For years, scientists who study mercury have traced its path through wetlands. They’ve measured it in the water and the sediment, from algae to eagle. But they haven’t paid nearly as much attention to forests, where ominous warnings have been overlooked: A recent study by the Biodiversity Research Institute and The Nature Conservancy finds that mercury is widespread in forested ecosystems not usually considered at risk.

The pollutant hails mostly from coal burning and other industrial sources, but it’s also a natural element in the Earth’s crust and can be released by forest fires. As scientists have long known, bacteria in wetlands convert the metal to its most lethal form, methylmercury — a neurotoxin that impairs reproduction, immune function and more.

A 2002 University of Nevada study claimed, “Understanding the importance of forested systems within regional or global cycles is critical to developing a global mercury budget.”

Almost 10 years later, mercury’s reach into forests is finally coming to light.

In August 2011, the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS) released two studies concluding that fallen autumn leaves release mercury, which bacteria then convert to methylmercury. Fallen leaves and needles deliver at least as much mercury to eastern U.S. ecosystems as precipitation in the form of acid rain does. They found that mercury levels rise over the growing season and peak just before leaves change color and fall. Mercury’s lethal impacts are occurring in woodlands at the most basic level, where the food webs begin: the soil, leaves and bugs.

“For decades, researchers have missed properly characterizing the land-based food web,” says biologist Dave Evers, the principal author of the study Hidden Risk. Invertebrates, such as insects, readily absorb the toxic mercury, which then is passed up the food chain to birds and mammals, reaching “levels of great concern.”

When forests are exposed to mercury, the conversion to methylmercury takes place in the soil and leaves. Insects dine on tainted leaf litter, and then spiders eat the bugs, which results in spiders generally containing more mercury than plant-eating insects, Evers’ study reports. And the process continues: Birds pluck spiders from the trees or forage on the ground, then are consumed by other predators. As the cycle goes on, mercury levels continue to rise.

Ripple Effect
In a 2010 study, Sharon Jean-Philippe, a doctoral candidate at the University of Tennessee, investigated how trees and fungal communities adapt to soils polluted with heavy metals by examining an atomic bomb construction site in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. From 1950-1965, the creekside forest had been doused with “an acute toxic dose of mercury and other metals.” The exposure was “probably lethal to established seed banks, certain tree species, grasses, terrestrial and aquatic animals and microbial communities.”

The study focused most on the world beneath the forest, where roots interact with living soil. The availability — and ultimate toxicity — of heavy metals to plants depends on the myriad workings between soil, plants and microbes. Mycorrhizae, a group of beneficial fungi associated with most tree roots, modify the tree’s response to heavy metals.

According to Jean-Philippe’s study, “Mycorrhizae have been shown to increase heavy-metal tolerance in the host plant.” She found that some tree types fared better: “Though evidence suggests that mercury-contaminated soils may reduce tree and fungal populations, there are tolerant species that may remain and survive following contamination.”

But the overall affect of mercury in forest soil is that of diminishing richness. More sensitive populations disappear, and soil microbial communities are weakened. The imbalance of populations can leave trees less able to defend themselves from mercury exposure or less able to absorb the right nutrients. This slow poisoning may “influence species diversity of terrestrial and aquatic plants and animals,” Jeann-Philippe wrote.

From Sea to Shining Sea
Most research on mercury’s environmental impact has focused on the Northeast, where the metal is a problem in acid rain. The 2011 USGS study found that Vermont’s deciduous forests had higher mercury loads than many states, and a 2010 EPA-funded study found the highest ecosystem pools of mercury in Maine’s coniferous forests. But the pollutant is everywhere. It drifts in from Asia, blows downwind from Midwestern power plants and spews from local sources, like in the Cascade Mountains, where scientists have found elevated levels of mercury.

Some of the Cascades’ mercury is natural, a product of geologic history. In California, however, a large amount leaches from hundreds of abandoned mercury mines, a legacy of the Gold Rush, when mercury was used to extract gold from surrounding rocks due to its ability to bind with other metals. According to researchers at the University of California, Davis, up to 10 percent of an estimated 65,000 tons of mercury mined from the Coast Range between 1850 and 1920 was lost to streams in the Coast and Sierra Mountains.

The decrepit mines threaten waterways downstream in the San Francisco Bay Area and the Sacramento Bay Delta.

According to the California State Water Board, the once-prized ore is now “the most pervasive and problematic trace metal pollutant in the aquatic environment of California.”

Severe forest fires, drought, climate change: All have the potential to worsen the problem, remobilizing mercury that exists in soil, trees and plants.

“It’s a clean-water issue,” says Bob Schneider, the senior policy director of Tuleyome, a Woodland-based environmental group that received a state grant to clean up three abandoned mines. One of the nonprofit’s goals is to prevent mercury-tainted water from reaching Lake Berryessa and Cache Creek watershed, which contributes half of the mercury in the Sacramento system.

During the project’s restoration phase, Tuleyome will use the wide range of local, native plants to restore areas that mine construction and mercury contamination left barren. Producing hardy plantings, stable soils and improved habitat will gradually blur the line between the revegetated areas and adjacent undisturbed ones.

Tuleyome’s clean-up project will benefit a slew of at-risk species, including Townsend’s big-eared bat and bald eagles, which live in forests near lakes and rivers and may consume harmful levels of mercury from eating fish, according to the USGS.

Clear Lake
The most mercury-contaminated lake in the world lies in Lake County, California, where the U.S. Bureau of Land Management (BLM) is currently cleaning up abandoned mines.

USGS ecologist Dr. Tom Suchanek has spent years studying Clear Lake, where the former Sulphur Bank mercury mine dumped 100 metric tons of mercury into the ecosystem. In 1990, the mine became a Superfund site, eligible for federal aid earmarked for cleaning up the nation’s worst environmental messes.

In his study of this “mine-dominated ecosystem,” Suchanek followed the trail of mercury from abandoned mines through sediment and water and up the lake’s food web. Inorganic mercury found in low concentrations in Clear Lake builds up in organisms and is converted to methylmercury.

Because the surrounding mountains are thick with oak-madrone, manzanita, western pine and chaparral, the area is a sanctuary for wildlife, providing essential habitat for breeding, wintering and migrating birds. The birds, however, are becoming a study in the pathways of mercury, as Clear Lake is home to many fish-eating species, like Clarks and western grebes, bald eagles and osprey. According to the California Department of Fish and Game, as a bird-of-prey that depends on trees for nesting, the osprey — a federally designated sensitive species — is “a valuable indicator of forest ecosystem health.”

