Alexandersmap

    Tag: Trees

    • The Penance of Autumn

      O hushed October morning mild,
      Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
      Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
      Should waste them all.
      The crows above the forest call;
      Tomorrow they may form and go.
      O hushed October morning mild,
      Begin the hours of this day slow.
      Make the day seem to us less brief.
      Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
      Beguile us in the way you know.
      Release one leaf at break of day;
      At noon release another leaf;
      One from our trees, one far away.
      Retard the sun with gentle mist;
      Enchant the land with amethyst.
      Slow, slow!
      For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
      Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
      Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
      For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
      — Robert Frost, October

      As this is published on the 1st of October, the foggy world outside makes me feel I’m living in Frost’s poem. Small wonder, as he wrote it just up the road a bit. The aroma of ripe grapes is fading now, but we can still smell them on evening walks. Acorns rain from the trees, crashing through the canopy and thumping to the ground. This is another bumper crop year for the oaks, and the acorn performance follows just after the hickory nuts. To live amongst the trees in this time is to risk all. Only the foolhardy would stroll barefoot now.

      With the nuts come the collectors. Squirrels and deer, wild turkey and chipmunks work the harvest. Some in turn become the harvest as the hawks, owls and fox move amongst the trees looking for an easy mark. The pup works to chase all intruders from the yard, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide. In a few weeks it will all be over, acorns stored for winter by the rodents and the rest raked up ahead of the leaves. This is the penance of autumn in the woods of New Hampshire.

      To live here amongst the trees is to forever be a servant to the detritus they drop. They were here well before I was, they remind me, and they’ll be here until I one day leave this place, I remind them. That was our bargain, but they do love to abuse the current resident. To live life as a poem is not simply watching sunsets capping the days while whispering sweet nothings to our lovely copilot, it’s to apply sweat equity in the seasons with faith that it will be a good harvest that we may be blessed with another. We may not all be farmers now, but we still work the land.

      They say that Robert Frost wasn’t much of a farmer, but he gave it a go anyway. His farm produced timeless poetry instead of produce, so maybe he was a better farmer than he was credited for. Eventually Frost moved away from the farm to find inspiration elsewhere. I can relate to that too, even as I reconcile myself to a few more seasons raking acorns off the lawn and tossing them into the woods. The land is good and the season generous, and all along I’ve been harvesting here too.

    • Stepping Out of the Fog

      It’s a cool, damp and foggy morning in New Hampshire. The biting cold of the last few days now but a memory. Surely, the seasons are upside down nowadays, for all the reasons we already know. The lichen seem to appreciate the continuation of our soggy 2023 into December. It’s been a nonstop party for them. And what are we to do but dress appropriately and get out into it ourselves?

      Appropriate dress this time of year includes bright orange clothing. December 3rd is the last day of hunting season for those using firearms, and December 15th for those with crossbows. I don’t know these dates because I’m a hunter myself, but because I like to exit the forests as intact as I was when I entered them. One must be aware of the risk of wandering in the woods and dress appropriately to mitigate that risk. Or simply wait until hunting season is over—but what’s the fun in that? That’s like waiting for the rain to stop, which is exactly why my summit hiking has stalled indefinitely.

      The thing is, I was going to write about determinism and indeterminism today, but the woods seemed a better place to carry my mind. The world is either set in motion already or we have a chance to change the game by the choices we make. Most people believe the latter but how many actually take the leap? We aren’t just souls lost in the fog, rooted where we landed once upon a time. We have a real chance at changing the game. Is there luck in that landing? Of course there is, and perhaps that’s determinism set in motion, but it ignores the motion itself. We aren’t trees rooted in a foggy forest, we’re each walking through the wilderness in search of something more. Eventually the fog lifts and we might just find our way out.

    • Hemlocks in Snow

      “Do you know that even when you look at a tree and say, ‘That is an oak tree’, or ‘that is a banyan tree’, the naming of the tree, which is botanical knowledge, has so conditioned your mind that the word comes between you and actually seeing the tree? To come in contact with the tree you have to put your hand on it and the word will not help you to touch it.”
      ― Jiddu Krishnamurti, Freedom from the Known

      I encountered a stand of hemlock trees shading the path I walked. Combined with the crisp breeze I was quickly chilled. Not five minutes before I’d contemplated taking off layers and just like that the trees stole whatever warmth was radiating down from the sun and left me with nothing but cold. Yet the trees stood indifferently to my comfort.

      Walking through the hemlocks, feeling their silent majesty, I stopped focusing on myself and appreciated the stoic beauty of the trees. These trees touched me, even as I felt their indifference. And I wanted to linger even with the cold wind relentlessly driving me to find a sunny spot on the trail. Now mind you, I don’t go around hugging trees. But I do exhibit what might be considered by some to be an unusual fondness for them. And these trees, red bark and green needles, are survivors. It’s not easy growing on a mountain, and my moment of cold discomfort was a good reminder of their toughness. For even now they stand together in the dark of a winter night, while I retreat to the comfort of home.

      It’s funny, you can leave a stand of trees, yet they stay with you still.

    • The Air is Thick

      I’ve surrounded myself with friends who treat me kindly for forty-eight weeks of the year and then abuse me for four. They were here first, they tell me amidst their relentless attack. Who are you but our guest? I nod in reluctant acceptance of my fate.

      There are two times of year that are especially difficult to be a home owner surrounded by the forest. The first wave comes in the spring with pollen, catacombs and maple seed helicopters assaulting you from all sides. It’s pollinating season for the trees. This lasts for about two weeks. The second wave is the autumn return to earth of millions of leaves and acorns, seemingly all contained in my yard. Let’s call that another two weeks (I’m overly generous in my time estimates).

