp mills sharply changed. Heated public debate and environmental lawsuits ensued. In 1990, Congress finally stepped in and passed the Tongass Timber Reform Act, which scaled back logging in favor of fish and wildlife protection. The law ushered in a new era of forest management in Tongass.

Now, more than two decades later, change continues to define this region of jagged fjords and mist-shrouded islands. One of the bigger developments occurred in May 2010, when the Forest Service pledged to move beyond old-growth logging and start managing Tongass for second-growth timber, begin restoring watersheds impacted by logging and support job creation in fishing, renewable energy, mariculture and tourism.

Although some said the policy shift was overdue and simply reflected realities on the ground, the announcement was significant for an agency whose primary focus for decades had been managing Tongass for industrial-scale, old-growth timber harvesting.

The order came from U.S. Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack, who directed the Forest Service to develop a Tongass “Transition Framework,” a strategy that would refocus the agency’s priorities and help grow the regional economy.

Since making the announcement, the Forest Service has organized some 30 job-creating initiatives in collaboration with business, government, tribal and non-profit organizations. It’s called the “cluster initiative,” a process that’s been infused with $30 million from Vilsack’s department. Since 2009, the agency has also invested more than $153 million in infrastructure, education and training, research, and business loans and grants to communities experiencing job declines in the timber industry, according to the Forest Service.

Depending on one’s vantage point, the “transition,” as it’s known locally, either means promising times or frustrating reminders that Tongass’ timber industry is unlikely to ever recover its former past.

RESTORING WATERSHEDS

Fishermen and tourism operators tend to take a more positive view. Many who felt the Forest Service long relegated their priorities to the back burner are hopeful that fish and the environment will finally get more attention.

“Like any change, it takes time to gain momentum. Of course, I would like to see it happen faster. I think people are still getting used to the idea of making the transition,” says Sheila Peterson, a Juneau commercial fisherman who owns Taku River Reds, a direct-market seafood business that sells wild sockeye and silver salmon to high-end restaurants and markets in the lower 48 states.

Peterson’s company depends on healthy, salmon-producing watersheds. While encouraged by the transition, Peterson is among a growing cadre of fishermen who would like to see the Forest Service spend more money and energy restoring watersheds that were damaged by logging. She considers it a key marker of the transition’s success. A retired legislative aide, Peterson was among a group of commercial and sport fishermen that recently lobbied Congress for increased restoration funding.

“Tongass is our backyard. We live and breathe in that environment. And when one part of it is not as healthy as it should be, it’s disturbing, especially for the salmon, an annual reminder of the lifecycles that go on in the forest,” says Peterson.

The Forest Service has identified about 70 key Tongass watersheds that need habitat restoration so that wildlife populations will return to pre-logging levels, especially salmon, trout, steelhead and deer — a crucial subsistence and sport species. Agency estimates put the total cost of restoration at about $100 million. At the current investment rate of anywhere from $1.5 million to $4 million a year, it’ll take as many as five decades to accomplish this work.

Southeast Alaska had a record salmon catch in 2011, with commercial fishermen hauling in more than 73 million salmon and fetching more than $200 million — the most valuable harvest since Alaska became a state. Given the downturn in logging and the growth of the Southeast fishing industry, some fishermen and conservationists argue that the Forest Service should shift its budget priorities in Tongass, which, despite recent developments, still focus heavily on timber and road building.

“Salmon and trout are a huge industry in Southeast Alaska. It’s about $1 billion a year in economic contribution to the region’s economy. It makes sense to put more funding into projects that will increase our runs,” says Juneau gill netter Jev Shelton.

Trout Unlimited’s Kaelke also notes that more than 7,300 jobs are tied to salmon and trout fishing in Southeast Alaska. “The Forest Service budget needs to reflect reality and provide an opportunity for the transition to be successful,” he says.

