Out of the Dust (or Snow)

So it’s obviously been a long while—no doubt, too long—but I’ve been inspired (and peer pressured!) to write another blog. Here goes nothing…

Two weeks ago, I trekked to Wisconsin for work. “What in the world is in Wisconsin,” you ask?! Ya, I asked that, too. Initially, people responded with “the Packers,” “cheese curds,” and “more lakes than Minnesota!” But I’m here to tell you—there’s far more than that (although the cheese is really delicious…).

For one thing, the Wisconsin landscape is wildly beautiful—far more trees than I ever expected to see (not really sure what I was expecting to see, to be honest). No more than twenty minutes outside Madison, the scene turns bucolic, picturesque, and simply breathtaking—a scene seemingly straight from some inspired impressionist’s canvas.

Just slightly north of Madison, the Baraboo Hills region holds a unique geological history. The Baraboo range is a monadnock—an isolated rock hill that rises abruptly from gently sloping surrounding terrain—that was formed during the Wisconsin glaciation. The resulting landscape has both a gently welcoming countryside and a distinctively beautiful character.

Yet perhaps the most interesting destination in the Baraboo region of Wisconsin, at least for the conservation-minded person, is nestled just off the banks of the Wisconsin River. It’s just a small shack, barely standing and certainly not your typical vacation destination, but it represents something much more significant and was once the weekend getaway for Aldo Leopold and family.

Aldo Leopold, often termed the father of modern day conservation, was born in Burlington, Iowa in 1887. After an early life highlighted by outdoor adventures, Leopold later attended the Yale School of Forestry to focus his studies. He spent his early career working for the Forest Service in New Mexico and Arizona—an experience that ultimately shaped his outlook on the natural world and inspired him to be a leader in conservation. He eventually ended up in Madison, Wisconsin as a professor at the University of Wisconsin where he happily settled with his wife and five children.

Told from his daughter Nina Leopold Bradley’s perspective, Leopold came home one cold, winter night, glowing with a warmth of some unknown excitement. In the midst of the infamous Dust Bowl, when the land in the plains and Midwest was choking for life, Aldo Leopold saw potential where no one else did. “I have just bought the perfect vacation home!” he exclaimed. “You’re going to love it!”

Happily anxious, his family piled into the car and headed north to their new vacation destination. A few miles from the property, the ever increasing snowpack forced the Leopolds to desert the unwilling automobile and trudge the rest of the way on foot. Hours of an arduous and arctic hike led them to dilapidated fence, a snowy wasteland, and a ramshackle chicken coop—complete with a frozen mound of manure.

ttttttttttttttttttttttttttWhat the Leopolds saw in 1936

It took the family a little longer to see the same potential Aldo Leopold saw, but perhaps not surprisingly, they too laughed off naysayers and spent nearly every weekend working the land and bringing it back to life. The entire Leopold family worked to plant hundreds of trees throughout the entire property—setting aside parcels for natural field and meadow regeneration. Although their neighbors doomed the Leopolds to failure, the trees grew, the shrubs blossomed, and the wildlife returned.

There is one tree in particular—one tree that truly represents the dedication and spirit of this determined and inspirational family. There is a large white pine, just behind the family’s humble shack, that was planted in 1936 by Nina and her siblings. Today, the tree is massive—it towers above the shack, like a pillar of faith. The Leopolds weren’t crazy. The land can heal. And forests can return the favor of restoration by providing many public benefits such as clean air, clean water, and wildlife habitat.

So for many conservationists, visiting the Leopold shack is like a pilgrimage to Mecca. Here is where the genius mind wrote A Sand County Almanac and introduced for us a now entrenched land ethic:

“This sounds simple: do we not already sing our love for and obligation to the land of the free and the home of the brave? Yes, but just what and whom do we love? Certainly not the soil, which we are sending helter-skelter down river. Certainly not the waters, which we assume have no function except to turn turbines, float barges, and carry off sewage. Certainly not the plants, of which we exterminate whole communities without batting an eye. Certainly not the animals, of which we have already extirpated many of the largest and most beautiful species. A land ethic of course cannot prevent the alteration, management, and use of these ‘resources,’ but it does affirm their right to continued existence, and, at least in spots, their continued existence in a natural state. In short, a land ethic changes the role of Homo sapiens from conqueror of the land-community to plain member and citizen of it. It implies respect for his fellow-members, and also respect for the community as such (pg 243-244)."

