The Enduring Green
"If there is anything in nature for which we have a love resembling love to human creatures, it is for a fine tree."
— Frances Fuller Victor
My first tree love was a Douglas fir in my mother’s backyard on Douglas Street (yes, really) in Longview, Washington. This tree was so tall I could stand underneath it and not see the top. Its thick branches swayed and made swishing noises when the wind blew. In the summer, tangy sap bubbled out of the rough bark and stuck to my hands. Best of all, there was a sawed-off branch that stuck out like a microphone at just my five-year-old height. I would grab onto that tree and sing at the top of my lungs.
One particularly windy day, the sound of the blowing branches rose up to meet my voice and I fell silent, gazing upward, listening. Shivers spread through me and I teared up. It was the first time I’d cried simply because something was so beautiful. I ran into the house shouting, “Mom, mom! The tree is singing to me!”
*
Similar to how humans nurture their children and grandchildren, mature trees provide shelter and nourishment for other trees, animals, people, and entire forest ecosystems. In the Cowlitz Valley where I grew up, there used to be thick forests of Douglas fir, western hemlock, and western red cedar. Many of these trees were cut down to make room for pioneer farms, and many more were felled for lumber. Wherever the forests were cleared, swift-growing Douglas firs were the first to repopulate the area. Unlike the shade-loving hemlocks and cedars, Douglas firs like the sun, so they quickly take over open clearings.
Because Douglas firs are fast-growing sun-lovers, they also have a natural tendency to dominate the canopy in the western Cascade forests of southwest Washington and northwest Oregon. The shade they create provides an environment for shade-loving tree species to thrive, especially western hemlock. Given enough time in such an environment, the western hemlocks will overtake the Douglas firs in sheer numbers.
However, the presence of dense forests of mature Douglas fir speaks to natural clearing processes that have historically cleared out the western hemlocks. There’s evidence for clearing due to occasional fires, started by lightning or by people, that have burned out the understory. Burn scars on tree rings provide evidence of forest fires in this ecoregion happening periodically over the last few centuries. The bark of mature Douglas firs is thick and mostly fire resistant, giving them an advantage for surviving low-intensity ground fires. However, the other trees aren’t so lucky. And any Pacific Northwest kid who grew up camping knows that Douglas fir pitch, cones, and needles are highly flammable. We used to throw twigs and cones into campfires just to see the sparks and hear the pitch popping like firecrackers. When forest fires hop from treetop to treetop, blown by the wind in dry conditions, the flames can spread fast and far.
*
In northwest Oregon in 2017, similar conditions spurred the rapid growth of the Eagle Creek Fire in the Columbia River Gorge, which is famous for its windy weather. The Gorge is a one-hour drive from Longview, and my maternal grandfather spent his early childhood there.
Like 9 out of 10 wildfires in the United States, the Eagle Creek Fire was started by a human. It was early September, and the summer had been hot and dry. Illegal fireworks sparked the blaze, which grew to 3,000 acres overnight. Two days later, the Gorge winds blew the flames across the span of the Columbia River from Oregon into Washington. Eventually 48,000 acres burned, an area the size of Washington, D.C. Residents of Cascade Locks, Oregon had to be evacuated, and 140 hikers were rescued. Local news was filled with images of the smoke-choked Gorge, the bright orange light of the flames filling the sky.
If my grandfather had been alive to see it, it might have brought back memories. Ninety years earlier, in August 1927, the Rock Creek Fire burned 46,000 acres in what is now Gifford Pinchot National Forest, right in the backyard of my grandfather’s hometown of Stevenson, Washington. The fire had already wiped out a logging camp and two firefighting camps as the Gorge winds pushed it even closer to the river, where the 600 inhabitants of Stevenson lived.
I can imagine my grandfather, three years old, confused by the thick smoke and reddening sky. His parents handed him a garden trowel. “Help your Daddy dig, Lewis.”
Lewis loved digging, loved to chew on the leaves of the wood sorrel while removing the topsoil to find the soft pink worms in the darker dirt underneath. But this time was different. When the hole in the ground was big enough, his momma put all their blankets and sheets in the hole. She put in the silverware, too, and started refilling the hole with dirt. When Lewis asked why, she told him it was to keep the fire from burning up their things.