Studies of birds in the area show that mercury in the lake and its inhabitants has risen and fallen over the years with flooding, invasive species and other variables. The effects on birds have also fluctuated. Ospreys have maintained increasing breeding numbers, but from 2004 to 2006, their feathers showed a spike in mercury levels, a trend also seen in grebe feathers. In 2009, another study on grebe reproduction and mercury found that tissue levels of kidney, breast muscle and brain at Clear Lake were twice those of grebes at other study sites.

Further south, on 20 acres of public land in the Dry Creek Mining District, are the mines that the BLM is remediating. At the Helen Mine, the BLM identified plants as the most impacted resource due to their location and direct contact with the toxic soil. Of the five sensitive species that may be affected by remediation, four were plants. The one mammal listed is Townsend’s big-eared bat, which is known to stake claims in mine tunnels and prey on insects that may have themselves eaten mercury. The species is “at moderate risk of extinction” due to its restricted range, few populations and recent widespread declines.

While Clear Lake’s massive mercury problems have long overshadowed the many small mines in the region like the Helen, “they all have local impacts,” says Suchanek. “I would expect to see hotspots” near each one. “Some of these organisms are probably being impacted.”

That doesn’t surprise Evers, who says the findings in the Hidden Risk report “are transferable to other parts of the country.” Forests everywhere might be feeling the mercury rising.

Sheila Pell writes from Hidden Valley Lake, California, and can be reached at spell07@gmail.com.

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Photographs shot by satellites high above the earth show something very distinctive in the Upper Midwest — a clearly outlined, deep-green rectangle. They’re images of Menominee Forest, the centerpiece of the 235,000-acre Menominee Reservation in northeastern Wisconsin and one of the most historically significant working forests in the world. NASA astronauts have also reported seeing the forest from their perches in the space shuttle.

For more than 150 years, the Menominee have pioneered forestry practices that have preserved an ecosystem with numerous species and varied habitats. The result is a forest that is not only economically profitable, but also ecologically healthy.

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The Menominee practice a sustained-yield approach to forestry; that is, they manage the forest to ensure that trees are harvested in amounts that will ensure a steady supply of timber far into the future. The Menominee approach is unique, blending modern forestry science with traditional beliefs embedded deep in their culture. “To us, sustained yield means managing the forest for a long time,” says Marshall Pecore, forest manager for Menominee Tribal Enterprises, the corporation that operates the tribe’s many businesses.

The Menominee people’s emphasis on sustainability evolved from their cultural relationship with their land. They began to harvest timber in the mid 1800s, when, according to the tribe’s oral tradition, a chief counseled them to “start harvesting the trees with the rising sun and work toward the setting sun, but to take only the mature trees, the sick trees and the trees that have fallen. When you reach the end of the reservation, turn and cut from the setting sun to the rising sun and the trees will last forever.”

Over the years, the Menominee also have taken a continuous forest inventory, dividing the forest into plots of a fifth of an acre each to measure changes. “All the trees are numbered,” Pecore explains. “We take diameters and heights. In the last inventory, there were 58,000 trees.” Measuring the trees every 10 to 15 years has aided the foresters in maintaining diversity, quality and quantity.

The Menominee view themselves as the forest’s stewards, never taking more resources than are produced within natural cycles so that the forest’s biodiversity can be sustained. They also believe that rewards can’t be measured in financial terms alone, but in environmental, cultural and spiritual values. As a result, the forest managers allow some trees to reach full maturity before being harvested, while permitting others to age indefinitely to protect thriving stands of oldgrowth white pine and sugar maple. Using this principle, the Menominee have harvested a half billion board feet of lumber since the mid 1800s — yet, today, they have more standing timber than 150 years ago.

Throughout history, the Menominee have had to battle the federal government to keep control of their forest. Soon after they fought and won the right to their own reservation in 1854, the Menominee purchased a small sawmill to cut and process lumber. “Most people think that it must have been unfathomable to the traditional Menominees to cut the trees,” Pecore explains, “but they saw that they could do something to survive. They switched over to logging easily because they had been managing the forest all along.”

During the late 1800s and early 1900s, the Menominee had to battle the policies of various governmental agencies to manage the forests their way and to achieve greater self-sufficiency. In 1905, according to Pecore, “There was a big blowdown of hardwoods, of sugar maples. The Menominee wanted to build a new sawmill and cut the salvage logs.” They faced resistance in Congress, but Wisconsin Senator “Fighting Bob” LaFollette helped enact a 1908 law that allowed them to build the mill.

From the 1950s into the 1970s, the Menominee people faced further threats when the federal government terminated the reservation as a way to promote assimilation of the tribe into the mainstream culture. The reservation became a county, and to raise funds for infrastructure, the tribe was forced to sell parts of their ancestral lands to developers. During this period, the Menominee felt that they were losing their culture and vigorously protested the policy. In 1973, Congress ended the disastrous experiment with the passage of the Menominee Restoration Act, which restored Menominee lands to reservation status.

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Since the restoration of the reservation, the Menominee have continued to apply their approach to sustainability. Pecore explains, “You’ve got to have these different ecological types meshing and working together. We maintain stands of hemlock, which is not desirable in the marketplace, but is an important part of the ecology. If we keep a lot of diversity — species diversity, vegetation diversity — then we’ll have a healthy ecological forest.”

Approximately 30 species of trees now populate the forest, including white pines, hemlocks, Canadian yews, sugar maples, aspens, oaks and hickories. Some white pine stands are more than two centuries old, and the hemlocks are even older. The forest is equally rich in wildlife, such as bears, otters and cormorants. More than 300 miles of streams teem with trout.

For their approach to forestry, the Menominee have received numerous awards, including a Presidential Award from the Council on Sustainable Development and a Smart Wood Certification Award from the Rainforest Alliance. In 1995, the United Nations recognized the Menominee and other indigenous groups for balancing land use with sustainable practices to preserve forests for future generations.

Today, Menominee Forest has incredible stands of old-growth trees. In the northern part of the forest, no trails exist, so one has to wade through ferns and other undergrowth to reach ancient white pines at least 15 feet in circumference and soaring 200 feet into the sky. Thanks to the Menominee nation’s wisdom and foresight, one can walk into the past and stand in awe of the majesty of those trees.

Christopher and Barbara Johnson write from Evanston, Illinois.

The article was published in the Spring 2012 edition of American Forests Magazine. American Forests has been publishing its magazine since 1895. Filled with beautiful photographs and informative articles highlighting our nation’s forests and trees, American Forests features information for everyone from the environmentally conscious to the outdoor enthusiast. Become a supporter and receive our magazine in the mail. 