But for me, the most powerful moment of the visit, the most meaningful sight, is not the shack itself, but the stoic tree that stands, less famously, behind the rustic abode (pictured at the top of the post). The tree is a monument in and of itself, testifying that even little hands can make a big difference, and just a little bit of faith and determination can go a long way. I’m certain that, today, Leopold would be more proud of his magnificent white pine that his crumbling little shack.

The Socratic Problem (intrigued, aren’t you?)

So yes, I know, it’s been a long while. Unfortunately life, and this silly thing called school, regularly gets in the way of oh-so-important blogging. But I’m back. And more creative than ever.


(notice the many dead trees speckling the landscape)

A few weeks ago my silviculture class trekked across the state of North Carolina, west to the Great Smokies. Right about the time I should have been intently listening to the specifics of hardwood management in the mountains, my easily distracted mind wandered off to further investigate the extreme coolness of my surroundings. Instead of noticing the green intricacies of a complex and ancient ecosystem, my thoughts were diverted to a sudden and unexpected realization that this place was the forest’s version of a “ghost town.” Where a thriving coniferous (and, as I would say, “Christmas smelling”) existence should intermittently grow in all canopy layers, the forest was plagued by grey, translucent needles, with barely a quivering grip on precariously rotting logs. The once noble and familiar Hemlock is clearly fading from Eastern forests quite rapidly.

Tsuga canadensis historically ranges from the upper Midwest east toward Nova Scotia and south along my beloved Appalachians to Georgia and Alabama. As with all great forest tragedies, an East Asian pest was introduced to North America in 1924—probably a result of some snooty “Great Gatsby-ian” character’s evil horticultural desire. From there, the hemlock woolly adelgid (a six-legged, sap-sucking, Grim Reaper of sorts) spread rapidly, especially in the Hemlock’s southern range where the climate is more favorable to mass destruction. The tree is dangerously close to disappearing from the ecosystem altogether, encouraging several environmental groups to make a ‘last ditch effort’ and Save the Hemlock.One of many projects, “Tsuga Search” is funded by GSMNP to find and protect the largest and tallest Hemlocks within Park boundaries. Minimally successful, this program has effectively proved that the Hemlock is a truly magnificent species the forest will undoubtedly grieve once gone—individual species’ volumes indicate the Hemlock is the largest eastern evergreen conifer, surpassing noteworthy White Pine and Loblolly giants.

It’s true that the Hemlock has disappeared before. During the early Holocene (beginning roughly 12,000 years ago), the species experienced a sudden decline and, at one point, disappeared from the pollen record altogether. Although it’s likely this disappearing act was also the result of some pest or disease, the similarity between the past and the present ends with this simple actor. The speed with which the Hemlock is being removed from the Southern ecosystem leaves little room for preparation of a comeback. Have we learned nothing from our past mistakes? Are we about to experience a complete species elimination, mirroring the catastrophic loss of the great American Chestnut?

Death plus Hemlock…Death plus Hemlock. Where, might you ask, is my mind wandering? Ahh, of course—Socrates! Yes, I know; it’s not even close to the same species. But bear with me for a moment; I have a point to make here.

Known as the ‘founder of Western philosophy’ and passionately anti-establishment, Socrates continuously questioned Greek society, enlightening a following of disciples along the way (e.g. Plato, Aristophanes). Plato later referred to his immortal teacher as a “gadflay,” stinging fellow Athenians into action to overcome the oppressive might of the state (or maybe just stinging them mad…). Unfortunately, his words fell mostly on deaf ears and Socrates was sentenced to execution for his heresy. In ancient Greece, drinking poisonous Hemlock was a common form of execution—an herbaceous flowering plant often used medicinally, but a powerful neurotoxin in high enough doses. Moments before death (which he wholeheartedly accepted), Socrates requested a favor from an old friend. “Citro, we owe a cock to Asclepius (the Greek god for curing illness). Please don’t forget to pay the debt.” It is in his death Socrates recognized not only a cure for his own personal freedom, but also a sacrificial remedy for his people.