Lewis wanted to know why they didn’t bury the furniture, too, their table and chairs and his bed. “We don’t have time,” Momma said. The family didn’t own a car yet, so Lewis’s dad must have rushed to hitch the horse to the wagon, lifting Lewis up onto the seat.
His momma likely held his hand as they rode through town, headed toward the main road and the coolness of the river. Bright orange embers floated through the air. Some roofs in the town caught fire, and their neighbors poured buckets of water on the smoking shingles. But my grandfather was safe as he fled with his parents, and when they came home, they found their house miraculously untouched. A lull in the wind had stopped the fire a mere three miles from town.
*
The oldest of six siblings, my grandfather eventually moved to nearby Cowlitz County with his family. The Great Depression marked his childhood years, and WWII his late teens. As an adult, my grandfather was one of thousands who made a living working at the Long-Bell lumber mill in Longview. The city itself was founded by the same lumber baron who built the mill, which was conveniently located near existing forests of Douglas fir and the Columbia River, a major shipping route.
Douglas fir was not only prolific and quick to regrow, it also produced strong, warp-resistant lumber. Worldwide demand for Douglas fir lumber boosted Longview’s economy, creating jobs for loggers, millwrights, and the truck drivers and longshoremen who transported and shipped the lumber. For the locals who’d survived the depression, the timber industry and the seemingly infinite supply of Douglas fir trees must have felt like a godsend.
The mill job allowed my grandfather to purchase a home, get married, and raise two children. He continued to work there until the mid-1980s, a few years after I was born, and then retired to enjoy his home on the hill with a view of the trees. The nearby foothills were covered with Doug firs, growing so close they seemed like a single organism.
The only blights on these evergreen hills were areas where logging outfits had clearcut entire sections, burning the brush in great smoking piles of slash. Whenever my family had occasion to drive by a slash burn, it looked to me like a war zone in a black and white movie. Piles of charred black branches smoldered, and thick gray smoke stung my nostrils. No trees were ever left standing. My stepdad told me it was a good thing: burning the brush would prevent forest fires, and then new trees would be planted. The forest would grow back and all would be well.
*
At the time, clearcutting and replanting was generally accepted as the best way to replenish the forest after a timber harvest. When an original old growth forest was logged, the biggest, most valuable trees were cut down first—often Douglas firs. Then, lumber companies clearcut the area and burned the low-value timber and brush that remained. That way, the ground was cleared for ease of replanting with new Doug fir seedlings, and there wasn’t any vegetation left that could crowd the young trees out or block them from getting the sunlight they required.
The Douglas firs were perfectly suited for growing fast and tall in the newly open clearing, and future timber harvests could take the farmed trees instead of old growth. But the result was a monoculture, devoid of the various tree and shrub species that would support the understory of a naturally mixed forest.
The value of the understory, like the understory itself, might not be readily apparent from our point of view. In much of the Pacific Northwest, the understory is seen as a wildfire threat. The brush and smaller trees serve as fuel for sparks, and so the understory is purposely burned in order to prevent large-scale fires. This practice is prevalent in the drier, sparser forests of the east Cascades, where the long, hot summers dry the vegetation out. Wildfires there often result in hazardous smoke and evacuation orders that residents might endure for weeks.
However, it’s not necessarily a benefit to use the same controlled burn approach with the wetter forests on the west side of the Cascades. In northwest Oregon and southwest Washington, these dense, moist forests have greater value as carbon sinks.
All trees store carbon dioxide as biomass, helping to offset the excess carbon released by burning fossil fuels. The denser the forest, the more trees are available to pull carbon dioxide out of the air. The thick, wet forests of the western Cascades in this region are well-suited to help mitigate climate change, as long as they remain unburned.
In the Pacific Northwest, researchers who study the effects of climate change have predicted long-term weather patterns that align with some we’re already seeing. Longer, hotter, drier summers. Warmer, rainier winters. As mountain snowpack disappears during the summer and melts during warm spells in the winter, most of the region can expect summers of drought and wildfire followed by winters of flooding and landslides.
The projected increase in heat and drought means drier soil and drier trees. In other words, prime conditions for wildfire. With the majority of the Pacific Northwest population living in Portland and Seattle on the west side of the Cascades, this means wildfires will increasingly take place near where people live, especially as development extends beyond the suburbs and into rural areas.