Pendleton notes that the Forest Service has three large-scale restoration projects on salmon watersheds coming up this summer. One of them, at Sitkoh River on Chichagof Island, is a collaborative project with Trout Unlimited, Sitka Conservation Society, the Alaska Department of Fish & Game and the Forest Service that is designed to boost the river’s salmon and steelhead runs. The river was logged down to its banks back in the 1970s before modern-day forestry laws were enacted that banned such practices that harm fish.

KEEPING EXISTING MILLS ALIVE

While the Forest Service is supporting new initiatives in the ocean products and tourism sectors, as well as forest restoration, it is still scheduling timber sales in old-growth stands. The goal is to sustain existing mills while the owners re-engineer their equipment and develop new markets for second-growth production. The majority of former clear-cuts — some 500,000 acres, according to Pendleton — are still several decades away from being mature enough for commercial harvest. In the meantime, the Forest Service continues to offer old growth as a “bridge” supply.

As with anything in Tongass, there is no shortage of debate about how quickly the Forest Service can or should stop offering old-growth timber for harvest.

“I’m very comfortable with and supportive of the way the Forest Service is approaching the transition,” says Michael Kampnich, a former logger, cop and harbormaster who works for The Nature Conservancy on Prince of Wales Island in Southeast Alaska. He’s also a salmon gillnetter during the summer.

“They’ve been trying to do it in a way to move the process forward while at the same time recognizing there’s an established industry here,” he says, referring to the few sawmills left on Prince of Wales. “They’re trying to provide them with an opportunity to continue to function. It’s a balancing act.”

But others, including Austin Williams, an Alaska staffer with The Wilderness Society, say the Forest Service is taking too long to move beyond the past. “The Forest Service has made significant improvements, but we certainly want to see the transition happen at a faster rate. The current program of work will have old-growth stands being logged for potentially 15 years out from now. They continue to envision cutting about 30 million board feet of old-growth timber annually,” he says.

MOVING ON

Jeremy Maxand roasts espresso beans on the porch of his Wrangell home. While tending the roaster, he holds a cell phone to his ear to talk about policy developments on Tongass. He’s deep into details about the Forest Service’s transition and how it’s affecting his town when the owner of Wrangell Roasting Co. abruptly breaks off the conversation.

“I’ll have to call you back. I can smell the beans starting to burn,” Maxand says.

When he returns, Maxand jumps back into his dual role as mayor of Wrangell and community organizer for the Southeast Alaska Conservation Council. The fact that Maxand does both is a sign of the times in this blue-collar, former mill town. In the not-too-distant past, admitting to being an environmental organizer could compromise one’s personal safety.

But Wrangell is rewriting its story. Where the downtown sawmill once stood, an all-purpose marine services center has sprung up. A seafood processing plant recently underwent a major expansion. The tribal house is being restored this summer, and more residents are getting into tourism to make a living.

“It took about a decade, and some people still aren’t quite over it, but by and large, we’re moving on,” says Maxand.

Wrangell’s journey has been painful. Many families were forced to move away; others who stayed fell on hard times when the timber industry contracted. But others with timber-industry roots are cheering the transition on and hoping it benefits their bottom lines.

Leslie, the former logging company owner, doesn’t engage in Tongass timber debates much anymore; he’s more interested in his post-logging future.

“Oh, I was angry for a long time, but as I got more interested in the business I have now, I began to see opportunity,” he says. “Things change. They always have and they always will.”

Paula Dobbyn writes from Anchorage, Alaska, and can be reached at pauladob@gmail.com.

For more information on the legislation currently threatening Tongass National Forests’ old growth and how you can help, reach “Washington Outlook.”

The post Transition for Tongass appeared first on American Forests.

American Forests Science Advisory Board member Dr. Deborah McCullough is a professor in the Departments of Entomology and Forestry at Michigan State University. She studies a variety of forest insects, with recent research focusing on the emerald ash borer and other invasive forest insects.

Why did you choose to go into forest entomology?