And here, my point (albeit, a stretch). Can we look at yet another dying species and finally realize our human impact? Perhaps the Hemlock is but a sacrifice, to open our eyes and halt future environmental stupidity—a cure from Asclepius, however expensive. Maybe even a chance to start over?

As our famed philosopher once said, "I know you won't believe me, but the highest form of Human Excellence is to question oneself and others.” So here I am, in my Most Excellent Form, asking the world (and myself) one simple question: what do we, as environmental stewards of this one Earth, want to be known for?

Let’s face it. The real question here is: what ever will you do, dear Pennsylvania, when your state tree is gone?

Finding Extraordinary in the Seemingly Ordinary

Okay so let’s face it, my poor student lifestyle is encouraging me to be a little creative in my “awesome tree journey.” But the blog must go on! Lucky for you all…creative, I am. So here I am, sitting in the middle of the southeastern Piedmont. Seemingly ordinary, right? Just you wait and see…

I guiltily admit it. I openly and outwardly covet that quintessential southern red clay, spreading across the land like a gorgeous horizontal sunset. Back home in Virginia, before our fields became thick and lush with fescue, I used to rock on my porch and gaze at the beautiful sight. I was a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara, sitting atop that beautiful dirt, that legendary red Georgia clay.

Much to my horrified dismay, I recently learned that this seemingly beautiful ecological phenomenon was actually not so environmentally desirable. The red clay sweeping across the land is actually a product of 400 years of soil exploitation to the extent of total topsoil erosion. It only took the early Jamestown settlers a few years to realize the potential of tobacco production in the New World (though undoubtedly an auspicious discovery for the struggling settlers themselves). John Rolfe’s 1611 cultivation success doomed the fate of southern soil almost instantly. From there, plantations spread like wildfire, with early Americans abusing the land, ruining the soil, and moving farther West where land was unclaimed and abundant. Very few landowners practiced soil conservation strategies, except for a few unique renaissance men like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. The result was devastating. Upwards of 15 inches of rich, fertile soil have since been lost to the Southern Piedmont. The rate of soil loss far exceeded the painstakingly slow process of soil production, leaving behind a land far less productive and ostensibly devoid of potential.

What is perhaps even worse, today’s proud Southerners know nothing of this tragedy. I myself, an environmental student of more than five years, was oblivious to this ecological catastrophe. How is this even possible? How can this calamity be largely unknown by a country historically plagued by oppressive incidents like the Dust Bowl?

Fortunately, we have been given another chance. The land is healing itself, slowly but surely. When famed explorer John Lawson first roamed the Carolinian unknown, he experienced an entirely different countryside from what we see today. Hardwoods and longleaf pine savannas dominated the landscape, intermittingly speckled with open, fertile fields. Today we see the coniferous loblolly pine at nearly every turn, largely a result of timber market drivers, but also a product of the tree’s biological greatness. This species is remarkably hardy and fast-growing and has subsequently settled the broken land where vegetation seemed an utter impossibility. Organic matter is returning to topsoil layers and the red clay (although beautiful in its own way) is disappearing beneath the much more desirable dark, coal black soil. The loblolly pine is bringing the Piedmont back: initiating the lengthy succession toward Lawson’s forests of the past.

So here I dedicate this entry to a remarkable tree: a tree mitigating yet another anthropogenic disaster. The loblolly is all too often overlooked and underappreciated. Truly something extraordinary in what may be disguised as ordinary. What, perhaps, does this mean? There’s a lot to learn from this natural healing process. And there’s certainly a lot to keep in mind when we weigh our potential impact on the environment. And maybe, just maybe we all have the potential to be extraordinary.