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Stepping into the rainforest, I stood motionless, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. Three gargantuan Sitka spruce trees came into focus, growing in a perfect row from a carpet of coarse moss that covered everything — decaying logs, huckleberry bushes, tree branches, vertical trunks. The suffocating cloak of dull green cast a stillness throughout the forest, and I was glad for a little creek that brought some cheer to the scene, noisily bouncing along beneath a tangle of alder to my left. Uphill, the distant glow of daylight indicated a flat far above. This is where I planned to stumble and crawl for most of the day in search of a single tree — a national champion silver fir that big-tree guru Robert Van Pelt measured more than a decade ago. He surmised that he and his companion, canopy researcher Steve Sillett, were “maybe the only humans to have visited this tree.” And I was just going to wander into the woods and find it. Can you say needle in a haystack?

Within minutes, I reached an obvious game trail that led uphill. The path was clear at first and then vanished as it tracked beneath obscuring sword ferns. But it was there. My feet could feel it. The hidden trail crested a benchland — a long, level strip of land with slopes on each side. They’re usually quite narrow; this one was as wide as a two-lane highway. I was creeping along the edge of this terrace when a large, moss-encrusted trunk made me pause. The trunk wasn’t particularly big compared to the Sitka spruce behemoths nearby; yet, it held my gaze, transfixed. I looked up out of habit to confirm the species. The needles had a spiny appearance and were highlighted like they were frosted. I froze. This was a silver fir. I looked again at the trunk and its unique shape, similar yet infinitely distinct from all others, like a human face. It was familiar. This was The Tree.

This particular tree, Van Pelt’s Hades Creek fir, had lost its place in the National Register of Big Trees after a decade without measurement, so field-checking its status was an important step to re-list the same tree or nominate a new one. As it turned out, my expedition through Washington’s Bogachiel River Valley did both.

The Valley of the Silver Fir
The Bogachiel could be called the valley of the silver fir, for nowhere else are Abies amabilis as prevalent. Although the species forms pure stands from Crater Lake to southeast Alaska, the high-mountain habitats, where silver fir is most common, lay buried under snow for six to eight months a year, and the growing season is brief. These snowbound silvers can form lovely deep groves of big, mature trees, but for the real giants, one must go low, into the valleys, where the winters are mild and the trees grow almost throughout the year.

The Bogachiel is such a valley, carved out of the basement rock of the Olympic Mountains, where 50 million years ago the sea floor smooshed onto the continent, giving rise to a landform that stood straight in the path of Pacific Ocean westerlies. Those ocean winds carried wave after wave of moisture-laden air that unleashed wet, heavy snowstorms onto the Olympics so deep that even the long days of summer could not melt it all. Glaciers formed. The methodical rivers of ice gouged at layers of sandstone and shale, and when a warming climate forced their retreat at the end of the Pleistocene 10,000 years ago, a wheel-spoke pattern of drainages remained, emanating from the center of the Olympic massif. On the west — the ocean side of the mountains — today’s valleys line up in formation, separated by ridges that act as open arms to the moist air, funneling and squeezing the atmosphere as it climbs toward the regal heights. The river valleys draining the summits derive their names from native tribes: Wynoochee, Humptullips, Quinalt, Queets, Hoh and Bogachiel. To modern explorers, each tongue-twisting title drips with the promise of adventure.

The Hunt for a Champion
This is quintessential wilderness, where deep, dank forests of fantastically large trees hide inescapable gorges that open into idyllic parks of bigleaf maple and lolling elk. Above, the primeval forest opens a high country rich with wildflowers of purple, yellow and orange; mountainsides painted Kelly green and streaked with bright, white shocks of snow; bewitching hemlocks swooping over alpine lakes; and high peaks that rise above it all, jagged black spires that emerge from precariously hanging blue glaciers overburdened with snowpack. To travel through this landscape, one must read the terrain carefully, move with patience and determination and have a special trick or two up his sleeve. My secret weapon came in the form of a pack raft, an ingenious little boat that weighs just five pounds, stashes easily in a backpack and inflates to become a whitewater-worthy river craft. This unique piece of equipment would be my escape from the impenetrable forests of the Bogachiel.

Hiking along a manicured park trail en route to the river’s source, I was just another backpacker except for the bright-yellow paddle in my hand. The unusual walking stick caught the attention of a ranger as we passed. “Keep an eye out for any sign of the German man who disappeared in there,” she advised after learning of my route. He was simply gone, vanished, dissolved, swallowed by the beautiful, gnarly Olympic Mountains that hold 10 million nooks capable of the deed. Supposition has it that he dropped into the upper Bogachiel thinking it was the well-traveled Hoh Valley farther south. I eased off the trail with trepidation, trusting my plan to emerge from the forests five days hence.

With one hand on a huckleberry bush and the other stabbing my paddle into the duff, I shuffled my feet downward, edging into the earth as if I were side-slipping with skis down a double-black-diamond slope. More than once my feet lost their tenuous grip, landing me on my back and grasping a handful of stems. Incentive to keep moving came with swarms of mosquitoes that circled my head at each rest. Progress was slow but measurable, with changing tree species indicating the descent. Mountain hemlocks were replaced with western hemlocks. Alaska cedars changed to red cedars. Huge, perfect trunks of Douglas firs appeared, bullying all other trees aside. Just as the rumble of the Bogachiel River penetrated the quiet woods, a silver fir emerged, arrow straight and soaring 200 feet into the sky.

Most field guides report silver firs as growing 75 to 150 feet tall, but in the Bogachiel, they routinely reach 180 feet, and the Hades tree was estimated at 218 feet. Shelter from adjacent hemlocks and Douglas firs certainly aids the Bogachiel silvers in their stature. The species has shallow roots that are susceptible to toppling winds, but the calm created by the Bogachiel’s 200-foot canopy poses little threat. Besides the windbreak, the shelter of the Olympic Rainforest creates nearly eternal shade, and shade is one thing that Abies amabilis can’t do without. Following forest fires, a rare but important natural process in the Olympics, silver firs are absent among re-colonization species like Douglas fir. It isn’t until deep shade returns to the forest — 400 years after a burn — that silver firs can re-establish. Add another 500 years to the cycle until the shade-loving trees mature, and nearly a millennium has passed before silver firs are important players in a mixed-conifer forest. Even in the drippy, moist Olympics, 1,000 years is a long time between fires, but that is precisely the interval currently at work in the Bogachiel, and silver firs flourish.

Still, they are rarely the dominant tree. Western hemlocks ruled my surroundings as I followed a mulchy, soft game trail through the upper Bogachiel Valley, waiting for the pre-pubescent stream to grow into a floatable river. The game-trail hiking afforded opportunity to scan for extra-large trunks, and at noon on my first day in the valley, one reeled me in. I might have breezed on past, but the tree kept re-emerging through the cathedral forest, 200 yards distant at the edge of the valley bottom.

