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.