I grew up in Flagstaff, Ariz., and have always spent lots of time outside. I took a course in forest entomology when I was a senior in college at Northern Arizona University. The combination of forestry and entomology seemed to encompass everything I liked. I’ve always been interested in forest ecology, and the more I learn about insects and how they interact with trees, their natural enemies and their environment, the more incredible they become. As a forest entomologist, I get to integrate ecology, biology, economics, policy — it can be complicated, but it is never dull.

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

Heck, I’m not sure. Shortstop for the Minnesota Twins? On the professional bass fishing circuit? Microbrewery owner and brewmaster?

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

I like just about everything related to forest entomology and my position here at Michigan State. I get to work outside in a variety of forest types during the summer (and sometimes the winter), which I enjoy greatly. I also get to develop and design research studies to address issues related to forest and tree health. I get a lot of satisfaction when we can use our results to improve forest management or develop solutions to problems. Working with graduate students and seeing their progress and their enthusiasm for their work is also one of the best aspects of this position. I also teach undergrad students and get to see them begin to appreciate the diversity and importance of forest insects.

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

Sweden and Finland — the similarities and differences between those forests and forests in the North Central U.S. were striking. And it was beautiful country!

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

I’m always surprised when I work with foresters or arborists who are not aware of how important insects and pathogens are in forests. Insects play critical roles in ecosystems, and if you manage trees or forests, it’s important to be aware of how your actions can affect beneficial insects, as well as pests.

Do you have a favorite story from your years in studying forest entomology?

I have lots of stories — not sure they are necessarily suitable for a family publication :).

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

I think invasive forest insects and pathogens are the major issues. These pests cost property owners and municipalities billions of dollars every year. There are cultural impacts and even human-health impacts. They have major effects on species composition, productivity and wildlife habitat. Given increasing global trade and travel, combined with reduced funding for efforts to manage established pests and exclude potentially new pests, this problem will likely get worse.

Where is your favorite spot to experience nature?

North America has so many amazing places — I don’t think I can pick just one.

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

The emerald ash borer (EAB) saga has been difficult. We’ve come a long way and learned a huge amount about EAB since this invasive pest was identified 10 years ago. The ecological and economic costs of EAB, however, are terrible. It’s like watching a catastrophe unfold.

Who is your favorite fictional scientist?

Dr. Sheldon Cooper from “The Big Bang Theory”

The post Forest Frontiers: Deborah McCullough appeared first on American Forests.

When and why did you become a nature photographer?

I have always been interested in the natural world and have found solace there as well, but I didn’t get interested in photography until I took it as an elective while working on a natural sciences major in college. I took the class so I’d have an opportunity to meet a girl who I knew was going to be in it. And I did meet her, and we did go out for some time. But the interest in photography just continued to grow year after year, even after our relationship waned. Eventually, I went back to school to study photography and film and on to work professionally in both fields.

Are you drawn to a specific type of nature photography?

I tend to be more attracted to large predators and raw, aggressive landscapes. But I find quiet beauty and tranquility irresistible as well. The subject itself isn’t as important to me as the sense of time and place portrayed in the image.

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

Many of my favorite memories involve wild subjects, and every one of them hinges on moments when I felt a connection with the subject that went far beyond respect or admiration. These moments were not subtle in the least. They were more like getting thumped over the head by a 400-pound gorilla … or maybe I should say an 800-pound grizzly? Transcendental in nature — both literally and figuratively. The message was that we are all in this together; in the end, we are one and the same. These moments were fleeting, but the impact they had was front and center in my consciousness for weeks afterwards.

I shared these moments with subjects like brown bears, killer whales and, on a fairly regular basis, a wolf that I had the honor of knowing for a number of years. When a relationship is developed with a large predator — one that could take your life before you could even try to defend yourself — that isn’t based on food, but instead, solely on respect and a willingness to share the environment with you … it’s kind of hard not to later pass that same respect and honor along to others, both large and small. This wolf became more than simply a subject for my camera, more than a wild neighbor who I shared my stomping grounds with. There were times when photographic opportunities didn’t present themselves, and instead, we hung out together for hours hiking or just sitting and watching the world go by, sharing a bond and kinship that I find impossible to describe. We never directly approached each other or intentionally touched, but contact was made that was impossible to disregard.