Its trunk measurements were immediately impressive, but it wasn’t until I paced off the tree’s crown that I began to appreciate its true size. A dead top extended 30 feet beyond any live foliage, making it one of the tallest-known silver firs: more than 220 feet from forest floor to highest snag. I soon passed three more amabilis that were big enough to measure, but none approached the size of the dead-top tree, and it became apparent that this one might be a new record holder.

As the game trail splintered into a boggy deadfall maze, the river, small as it was, began to look better. I inflated the boat, dry-bagged my essentials and set off. It was true pleasure to be floating, even if I did have to bounce and slide and wiggle through the rocks that were inches or less below the surface. More boulders, a narrower riverbed, a rapid that sluiced me through a chute: Changes were afoot. The river plunged ahead, forcing me to paddle hard for shore above an obvious waterfall. Standing, I could see grey walls downstream and the river ensconced within. Despite the ominous view, I was elated. Now, I knew exactly where I was, having pored over satellite photos of this dark cleft for weeks. In the morning, my boat was again stashed away as I hiked around the treacherous canyon.

Cresting a chest-high log, I was stopped in my tracks by a stark, white color. A clean, bleached skeleton of a bull elk rested at my feet. I had been following a trail of fresh elk traffic for two days, yet this was the first one I’d actually seen. These forest-savvy Roosevelt elk are the largest mammals on the Olympic Peninsula, which lacks both moose and grizzly bears due to glacial isolation.

The peninsula was a beacon of rock amidst a sea of ice prior to the last 10,000 years, and a high level of endemic species resulted. There are 15 plants found nowhere but here, and a few others that are noticeably absent, like silver fir’s counterpart, noble fir. A thriving population of black bear and elk remains, however, and they forged a way for me along the edge of tributary canyons streaked with waterfalls.

The route led through massive cedar trees, one of which was decorated with huge burls that exploded into a horizontal platform of wood at 120 feet, sending up several spires that stood in the erect formation of a menorah candle. The cedar grove led to a once-productive spruce flat covered in several feet of cobble from a recent landslide, where old trees stood foliage-less, waiting to crash onto the apocalyptic landscape. The map indicated a flat ahead, near the confluence of the river’s North Fork. In reality, gorge walls plunged vertically to the river, which spilled over jumbled rock piles far below. I realized then that the tall forest canopy was too dense to allow an accurate topographic portrayal from an aerial photo. This was terra incognita, and I would find what I find, assumptions be damned.

A fern gulch offered access back to the water, and I re-launched in the raft. An hour later, I emerged from the canyon into the broad, lower Bogachiel Valley. The Pacific’s grey marine layer methodically advanced upstream. That night, the unmistakable odor of ocean dew wafted through my tent.

Hades Creek
The grey broke early, allowing swaths of sun to lighten the somber lid of morning. I floated beneath clinging cedars that lurched over the water and past driftwood logs with roots reaching 30 feet into the air. Arriving at Hades Creek, I prepared for an all-day bushwhack that was thankfully cut short after encountering the familiar-looking trunk of the Hades Creek tree. Now, it was simply a question of measurements. Would my discovery from the upper valley stand up to this old champion?

The circumference tape indicated four inches more for the Hades tree. I carefully paced off the crown, double checking in two directions before calculating the numbers and comparing its crown to the upper tree’s — dead even. The race was still wide open, with the marginally ascertainable height category to determine the champion. I walked away with my clinometer, sighting the tree from different angles, hemming and hawing. It looked very similar to the other tree, right up to the dead crown. Without bias from my notes, I wrote down a number — 220 — and returned to my pack to crunch figures. It was two feet shorter than the upper tree, but the four inches of girth advantage meant that Hades would retain her crown by an almost indecipherable two points.

With such similar results, these two silver firs are evidently representative of maximum size for the species. But the chance exists that a larger specimen is out there. Before leaving the valley of silver firs, I found one more big tree — and it sits right beside a trail, not back in Sasquatch country like the other two. On the broad saddle of Indian Pass, between the Bogachiel and the next drainage north, stands another amabilis fir with measurements virtually equal to the others. It only lacks in height, presently topping out at less than 200 feet. Given that both the upper Bogachiel tree and the Hades tree have dead crowns and are on their way out, this Indian Pass silver fir might gain the crown someday. In any case, the reign of champion silver firs is likely to reside in one very special rainforest haunt — the Bogachiel.

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 A Big Tree Adventure in Bogachiel Valley appeared first on American Forests.

It’s almost like being at sea: driving a car among the limitless marshes under a Montana-size sky at Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge on Maryland’s eastern shore. That’s the way most people experience this watery world, as a pleasant drive with stops for bird sightings, hikes on forest trails and amazing photo opportunities.

A half-hour west of Cambridge, Maryland, this marshy edge of the Chesapeake Bay attracts hunters, anglers, kayakers, cyclists, hikers, birders and photographers. Soon, they’re likely to be joined by history buffs: visitors to Maryland’s Harriet Tubman State Park, a 17-acre complex celebrating the life and work of the anti-slavery activist. The park is expected to open in early 2013 across the road from Blackwater’s visitors’ center.

“We get about 180,000 visitors a year,” says Ray Paterra, visitor services manager at Blackwater. “We expect that to go up when Tubman Park opens.” Those additional visitors might not be nature or wildlife enthusiasts — at least not when they enter the refuge — but thoughtful visitors are sure to emerge with a new appreciation of the natural world.

This particular world is one of profound environmental changes happening in human time. About 7,000 of the refuge’s 27,000 acres are forest, and that forest is shrinking as groundwater becomes brackish and water levels rise in the Chesapeake Bay. Dead trees, called snags, stand like unarmed sentinels along forest edges and beside the causeway-like roads that reach across the marshes. Blackwater’s “sea level-affecting marsh model” predicts that by 2100 as much as half of the refuge’s fox squirrel habitat will be tidal marsh or open water. Rising water is remapping the marshes, too, creating open water as areas gradually become too deep for cordgrass, saltgrass and other salt-tolerant vegetation.

Despite these dramatic changes, the overall impression of Blackwater is one of timelessness. In a kayak out in the marshes — out of the sight of power lines and cell-phone towers, watched over by birds of prey — you’re in a prehistoric world. Isolated stands of trees appear different from every angle and are unreliable landmarks. You may need a compass to return safely to the present time.