*
Given the value of preserving the forests in this region and protecting the population from wildfire, experts have recommended region-specific fire management strategies. These include establishing fuel breaks, reducing invasive species, and promoting forest diversity.
Here’s where the understory comes in. The smaller trees and shrubs that make up the understory provide the diversity, and the presence of native understory species keeps invasive plants from taking over. A dense, naturally mixed forest is not only better able to store carbon, it’s also better able to rebound from any wildfires that do occur. There are a variety of seeds from multiple plant species, and snags and downed wood from burned mixed forest serve as habitat for animals and birds returning to the area. The composition of the forest affects its health and longevity.
The forests that burned in the Eagle Creek Fire were mostly composed of Douglas fir and western hemlock, with western hemlock dominating the majority of the burned acreage. Will the forest grow back with a similar composition as before? Maybe, maybe not.
When fires destroy wetter forests like the one where the Eagle Creek Fire burned, Doug fir seedlings tend to completely replace the previous trees. It’s possible that western hemlocks and other undergrowth will eventually make a comeback when the Doug firs grow tall enough to create more shade. But there’s also climate change to consider. Hot temperatures and drought might mean that trees that typically fill wet forests aren’t able to thrive.
If regrowth from the Eagle Creek Fire follows the normally observed regeneration cycle of moist, western Cascade forests, we can expect it to consist primarily of Doug firs, at least to begin with. But if growing conditions are hotter and drier in the years to come, there may be more opportunity for recurring fires and less opportunity for the previous western hemlocks and other shade-loving, understory species to return. Although the US Forest Service plans to let forest regrowth occur naturally here, they’re concerned that invasive plant regrowth might take over instead. They’re working with non-profit partners to help ensure that native species have a chance to return. As long as native species can regrow, they’ll help each other thrive.
*
In a diverse forest, symbiotic relationships abound. Douglas firs provide shelter for up-and-coming shade-loving trees, like western hemlock. Similarly, birches help to nourish Doug fir seedlings by sharing carbs with them, especially if the young Doug firs are in the shade and can’t get enough sun to generate their own food. The birches transfer more carbs to those seedlings.
Evergreen conifers on the western slopes of the Cascades catch moisture from fog in their needles, which drops to the ground and waters the plants in the understory. This also increases local precipitation, adding more water to the soil and to mountain streams. In places like the Bull Run Watershed, fog drip has been observed to make up about one-third of the yearly precipitation.
The trees’ generosity extends to the animal kingdom, too. In the North Cascades of Oregon, red tree voles live most of their lives in the tops of Douglas firs. They get water by licking dew off the tree’s needles, and they make most of their meals from green needles, too.
Parasitic mistletoe infections in conifer trees cause them to grow curly clusters of small branches, which happens to be a favorite habitat for American martens and northern flying squirrels. This nocturnal squirrel dines on the underground fruiting bodies of false truffles, which fruit from mycorrhizal networks that attach themselves exclusively to the roots of Douglas firs. As the squirrels, fungi, and Douglas firs go about feeding themselves, they benefit each other. The tree roots provide sugars to the fungus, the fungus helps the tree soak up more nutrients and water from the soil, and when the squirrels forage for truffles, they help to inoculate the tree roots, which expands the mycorrhizal network, increasing nutrients for both the tree and the fungus. As the mycorrhizal networks expand, they connect Douglas firs to each other throughout the forest. In this way, Douglas firs of varying size and age can swap nutrients, help each other survive drought, and even share chemicals that protect them from pests and disease.
*
Like Douglas firs and the other trees and animals they work with, people have the opportunity to come together and make sustainable decisions for our future. We’re good at cultivating human monocultures, good at forming groups of people who think alike. But we can benefit more from sharing our diverse experiences, seeking out perspectives from beyond our usual social circles. Doing so leads to greater understanding, and a greater ability to successfully manage our forests.
What we’ve learned about the forests in the Gorge and the Cowlitz Valley has led to adapting our fire management strategies. For example, in the Douglas fir forests of the western Cascades, clearcutting is no longer used for fire management in national forests or other federal lands. Instead, variable retention harvesting (VRH) helps to foster forest diversity for both trees and animals. This approach creates some openings in the treetops to encourage understory growth, while still keeping about one-third of the original living trees, including old-growth Doug firs that have successfully survived past wildfires. VRH also keeps some snags and fallen logs in place, which creates habitat for animals and birds, while the rotting logs enrich the soil for seedlings of all types to grow back. VRH attempts to perpetuate the natural ecosystem, which is good for the environment and good for people.