Where is your favorite shooting location?

Alaska’s Tongass National Forest— where else? Nowhere else can I have such available access to such awesome wildlife and wild lands so close to our home. It is literally in our backyard. If I were to drive two miles and start walking in an easterly direction, I might not come across a road or sign of civilization until I’d traveled hundreds of miles — first across an ice field the size of Rhode Island and then across half of British Columbia! Tongass has such a variety of landscapes — from old-growth forests to alpine meadows, from expansive glaciers to rocky coastlines, from sandy beaches to quiet ponds and inlets. All with bears, eagles, deer, elk, moose, wolves, five species of salmon, leaping humpback and killer whales and many more wonderful creatures as your neighbors. That’s good enough for me!

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

The most difficult image is the one that has so far eluded me — it’s still just an idea that has yet to become a visual I can share with others.

Otherwise the most difficult ones are those that have demanded the most patience and persistence. Ones like when I sat in a blind and on a board the size of a swing while suspended eight feet above the ground for more than week waiting for the subject to enter the frame of a remote-controlled camera. Times like that are the most stressful because you have a lot of time to think — to consider how nuts you must be to be sitting there waiting for something you have absolutely no control over. Extensive weather delays can become difficult as well. Making a decision to commit to a very specific objective in a very specific place and then hoping that it will eventually go your way, those are the worst. But they are some of the best when they do pay off!

Do you have a favorite photo?

The last image that really accomplished what I had intended when I clicked the shutter. Of course, I have favorites from over the years, but the most recent is the springboard to the next.

Which other photographers do you admire?

There are way too many to list, and if I did, I’d forget someone important. So, in general, I admire any photographer that makes the effort to produce images that people respond to because then, they have made a difference, and that is what counts. Different people respond to different types of images and different subjects in different ways. For photography to make a difference — to effect positive change — it has to have as many faces as there are people.

The work of Ansel Adams, The Westons, Philip Hyde (no relation), Jerry Uelsmann, Minor White and many others provided a lot inspiration when I was getting started. At that time, I used black & white film — developed in very nasty chemicals — and large format 5×7 and 4×5 film.

If there was one person who I could say influenced me the most, I’d have to say it was my teacher Harrison Branch. He taught me to look into myself and go with what was in my soul, regardless of what everyone else was doing or wanted to do. At the time, I didn’t really realize why he insisted that all of us take that to heart. Now, after doing this for years, it has become obvious: It’s the only way you can keep on making images year after year — discovering what it is that drives you to do so, without burning out. It is the only way to be true to yourself and, thus, to your art.

A filmmaker and photographer whom I worked for while going to school was also a great influence. James Larison taught me something that every photographer or filmmaker needs to aspire to: that you need to keep your “eyes wide open” or you might miss that magic moment — that brief but telling slice of time that tells a whole story in one picture.

Digital or film?

These days, my preference is for digital for a number of reasons.

First is that digital enables me to see an image I have just taken, and when you are in the wilderness, days or weeks from returning to town, you can see what you’ve got without having to wait for the film to get back. For someone that does this professionally, that can be very reassuring. Another aspect is that you can exchange ideas visually with a client in the field to make sure you both are thinking along the same lines during an assignment. And being able to examine your images as you take them makes the whole process more interactive for me.

Another advantage is that high-end, 35mm, full-frame digital cameras provide superior results in almost every way to 35mm film. There are certainly times when I miss using that beautiful old cherry and brass 5×7 that was my first real camera — and maybe I’ll get back to it again someday  — but for now digital is my preferred format.

The Tongass is John Hyde’s home, as well as his primary photographic passion. His work has been published and exhibited globally. To see more of his world, visit wildthingsphotography.com.

The post Close Up With Nature Photographer John Hyde appeared first on American Forests.