Kayaking
Three paddling trails take kayakers through the refuge, but some people make their own way. Tom Horton, an environmentalist who has written several books about the Chesapeake region, says he has frequently kayaked “the whole extent” of Blackwater. “On a three-day paddle, we encounter only three roads and take our boats out of the water only once, for a 30-yard portage,” he says. “If we were trying to make a point, we could actually paddle under a low bridge there and travel the whole distance with no takeouts.”

Susan Meredith, a kayak tour guide and co-owner of Dorchester Paddle and Pedal kayak and bike rentals, says two of the three kayak trails are difficult to navigate. “The Purple Trail requires a compass, and the Orange Trail is through marsh and it’s easy to get lost,” she says. The only Blackwater trail she takes people on is the Green Trail, which is eight miles roundtrip on the upper Blackwater River through water lilies and other freshwater vegetation.

Even that trail can be demanding. “You never want to get in on a windy day,” Meredith says. “The tide doesn’t affect you, but if the wind is blowing, it’s hard to get anywhere because you are fighting the wind the whole way.” Pick a calm day, though, and the Green Trail rewards paddlers: “It’s absolutely gorgeous. It’s the most paddled trail in the county.”

She describes a recent outing with a grandmother and three grandchildren, aged eight, 10 and 14. “Those kids were loud and laughing and splashing,” she says. “The ospreys and other birds were coming out to the river to see what the commotion was. Most people think you have to be quiet, but here, you can talk.” She does say, however, that if you’re trying to get really close to great blue herons, snowy egrets and other big birds, you have to stop paddling and allow your kayak to coast in. “The paddling coming toward them looks aggressive.”

Cycling
Another way to self-propel your way around Blackwater is by bicycle. Spring, summer, fall and winter — all are good seasons to visit according to Georgena Terry of Penfield, New York. An avid cyclist and the founder of Terry Bicycles, she says she visits Blackwater at least four times a year.

“In January, the weather is quite bearable for riding — compared to Upstate New York,” she says.

She first came to the Eastern Shore in 2006 for a cousin’s wedding and cycled the flat roads of Blackwater. “I thought it was incredible,” she says. “I saw my first bald eagle.”

“You can ride for hours and hours and never see a car,” Terry says. “Inside the refuge, the roads are in great shape. The wind can be bad on occasion; there’s nothing to stop it. It comes whipping across the marsh lands, and, wow, it hits you!”

Since 2008, Terry has teamed with Gore Bikeware, a Maryland company, to sponsor an annual women’s bike ride to raise money for the Friends of Blackwater, a nonprofit group that aids the refuge. The ride, called the Wild Goose Chase, is not actually in the refuge, which allows biking, but discourages groups as large as the nearly 900 cyclists who rode in the 2011 event. The ride on county and state roads near the refuge draws riders from across the United States.

In 2011, the ride’s registration fees netted almost $35,000, putting the total since 2008 at more than $100,000. Friends of Blackwater has used the money for habitat preservation, to help rebuild an overlook, to help rebuild boardwalk trails in a marshy area and to regrade a marsh. “This year we hope to use it for educational exhibits and for the renovated visitors’ center,” Terry says. The 2012 ride is Sunday, October 14, with other events on the 13th.

Photography
The flat landscape that makes Blackwater so pleasant for cyclists also attracts photographers. The nearly horizontal rays of sunlight at dawn and sunset put spectacular photography within reach of almost anyone with a camera. And if you’re not just anyone, well, the photographs get even better.

Dave Harp, a professional photographer and a contributor to many books about the Chesapeake and its tributaries, lives in nearby Cambridge, Maryland. “I’ve driven the Wildlife Drive” — a four-mile road through forests and marsh — “and walked the trails at Blackwater hundreds of times,” he says, “and no two times are alike, which makes it a special place for photography.”

He says the best time to take pictures at Blackwater is in the winter. “The migratory birds come and go from field to field, the sun’s rays are more oblique and their warm light is a nice contrast to blue sky and water,” he says. “My favorite subjects are the tundra swans and snow geese. Both species are very white, and to get any detail in their feathers, they should be photographed shortly before or very soon after sunrise. The same is true at sunset.”

Harp also likes the winter’s snow and ice. “The birds are sometimes forced into tighter groups when ice covers some of the impoundments. There’s nothing more beautiful than a tundra swan in the snow.”

Dave Palmer, a birder and photographer from Easton, Maryland, agrees that the winter is best for photography, especially “on a crisp, cold day when the angle of light is generally very good all day and the haze is minimized.” He sees another winter advantage: “Bird activity, especially bald eagles and waterfowl, is greatest at this time of year with resident eagles well into courtship rituals and winter visitors” — he means birds, not people — “allowing a lot of interactions, which tends to make for more interesting photos.”

Palmer says that summer’s rare low-humidity days are also good, with morning and evening having the best light and the most bird activity. “When I do go to Blackwater, at any time of year, I usually spend a full day to capture the spectacular sunrises and sunsets,” he says.

Birding
Blackwater is known as a wintering area for ducks, tundra swans, Canada geese and snow geese. It also plays host to migrating shorebirds like blacknecked stilts and sandpipers and waders like herons, egrets and bitterns. Several years ago, a flock of white pelicans, a bird more often seen near the Pacific, showed up and has been returning annually.

Vince De Sanctis, a frequent visitor from Tilghman, Maryland, an hour’s drive from the refuge, says various rails are another attraction, but that the rail most birders want to observe, the black rail, “is found only on rare occasions in nearby marshes like those along nearby Elliot Island Road.” He sees Blackwater’s most distinguishing characteristic as “the eagle gathering in the winter.” Indeed, it’s the rare winter visitor who leaves without having seen at least one of the more than 150 bald eagles recorded in the refuge’s 2012 January eagle count.

On a somewhat chilly recent visit, not really a birding trip, De Sanctis easily spotted 25 bird species, including some relatively uncommon ones: cooper’s hawk, northern harrrier and black vulture. Three bald eagles careening overhead were icing on the cake.

The big birds aren’t the only attraction at Blackwater, and sometimes it’s the smallest bird that can make the biggest impression. “One time,” says Susan Meredith of Blackwater Paddle and Pedal, “a hummingbird kept trying to feed at a pink, breast cancer ribbon on a white baseball hat.”

Forest Trails
The birders aren’t the only people at Blackwater who go around spotting things. Shirley Bailey, a Blackwater volunteer from Hurlock, Maryland, is honing her tree-identification skills.

Leading forest walks on Woods Trail is the first thing Bailey mentions of her many volunteer activities. She knows most trees in summer by their leaves and is trying to know them in winter by their bark. “It’s hard,” she says. “Some trees that aren’t at all related can have very similar bark.” One tree offers a bit of help. The American beech, she points out, keeps its grocery-bag-brown leaves almost all winter, making it easy to spot in an otherwise denuded forest.