When grown and harvested responsibly, tree-based materials such as lumber and paper are also poised to help offset the effects of climate change. Lumber for building materials and paper for packaging materials both have lower carbon footprints than their alternatives. One example is cross-laminated timber (CLT), which is manufactured from Douglas firs. Buildings constructed with CLT actually sequester carbon, unlike buildings made of steel or concrete. Meanwhile, recyclable and compostable paper products are replacing unsustainable options like plastic and Styrofoam.
*
If humanity wants to hang out on this planet for a while longer, we need to provide for future generations. We need to make space and shelter for others, whether they’re like us or not. My grandfather taught this by example. Like mature Douglas firs that provide shade so that western hemlocks and other understory plants can grow, he actively nurtured me and my siblings. He taught us to be custodians of the earth, picking up litter and planting gardens. Informed by his deep kindness and faith, he also taught us that everyone is equally worthy of love, no matter how different they may seem.
Maybe that’s why I love trees so much—those early lessons stay with me. Or maybe everyone would love trees as I do, if they only understood the depth of the trees’ generosity. Since time immemorial, trees have given us oxygen, shelter, moisture, medicine, food, building materials, and fuel for heat. And they do all this simply by being the best version of themselves that they can be.
*
My grandfather passed when I was twenty-four, two days before Christmas. I’d just put a pan of homemade stuffing in the oven when my mom phoned me from the hospice, telling me it was time. I drove as fast as I safely could, but when I got there, it was too late.
Some months later, I dreamed that my grandfather and I were standing in his backyard watching the sunset, his arm around my shoulders. Warm red light lingered above the forests of Douglas fir on the hills. As the sun sank into the trees, my grandfather stooped and grew heavy, and then I was the one holding him up, my strength bearing his weight.
Then, just as quickly as he’d grown heavy, he became light as air, his breath leaving his body to meet the welcoming green of the trees.
— Frances Fuller Victor
My first tree love was a Douglas fir in my mother’s backyard on Douglas Street (yes, really) in Longview, Washington. This tree was so tall I could stand underneath it and not see the top. Its thick branches swayed and made swishing noises when the wind blew. In the summer, tangy sap bubbled out of the rough bark and stuck to my hands. Best of all, there was a sawed-off branch that stuck out like a microphone at just my five-year-old height. I would grab onto that tree and sing at the top of my lungs.
One particularly windy day, the sound of the blowing branches rose up to meet my voice and I fell silent, gazing upward, listening. Shivers spread through me and I teared up. It was the first time I’d cried simply because something was so beautiful. I ran into the house shouting, “Mom, mom! The tree is singing to me!”
*
Similar to how humans nurture their children and grandchildren, mature trees provide shelter and nourishment for other trees, animals, people, and entire forest ecosystems. In the Cowlitz Valley where I grew up, there used to be thick forests of Douglas fir, western hemlock, and western red cedar. Many of these trees were cut down to make room for pioneer farms, and many more were felled for lumber. Wherever the forests were cleared, swift-growing Douglas firs were the first to repopulate the area. Unlike the shade-loving hemlocks and cedars, Douglas firs like the sun, so they quickly take over open clearings.
Because Douglas firs are fast-growing sun-lovers, they also have a natural tendency to dominate the canopy in the western Cascade forests of southwest Washington and northwest Oregon. The shade they create provides an environment for shade-loving tree species to thrive, especially western hemlock. Given enough time in such an environment, the western hemlocks will overtake the Douglas firs in sheer numbers.
However, the presence of dense forests of mature Douglas fir speaks to natural clearing processes that have historically cleared out the western hemlocks. There’s evidence for clearing due to occasional fires, started by lightning or by people, that have burned out the understory. Burn scars on tree rings provide evidence of forest fires in this ecoregion happening periodically over the last few centuries. The bark of mature Douglas firs is thick and mostly fire resistant, giving them an advantage for surviving low-intensity ground fires. However, the other trees aren’t so lucky. And any Pacific Northwest kid who grew up camping knows that Douglas fir pitch, cones, and needles are highly flammable. We used to throw twigs and cones into campfires just to see the sparks and hear the pitch popping like firecrackers. When forest fires hop from treetop to treetop, blown by the wind in dry conditions, the flames can spread fast and far.