Seeing the Trees From the Forest

So yes, I realize the old saying goes, “seeing the forest through the trees,” yet I can’t help but argue that this does not always apply. You see, sometimes it’s important to seek out the individual from a larger system—to understand and know what makes something different and what this special individual just might have to offer. Alas, I Christine Cadigan, Lover of Trees, am seeking answers through the arboreal engineering spectacles (aka, trees): treating each individual as a wonder in and of itself.

I suppose I could say this all started long ago, as a young child with an immense passion for nature. But that’s entirely too cliché. No, instead, I’m going to keep it real. This all hit me like a Mack truck last night, as I was commiserating over a doomed and destitute future (dramatic, yes). With the help of some very concerned friends, I unrealistically turned my thoughts to ignoring all things job-related and reached for the stars, as my fourth grade teacher would so enthusiastically suggest. I was going to contrive a tree pilgrimage—a voyage dedicated to uncovering the majestic and extraordinary trees scattered across our vast countryside. Noble, no doubt. Adventurous, of course. Nerdy, probably. Yet underlying my obvious lust for awesome trees was the inevitable journey that would accompany this quest. I would travel the world with a unique perspective, searching through perhaps some of the least known parts of the country. Truly a back roads guide to America. The towns I would visit, the people I would meet, the places I would see would be largely unknown to the rest of traveling America. But I would uncover it all—uncover it with the premise that these places, these unique locations offer some of the most awe-inspiring natural phenomena known to man.

So dream, I did. With that token twinkle of my eye, I planned and plotted my new life’s calling over a glass of wine and with some really great company. I would start here, in North Carolina, where some truly record-breaking giants were within a short driving distance. Seems perfectly simple, right? Well apparently that’s precisely what we thought last night, at approximately midnight. Next thing I knew, a friend was suggesting we visit some of these awesome trees, damned be the hour and damned be the distance! Maybe it was that token twinkle spreading to my brain, my friend’s impassioned enthusiasm, or maybe it was just that glass of wine, but I (Miss Super UN-Spontaneous) found myself on a road trip to my first traveling tree site in the middle of a dark and foggy night.

The destination was Tanglewood Park, a recreational park southwest of Winston-Salem claimed by Sir Walter Raleigh for Queen Elizabeth in 1584 and eventually deeded to the citizens of Forsyth County. And most importantly, home to the oldest living white oak tree in America. First, I apologize to you, dear Tanglewood Park, because we might have dishonestly entered your premises far past proper park hours. But, you see, this simply could not wait. My destiny was calling! I assure you, the only evidence of our late-night shenanigan is a small almond, sadly lost and forgotten from the essential snack bag.

The majestic oak stands behind the old Manor House, with huge, tree-sized branches spiraling in every direction, as open-grown oaks will do. The trunk’s diameter is far beyond huggable; in fact, it might even require 10 outstretched arms for a proper affectionate embrace. Yet there it stands, a product of hundreds of years of growth: a natural historian marking all of our young country’s significant events. Upon stealthily approaching this magnificent tree, the foggy silhouette was beyond supernatural. It was like you could hear ghostly whispers from the Park’s days as a Fort in the French and Indian War and laughs from young children playing in the diligently groomed gardens. This tree had a story to tell.

It was standing there, staring up at this beautiful monster, that I realized that there just might be something behind this silly journey of mine. Here, at this moment, an extraordinary tree was standing before me and all its uniqueness and individual spirit was far more impressive than the larger forest. A winner of sorts, able to grow and thrive in stressful times, this tree was truly amazing. Inspiring, really. Apparently, individuals really are special. Maybe I’m not doomed to be destitute after all.

At some point, however, sanity reappears along with the realization that hanging out beneath a tree at 2am is slightly insane. So the three of us packed up, surreptitiously made our way back up to our craftily hidden vehicle (okay, maybe not…), and headed back home satisfied and once again, impressed by nature. So who knows where this tree pilgrimage will take me and what new things I’ll come to realize. But I’m pretty sure I’ll see some exciting things and really, really cool trees.