Woods Trail, which boasts the rusting ruins of a steam-powered sawmill, and Marsh Edge Trail are both half-mile-or-less trails off the popular Wildlife Drive, the must-see drive that takes visitors through forests and marsh. You haven’t been to Blackwater if you’ve skipped Wildlife Drive.

Jamie Kellum, the Blackwater forester, knows all about the fauna along Wildlife Drive, taking care recently to make sure a couple of visitors noticed a Delmarva Peninsula fox squirrel. This endangered species makes its home in Kellum’s forests; about 5,500 acres are mature forests with little undergrowth, the squirrel’s preferred habitat. Blackwater has the world’s largest natural population (about 1,650) of the silver-gray squirrels.

Managing the forest to create or maintain such habitat is what Kellum does, trying to balance the needs of different animals. The fox squirrels may not like understory, but it’s essential for other creatures.

Different parts of Blackwater are managed in different ways. “There are the natural areas,” says Kellum. “That’s where we take only protective action, like fighting destructive insects: southern pine beetle, the gypsy moth.”

Other areas are more intensely managed. In some places, trees are marked for removal to develop or preserve three distinct types of bird habitat: ground, midstory and upper canopy. The ground, with a nice covering of fallen leaves and other natural debris, is important to birds that Kellum calls “leaf flippers,” mainly hermit, Swainson’s and wood thrushes. Worm-eating warblers, ovenbirds and waterthrushes also dine on the forest floor.

According to Kellum, thinning dense stands means that the remaining trees will grow taller with larger crowns and greater fruit or nut production. Thinning also creates greater vertical structure within the forest and better habitat for forest-interior-dwelling songbirds. “The only way to increase understory and midstory,” he says, “is to open up the canopy by removing trees to allow more sunlight to reach the forest floor.” The shrubs and young trees of the understory and midstory are preferred by various flycatchers, white-eyed and blue-headed vireos, house wrens, hooded warblers, blue grosbeaks, indigo buntings and more.

Higher in the upper canopy is where yellow-billed cuckoos are found, along with red-eyed vireos, rose-breasted grosbeak, summer and scarlet tanagers and an array of warblers — northern parula, pine, palm, and black and white.

In creating these environments, Kellum is limited to native shrubs and trees. Fortunately, that’s a pretty big palette. Beyond red oaks, there are cherrybark, willow, pin and southern red. There’s also white oak, swamp chestnut oak, river birch, sweetbay magnolia, American beech, loblolly pine, Virginia pine, indigo bush, American holly and more. Some are easy to identify in any season; others pose challenges for visitors who want to put names to everything they see.

The refuge’s human visitors, however, aren’t really the point. “Our job is to enhance and manage forested properties to benefit forest interior birds and the Delmarva fox squirrel,” Kellum says. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but recreational activities take a backseat to wildlife in a national wildlife refuge.

“They’ve been doing such an amazing job down there,” Georgena Terry says of Kellum and everyone else who works at Blackwater. “It’s really there for the animals.”

Steve Bailey, a former New York Times editor, teaches journalism at Salisbury University and can be reached at bailey@stevebailey.us.

The post Blackwater: For the Birds appeared first on American Forests.

From out of the north, it came. Inanimate, inexorable and indifferent: Nothing could withstand its cancerous growth. With the patience of inevitability, it slowly consumed North America. It chewed up the terrain, pulverized granite and left nothing alive in its wake. When it had grown to maximum size, some seven million square miles, it broke the back of the continent. Nothing can withstand…The Ice Age!

No, this is not a preview for another post-apocalyptic Hollywood survival movie. This catastrophe is a major part of Earth’s recent history and is best known for cavemen, mammoths and, well, ice. Lots of ice. It is less well-known as the engine of change in North American forests for the last two and a half million years: Forests were consumed, driven south, rearranged and reordered. As unfortunate as this sounds, without the ice age, the forests of today would not be as they are.

If you draw a line from Washington, D.C., to Washington state on one of those multi-colored vegetation or ecoregion maps, you will see that it crosses a dozen or so different kinds of forest from the broadleaf deciduous forests of the East to the temperate rainforests of the Pacific Northwest. Unfortunately, reality does not exactly match the map. More than 99 percent of old-growth, eastern forests have been cleared for agricultural and urban environments or have been replaced by second-growth forests devoid of the once-dominant American chestnuts. The oak savannas of the Midwest have been reduced to tiny remnants crowded by corn fields. Diverse, ancient forests of the Pacific Northwest have been clear-cut and replaced with a monoculture of skinny, young trees in a checkerboard pattern right up to national park boundaries.

Each of these views is but a snapshot in time, and none is sufficient for a proper understanding of our forests. Our present time is marked by rapid and profound change. But change from what? How can we know the degree to which our activities are changing the long-term health, composition and extent of North American forests if we don’t understand what they once were and how they became what they are today? We can’t answer these questions with snapshots. What we need is, well, something more like a Hollywood movie. In this first of a two-part series, we’ll see that the natural baseline is a moving target.

Trees on the Move
Woody forests have been on Earth since 385 million years ago, when the palm-like, sporeproducing Wattieza dominated the world. The more familiar, seed-bearing conifers came on the scene around 300 million years ago, and the flowering or broadleaf trees arrived 140 million years ago. Since then, forests have dominated the world since they did not have to compete with grasslands, deserts or shrub lands until about 15 million years ago and tundra ecosystems about seven million years ago. But forests have always shifted their borders and their composition in concert with the prevailing climate.

The land that a given tree species can inhabit fluctuates as the climate gets drier or wetter, warmer or colder, more or less seasonal, or more or less stable over the long term. In turn, climate depends on the position of the continents, their effect on ocean currents and the amount of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases in the atmosphere.

Around 50 million years ago in the Eocene Epoch, back when horses were the size of foxes, the levels of carbon dioxide and methane in the atmosphere rose dramatically. Released by volcanoes and ocean rifts as the continents pulled apart, these greenhouse gases heated an already warm world to one of its all-time highs. Except for some mountaintops, there was no ice on the planet. In some places, tropical forests pushed north of the Arctic Circle. This extreme global warming forced many deciduous trees, like maples and birches, so far north that they nearly ran out of habitable land and barely escaped extinction. Meanwhile, warm-loving deciduous trees like magnolias, basswoods, elms and sweetgums were able to expand their ranges.