*
In northwest Oregon in 2017, similar conditions spurred the rapid growth of the Eagle Creek Fire in the Columbia River Gorge, which is famous for its windy weather. The Gorge is a one-hour drive from Longview, and my maternal grandfather spent his early childhood there.
Like 9 out of 10 wildfires in the United States, the Eagle Creek Fire was started by a human. It was early September, and the summer had been hot and dry. Illegal fireworks sparked the blaze, which grew to 3,000 acres overnight. Two days later, the Gorge winds blew the flames across the span of the Columbia River from Oregon into Washington. Eventually 48,000 acres burned, an area the size of Washington, D.C. Residents of Cascade Locks, Oregon had to be evacuated, and 140 hikers were rescued. Local news was filled with images of the smoke-choked Gorge, the bright orange light of the flames filling the sky.
If my grandfather had been alive to see it, it might have brought back memories. Ninety years earlier, in August 1927, the Rock Creek Fire burned 46,000 acres in what is now Gifford Pinchot National Forest, right in the backyard of my grandfather’s hometown of Stevenson, Washington. The fire had already wiped out a logging camp and two firefighting camps as the Gorge winds pushed it even closer to the river, where the 600 inhabitants of Stevenson lived.
I can imagine my grandfather, three years old, confused by the thick smoke and reddening sky. His parents handed him a garden trowel. “Help your Daddy dig, Lewis.”
Lewis loved digging, loved to chew on the leaves of the wood sorrel while removing the topsoil to find the soft pink worms in the darker dirt underneath. But this time was different. When the hole in the ground was big enough, his momma put all their blankets and sheets in the hole. She put in the silverware, too, and started refilling the hole with dirt. When Lewis asked why, she told him it was to keep the fire from burning up their things.
Lewis wanted to know why they didn’t bury the furniture, too, their table and chairs and his bed. “We don’t have time,” Momma said. The family didn’t own a car yet, so Lewis’s dad must have rushed to hitch the horse to the wagon, lifting Lewis up onto the seat.
His momma likely held his hand as they rode through town, headed toward the main road and the coolness of the river. Bright orange embers floated through the air. Some roofs in the town caught fire, and their neighbors poured buckets of water on the smoking shingles. But my grandfather was safe as he fled with his parents, and when they came home, they found their house miraculously untouched. A lull in the wind had stopped the fire a mere three miles from town.
*
The oldest of six siblings, my grandfather eventually moved to nearby Cowlitz County with his family. The Great Depression marked his childhood years, and WWII his late teens. As an adult, my grandfather was one of thousands who made a living working at the Long-Bell lumber mill in Longview. The city itself was founded by the same lumber baron who built the mill, which was conveniently located near existing forests of Douglas fir and the Columbia River, a major shipping route.
Douglas fir was not only prolific and quick to regrow, it also produced strong, warp-resistant lumber. Worldwide demand for Douglas fir lumber boosted Longview’s economy, creating jobs for loggers, millwrights, and the truck drivers and longshoremen who transported and shipped the lumber. For the locals who’d survived the depression, the timber industry and the seemingly infinite supply of Douglas fir trees must have felt like a godsend.
The mill job allowed my grandfather to purchase a home, get married, and raise two children. He continued to work there until the mid-1980s, a few years after I was born, and then retired to enjoy his home on the hill with a view of the trees. The nearby foothills were covered with Doug firs, growing so close they seemed like a single organism.
The only blights on these evergreen hills were areas where logging outfits had clearcut entire sections, burning the brush in great smoking piles of slash. Whenever my family had occasion to drive by a slash burn, it looked to me like a war zone in a black and white movie. Piles of charred black branches smoldered, and thick gray smoke stung my nostrils. No trees were ever left standing. My stepdad told me it was a good thing: burning the brush would prevent forest fires, and then new trees would be planted. The forest would grow back and all would be well.
*
At the time, clearcutting and replanting was generally accepted as the best way to replenish the forest after a timber harvest. When an original old growth forest was logged, the biggest, most valuable trees were cut down first—often Douglas firs. Then, lumber companies clearcut the area and burned the low-value timber and brush that remained. That way, the ground was cleared for ease of replanting with new Doug fir seedlings, and there wasn’t any vegetation left that could crowd the young trees out or block them from getting the sunlight they required.