But on a dynamic Earth, both good times and bad times never last. As the Eocene greenhouse gases were gradually sequestered by forests and geologic activities, the world slowly cooled. At the end of the Eocene, 34 million years ago, South America and Australia separated from Antarctica enough to create the Antarctic Circumpolar Current, which prevented the mixing of Antarctic and tropical waters. This spawned the Antarctic Ice Cap, causing world temperatures to plunge and allowing cool, temperate coniferous and deciduous trees to make a comeback.

It’s All About Glaciers
Around three million years ago, South America ended its long isolation and joined North America at Panama. This blocked ocean currents between the Atlantic and Pacific and, with the Arctic Ocean nearly walled off by North America and Eurasia, helped usher in the Pleistocene ice age which has been going on for the last two and a half million years. At the moment, we are enjoying a warm period between glaciers — just the latest of many periodic lulls. The Pleistocene ice age is really a succession of 17 or more glacial periods separated by warmer times, called interglacial periods, when the ice retreats. These episodes of glaciation are thought to be caused by cyclical changes in the Earth’s orbit, tilt and orientation, collectively known as Milankovich cycles.

At the peak of glacial periods, ice can cover 75 percent of North America, nearly two miles thick in places and weighing so much that it can depress the continent by as much as 1,000 feet. On the front lines, trees withdraw behind the advancing strip of tundra or are buried and pulverized beneath surging lobes of the glacier. Of course, the individual trees don’t move. They die on the front line, but the species’ geographic range shifts southward. Because North America extends to the lower latitudes, there has always been room for most tree species to retreat. Throughout the Pleistocene, the forests advanced and retreated with the glaciers.

About 18,000 years ago, when the ice was last at its peak, it extended to the Ohio River in the east and just south of Canada in the west. Most of the ice front was bordered by a strip of tundra a few to 100 miles wide. South of the tundra, a broad band of boreal forest, dominated by white spruce and jack pine, stretched from Pennsylvania to Tennessee and westward to cover nearly all the Great Plains. The Gulf Coastal Plain, which was up to 200 miles wider because of lowered sea levels, was mostly oak-hickory and southern pine forest. Florida, then twice its current width, was mostly sand dunes and shrub lands.

Our knowledge of when and where different trees once grew comes mostly from taking core samples of bogs, lakes and other wetlands, and identifying fossil pollen grains at different levels. Such sites only cover a tiny percentage of the continent, and it took some trial and error to find the right ones. Radiocarbon dating provides the timeline, and fortunately, pollen can usually be identified to specific species, so we get a good picture of the forests that once covered our continent.

The Rocky Mountain forests of pine, fir and spruce were pushed 2,000 feet downslope and squeezed against the edge of the dry valleys. The lower-elevation ponderosa pines were practically eliminated from the Rockies altogether, and sought refuge in the mountains of the Southwest and Mexico. The Coast Range in the Pacific Northwest was subject to colder, dryer weather that banished the range’s now iconic Douglas-fir and red alder to the Puget lowlands. The southwestern deserts escaped to Mexico and were replaced by juniper, pinyon pine and oak forests.

Today, the vast Great Plains are dominated by grasslands and the eastern half of the U.S. is mostly mixed deciduous forest. But the climate at glacial maximum reduced the prairies and deciduous forests to such small refuges that scientists have only recently found them. They discovered that the grasslands shrank back to the panhandle and Edwards Plateau of Texas, and that remnants of mixed deciduous forests, now so common, were found to have survived only in small pockets along the bluffs of rivers emptying into the Gulf of Mexico.

While glaciers and climate were the driving force behind these changes, our picture of these forests is incomplete without the large mammals that evolved with them for millions of years and helped to shape them in many ways. Mastodons, giant ground-sloths and other ice-age mammals browsed heavily on tree foliage, nuts, fruits, bark and buds. Like African elephants today, they broke large limbs or even pushed over trees to get what they could not reach. They kept the canopy of many forests open, allowing grasses and herbs to intermingle with the trees. For some tree species — such as coffeetree, honeylocust and Osage orange — these animals were the primary means of dispersing seeds. And who knows what effects the horses, camels, mammoths, giant beavers, peccaries, stag-moose and woodland muskox had on forest ecology.

The Rebound
Obviously, the distribution of North American forests is quite different today; the ranges of different species are constantly changing, even if too slowly for us to see. When the ice made its last retreat, trees generally chased it north and climbed lost mountain heights — but they did not move in concert with each other. It was every tree species for itself. Over the proper time frame, the species goes where its preferred climate goes.

Take, for example, today’s forest on the south side of Lake Superior. Ten thousand years ago, as the climate warmed, the spruces came first, quickly followed by aspen, birch and tamarack because they are all pioneer species able to colonize open ground. Hardwoods like American elm, black ash, oaks and maples had to wait for the conditions created by the pioneer trees. Several thousand years later, eastern white pine arrived, having traveled north from the exposed continental shelf near Virginia, over the Appalachians and around the Great Lakes. American beech arrived still later, around 6,000 years ago, having followed a circuitous route from southern refuges around the east side of the Appalachians. It was only able to spread across the Great Lakes when water levels were low enough for blue jays and passenger pigeons to island hop and plant its seeds.

Meanwhile, white spruce forests evacuated the Great Plains, leaving a few outposts in Montana and the Black Hills of South Dakota. Throughout the West, trees climbed the mountains at different rates, creating strange mixtures before settling out in the familiar elevation bands we see today. Ponderosa pine, banished to the southwest corner of the continent for so long, came out of exile to dominate the lower slopes of western mountains, but the conquest took 11,000 years to advance from southern New Mexico to Wyoming.

Climate Casualties

Depending on the species, trees can live for hundreds, even thousands of years, but outside of the fantasy of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, they are firmly rooted in the ground. As species, they only migrate via dispersal of their seeds, but it’s a slow process. All this puts them at risk if climate change is relatively rapid or if they are forced into barriers they cannot surmount or habitats they cannot endure. Tuliptrees and hickories, for instance, once spanned the temperate zones of North America and Eurasia, but became extinct in Europe when the first glacial period forced them south against the uninhabitable Alps, Pyrenees and Mediterranean Basin. Fortunately for North American trees, all our major mountain ranges run more or less north-south and allow easier passage. If the Appalachians had run along a latitudinal line or the Gulf Coast had been a few hundred miles further north, many of our eastern deciduous trees would now be extinct.

The North American trees of today have endured many glacial advances and retreats and countless fires, storms, droughts and floods. They have moved across the continent like dancers with the ice and climate, but at the whim of seed-dispersing wind, water and animals. In the process, they have created and abandoned multiple alliances with other tree species.

The current interglacial period has seen the most drastic changes in our forests, but not because the climate shifts were so different from previous episodes. At the last glacial maximum, the lower sea levels once again connected Asia and North America, and this time a new character was added to the cast. About 15,000 years ago, a powerful agent of change crossed the Bering Land Bridge on two legs and left strange tracks never before seen in North America.

Tune into the next issue for the sequel: From out of Siberia it came … The Ice Age 2: Human Invasion!

Whit Bronaugh writes from Eugene, Oregon.

This article begins a two-part series on the history of North American forests. Read the conclusion, “North American Forests in the Age of Man,” in our Summer 2012 Issue.

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

Maryland-based environmental photographer David Harp’s image of Bishops Head Gut is featured as the “Last Look” in the American Forests Spring 2012 Issue. In this American Forests web-exclusive interview, David describes the most difficult image he ever captured, which also happens to be his favorite — of his daughters — and how he works to capture the influence of people on the environment.

When and why did you become a nature photographer?

As a kid, I was always outside messing around in streams and wooded areas near my home, and it was always a struggle for my mom to get me to come inside. Even then, I was observing nature and my place in the natural world. I got my first camera-redeeming coupons when I was 10.

Are you drawn to a specific type of nature photography? Wildlife? Landscapes? Detailed close-ups?

I’m more of an environmental photographer than a nature photographer. I’ve specialized in Chesapeake Bay issues for more than 30 years, so I photograph the beautiful landscapes, but also algae-choked ponds and sprawl development. My books run the gamut with photos of details in nature, landscapes and wildlife, but they always include the influence of people in the environment and the issues they bring forth.

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

Trying to make a nice portrait of my two daughters for the annual Christmas card. Looking back, it was worth the effort, but never easy.

Do you have a favorite story that revolves around your quest for beautiful photographs?

I’ve gone back numerous times to Bishops Head Gut, the small tidal stream in the featured “Last Look” photo, to capture the scene in summer, winter, moonrise, sunrise, sunset and fog. Sometimes, a place sticks with you, and you want to get the perfect photo of it. You go back many times and learn that there is no perfect view, just lots of perspectives and variations determined by light, time of day, weather and even your state of mind at the time.

Where is your favorite shooting location?

The marshes and creek edges near my home in Cambridge, Maryland. I especially love the textures of the grasses, light on the water and the abundance of life along those serpentine edges.

Do you have a favorite photo?

See the answer to the most difficult image I ever tried to capture.

Which other photographers do you admire?

I’ve been influenced by many, many photographers over the years and really can’t name just a few. My real inspiration comes from writers like John McPhee, Aldo Leopold and my friend, Tom Horton.

Digital or film?

I’ve been using digital cameras for more than 20 years and don’t miss film one bit. No pun intended. The control we have over our images these days is extraordinary, especially compared to the times when someone else was developing our film and making our color prints.

David Harp has been photographing the delights and dilemmas of the Chesapeake Bay for nearly four decades, and his images of the bay’s landscapes, people, flora and fauna have been published worldwide. He prefers the marshy edges, where land and water meet and also seeks to work during the day’s edges — dawn and dusk — searching for subjects bathed in warm light and with long, revealing shadows. He was the chief photographer for the Baltimore Sun Magazine for a decade and has produced four Chesapeake Bay-themed books with writer Tom Horton. He and his wife, Barbara, work from a studio in Cambridge, Maryland, and can be reached at www.chesapeakephotos.com.

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Why did you choose to go into forestry?

As a suburban kid, most of the trees I saw had fences around them. However, on a trip out west when I was 10, I got the nature “bug,” and in subsequent experiences in the great outdoors, a love of nature ensued. The forest-health part was even more random, but I’m happy it worked out this way.

What has been the most difficult experience in your line of work?

When the Asian longhorned beetle (ALB) landed in Chicago, it devastated many trees in the city. Some tree-lined streets had most or all of their trees cut down to slow the spread and help successfully eradicate the pest. Meeting with homeowners whose streets were radically altered was a very moving experience. But the Animal Plant Health Inspection Service (APHIS), the Forest Service and state and local officials were eventually successful in eradicating ALB.

What is your favorite part of your field?

Although pest problems are a big issue in this country, I am pleased to be able to work with a large group of professionals (more than 200 across the country) to develop programs that have made a big difference on the ground for landowners of all kinds. Our Slow-the-Spread program for gypsy moth has prevented at least 60 million acres or more from imminent infestation so far. We’ve treated more than one million acres of land to augment their ability to fight off southern pine beetles. Other efforts have equally positive effects across the country.

What have you found to be the most surprising thing about forest health and management?

I guess I’d have to say how difficult it is to predict how invasive a new pest invader will be. We’re trying to use science to predict invasiveness, but it’s not working as well as we’d like. Hundreds of insect pests are intercepted in our ports of entry in the U.S. Many fewer get established, and fewer still create problems. If we could more accurately predict which ones to manage — with (APHIS) having the lead for new invaders — it would make our lives easier.

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

I look back fondly at my days in the field — getting helicoptered into a remote location to inventory a stand for management purposes. We’d see great wildlife and have the woods to ourselves in the dead of winter. It was special. My other favorite would be the time I spent climbing 100-foot trees in California to do tree-breeding work in the 1970s. I look at some of the pictures from back then and sure hope my kids don’t try that.

What do you think is the biggest issue facing forests today?

I think we need to find the balance between leaving the forest to fix itself and active management where and when we can afford to. In the West, insects, pathogens and fire have a much larger footprint than we will ever have. In the East, invasive pests will have large impacts on the composition and structure of forests. But our programs will help save communities and improve the health of our forests.

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

In 2006, I traveled to Yunan Province in western China. This area has a large Tibetan-Chinese composition. We were about 50 kilometers from Myanamar and India. I was there trying to set up a partnership with the Chinese State Forestry Administration. We were trying to find the origin of the pathogen that causes Sudden Oak Death and had good reason to believe it could be in that area. It was a multi-faceted trip that has led to fruitful cooperation with the Chinese government. And we’re still looking for the origin of that pathogen — in Yunan.

Who is your favorite fictional scientist?

I think that would have to be Dr. Doolittle.  He had a way with animals.

Where is your favorite spot to experience nature?

I love trees. It’s great to have this connection with trees because unless you are in the Gobi Desert, you’ll see a tree everyday. I have to say that the Cascades of the Pacific Northwest, especially Southwest Oregon where I did my doctorate, is my favorite. You’ve got Crater Lake and the North Umpqua River drainage. But it’s hard to play favorites. This country is blessed with beautiful forests — many in “natural” states — and there is about as much forest now as there was in 1900. So thankfully, trees are very adaptable and resilient — it makes our job a bit easier.

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

Probably a doctor of something …

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