The Douglas firs were perfectly suited for growing fast and tall in the newly open clearing, and future timber harvests could take the farmed trees instead of old growth. But the result was a monoculture, devoid of the various tree and shrub species that would support the understory of a naturally mixed forest.
The value of the understory, like the understory itself, might not be readily apparent from our point of view. In much of the Pacific Northwest, the understory is seen as a wildfire threat. The brush and smaller trees serve as fuel for sparks, and so the understory is purposely burned in order to prevent large-scale fires. This practice is prevalent in the drier, sparser forests of the east Cascades, where the long, hot summers dry the vegetation out. Wildfires there often result in hazardous smoke and evacuation orders that residents might endure for weeks.
However, it’s not necessarily a benefit to use the same controlled burn approach with the wetter forests on the west side of the Cascades. In northwest Oregon and southwest Washington, these dense, moist forests have greater value as carbon sinks.
All trees store carbon dioxide as biomass, helping to offset the excess carbon released by burning fossil fuels. The denser the forest, the more trees are available to pull carbon dioxide out of the air. The thick, wet forests of the western Cascades in this region are well-suited to help mitigate climate change, as long as they remain unburned.
In the Pacific Northwest, researchers who study the effects of climate change have predicted long-term weather patterns that align with some we’re already seeing. Longer, hotter, drier summers. Warmer, rainier winters. As mountain snowpack disappears during the summer and melts during warm spells in the winter, most of the region can expect summers of drought and wildfire followed by winters of flooding and landslides.
The projected increase in heat and drought means drier soil and drier trees. In other words, prime conditions for wildfire. With the majority of the Pacific Northwest population living in Portland and Seattle on the west side of the Cascades, this means wildfires will increasingly take place near where people live, especially as development extends beyond the suburbs and into rural areas.
*
Given the value of preserving the forests in this region and protecting the population from wildfire, experts have recommended region-specific fire management strategies. These include establishing fuel breaks, reducing invasive species, and promoting forest diversity.
Here’s where the understory comes in. The smaller trees and shrubs that make up the understory provide the diversity, and the presence of native understory species keeps invasive plants from taking over. A dense, naturally mixed forest is not only better able to store carbon, it’s also better able to rebound from any wildfires that do occur. There are a variety of seeds from multiple plant species, and snags and downed wood from burned mixed forest serve as habitat for animals and birds returning to the area. The composition of the forest affects its health and longevity.
The forests that burned in the Eagle Creek Fire were mostly composed of Douglas fir and western hemlock, with western hemlock dominating the majority of the burned acreage. Will the forest grow back with a similar composition as before? Maybe, maybe not.
When fires destroy wetter forests like the one where the Eagle Creek Fire burned, Doug fir seedlings tend to completely replace the previous trees. It’s possible that western hemlocks and other undergrowth will eventually make a comeback when the Doug firs grow tall enough to create more shade. But there’s also climate change to consider. Hot temperatures and drought might mean that trees that typically fill wet forests aren’t able to thrive.
If regrowth from the Eagle Creek Fire follows the normally observed regeneration cycle of moist, western Cascade forests, we can expect it to consist primarily of Doug firs, at least to begin with. But if growing conditions are hotter and drier in the years to come, there may be more opportunity for recurring fires and less opportunity for the previous western hemlocks and other shade-loving, understory species to return. Although the US Forest Service plans to let forest regrowth occur naturally here, they’re concerned that invasive plant regrowth might take over instead. They’re working with non-profit partners to help ensure that native species have a chance to return. As long as native species can regrow, they’ll help each other thrive.
*
In a diverse forest, symbiotic relationships abound. Douglas firs provide shelter for up-and-coming shade-loving trees, like western hemlock. Similarly, birches help to nourish Doug fir seedlings by sharing carbs with them, especially if the young Doug firs are in the shade and can’t get enough sun to generate their own food. The birches transfer more carbs to those seedlings.
Evergreen conifers on the western slopes of the Cascades catch moisture from fog in their needles, which drops to the ground and waters the plants in the understory. This also increases local precipitation, adding more water to the soil and to mountain streams. In places like the Bull Run Watershed, fog drip has been observed to make up about one-third of the yearly precipitation.
The trees’ generosity extends to the animal kingdom, too. In the North Cascades of Oregon, red tree voles live most of their lives in the tops of Douglas firs. They get water by licking dew off the tree’s needles, and they make most of their meals from green needles, too.
Parasitic mistletoe infections in conifer trees cause them to grow curly clusters of small branches, which happens to be a favorite habitat for American martens and northern flying squirrels. This nocturnal squirrel dines on the underground fruiting bodies of false truffles, which fruit from mycorrhizal networks that attach themselves exclusively to the roots of Douglas firs. As the squirrels, fungi, and Douglas firs go about feeding themselves, they benefit each other. The tree roots provide sugars to the fungus, the fungus helps the tree soak up more nutrients and water from the soil, and when the squirrels forage for truffles, they help to inoculate the tree roots, which expands the mycorrhizal network, increasing nutrients for both the tree and the fungus. As the mycorrhizal networks expand, they connect Douglas firs to each other throughout the forest. In this way, Douglas firs of varying size and age can swap nutrients, help each other survive drought, and even share chemicals that protect them from pests and disease.
*
Like Douglas firs and the other trees and animals they work with, people have the opportunity to come together and make sustainable decisions for our future. We’re good at cultivating human monocultures, good at forming groups of people who think alike. But we can benefit more from sharing our diverse experiences, seeking out perspectives from beyond our usual social circles. Doing so leads to greater understanding, and a greater ability to successfully manage our forests.
What we’ve learned about the forests in the Gorge and the Cowlitz Valley has led to adapting our fire management strategies. For example, in the Douglas fir forests of the western Cascades, clearcutting is no longer used for fire management in national forests or other federal lands. Instead, variable retention harvesting (VRH) helps to foster forest diversity for both trees and animals. This approach creates some openings in the treetops to encourage understory growth, while still keeping about one-third of the original living trees, including old-growth Doug firs that have successfully survived past wildfires. VRH also keeps some snags and fallen logs in place, which creates habitat for animals and birds, while the rotting logs enrich the soil for seedlings of all types to grow back. VRH attempts to perpetuate the natural ecosystem, which is good for the environment and good for people.
When grown and harvested responsibly, tree-based materials such as lumber and paper are also poised to help offset the effects of climate change. Lumber for building materials and paper for packaging materials both have lower carbon footprints than their alternatives. One example is cross-laminated timber (CLT), which is manufactured from Douglas firs. Buildings constructed with CLT actually sequester carbon, unlike buildings made of steel or concrete. Meanwhile, recyclable and compostable paper products are replacing unsustainable options like plastic and Styrofoam.
*
If humanity wants to hang out on this planet for a while longer, we need to provide for future generations. We need to make space and shelter for others, whether they’re like us or not. My grandfather taught this by example. Like mature Douglas firs that provide shade so that western hemlocks and other understory plants can grow, he actively nurtured me and my siblings. He taught us to be custodians of the earth, picking up litter and planting gardens. Informed by his deep kindness and faith, he also taught us that everyone is equally worthy of love, no matter how different they may seem.
Maybe that’s why I love trees so much—those early lessons stay with me. Or maybe everyone would love trees as I do, if they only understood the depth of the trees’ generosity. Since time immemorial, trees have given us oxygen, shelter, moisture, medicine, food, building materials, and fuel for heat. And they do all this simply by being the best version of themselves that they can be.
*
My grandfather passed when I was twenty-four, two days before Christmas. I’d just put a pan of homemade stuffing in the oven when my mom phoned me from the hospice, telling me it was time. I drove as fast as I safely could, but when I got there, it was too late.
Some months later, I dreamed that my grandfather and I were standing in his backyard watching the sunset, his arm around my shoulders. Warm red light lingered above the forests of Douglas fir on the hills. As the sun sank into the trees, my grandfather stooped and grew heavy, and then I was the one holding him up, my strength bearing his weight.
Then, just as quickly as he’d grown heavy, he became light as air, his breath leaving his body to meet the welcoming green of the trees.
Liz Kellebrew won The Miracle Monocle Award for Innovative Writing, and she was a finalist for the Calvino Prize. Her poetry book, Water Signs, is due out September 2022 from Unsolicited Press. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Catamaran, Lime Hawk, About Place, Room, and other journals. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College.