      The trees deserve their spring fun, and then earn their winter slumber. Who am I to complain? Shut your mouth and clean out the pool seven times a day like a good homeowner. Why am I whining about the puke yellow pollen coating everything when I knew what I was moving in to? I’m the keeper of the trees, the one who protects them for another generation. Despite the mess.

      The funny thing about being a New Englander is waiting all winter for the beautiful weather to arrive and then, just as it does, stay inside because of the pollen and black flies. It’s a waiting game, really, and each will subside over the next week. The trees will soon be settling into their most productive days, and we shall coexist peacefully for the rest of summer.

      You can place the timing of this blog by the moment I write about the trees again. Sure enough, it’s springtime again in New England. A time of celebration and massive, ongoing cleanup effort. Oh Joy! Oh Rapture!

      The air is thick with tree pollen and it’s raining debris. This is no time to relax poolside with a cool drink, for there’s work to be done. But this too shall pass. And it’s still way better than having no trees.

    • Determining the Age of a Tree

      I’ve been wondering about the age of a large white oak tree guarding the edge of the forest for years. Not enough to actually do something about it, mind you, but wondering nonetheless. Then a hike with old growth trees last Sunday triggered a burning curiosity in me about the age of the trees we hiked amongst, and by extension, the age of the trees in my own backyard. I found myself having to know.

      There’s an easy way to gauge the age of a tree: you count the rings. The problem with that method is you’re really measuring the age of death of the tree. I prefer to keep them around, especially when they’re my elders. But rest assured, there’s another method for estimating the age of a tree, and that’s doing some basic math and adding a bit of educated guessing. All of this is searchable online, of course, but I found the instructions from Purdue University to be particularly helpful.

      Step one is to measure the DBH of the tree. What’s this? Another acronym in a world of acronyms? Sorry! But this one is easy to remember. DBH stands for Diameter at Breast Height. Take a flexible tape out to your tree of interest, measure 4 1/2 feet up from the base of the tree and there’s your DBH. Now anchor the end of the tape measure (or have someone hold it) and walk around the tree back to your starting point. This is the circumference of the tree. Convert this to total inches. In the case of my stately white oak, it measures 92 inches in circumference.

      The next step is to determine the diameter of the tree, which simply means dividing the circumference by 3.14. For the white oak, this was 29.29. So far, so good. And now we rely on something called the growth factor to figure out the rest. This is where science meets estimation. For a tree on the edge of the forest in optimal growing conditions, the growth factor is pretty straightforward. For a tree on a sidewalk in downtown Boston or near the summit of Mount Jackson in New Hampshire, well, that tree’s growth factor is going to be pretty compromised by the stress of everyday living. You’ll need to factor that in to the equation at some point.

      Back in my backyard, our white oak is happy as a tree can possibly be in this crazy world. The growth factor for a white oak in this happy situation is 5. You multiply the diameter by the growth factor and my favorite white oak tree turns out to be around 146 years old! And those old growth trees I saw hiking? They’re roughly 300 years old, which is about how long a healthy white oak typically lives. I hope they beat the odds with that good clean living.

      So around 1875 when the fields were no longer being farmed or grazed in this patch of Southern New Hampshire land an acorn sprouted and grew in the sun. It witnessed the forest grow around it, protecting it from the worst of the winds and the whims of humans looking for firewood and lumber. And then I became its neighbor and guardian at age 124. And we became fast friends.

    • The Flying Tree Dance

      Removing a tree from the yard is always a painful decision. I’ve cut down a few trees over the years, and a part of me is cut out with every one of them. But sometimes they have to go. And I had a clump of them that were ready to go wedged in a tight cluster with trees I wanted to keep. Well above my skill set to cut these down, I delayed for years until now. But it was finally time.

      A giant crane, a bucket truck and a third truck towing a wood chipper arrived and their drivers started positioning them for the tasks they each performed. First in was the bucket truck, limbing up a large oak that would be in the way of the crane. This was opportunistic work, as the neighbor wanted that tree limbed up anyway, and so they negotiated a separate deal to get it done. Capitalism on the fly.

      Next came the big event. The crane was extended, chain saws were readied, men positioned in familiar roles. The most notable was the man who would fly. Clearly the most fun job of all, and the most dangerous. He harnessed up, attached himself to the crane cable, and slowly flew into the air with his chain saw and rappelling gear. He would wrap a strap around the tree trunk of choice, secure his rappel rope and lower himself down to the ground. He then cut the base of the tree as the crane held it up, clear out of the way, and it was time for the tree to sky dance. If I were a tree and it was my last day on earth, I might choose one final pirouette across the sky as this tree took.

      But then the performance was over, the tree laid across the driveway, and the second act began. a second cable was secured halfway up the trunk and the tree was now hanging from two cables. A few branches were trimmed away, and then the machinery took over. I realized what was about to happen and put my fingers into my ears. The cables and men fed the entire tree, trunk first, into the wood chipper. The chipper roared its horrific roar, and the tree flew in chips into the truck bed to live its second life as mulch. A second flight for the tree, not quite as grand as the first.

      This performance continued for the morning and early afternoon and then the machines and men and mulch drove away, leaving empty sky and stories. Some of the felled trees remained, to serve as firewood in a season or two. Then they too will fly as well, as smoke and a pagan tribute to their final day.

    • Treasure Hunting

      “It’s not enough to reach the treasure, one must bring it back.” – Roger Lipsey

      I’m a collector of words and music.  I find them in the wild and then bring them back in quotes and playlists.  Perhaps that’s enough for the blog or drinks with friends, but I have all the other treasure that I’ve found that deserves another format.  That treasure I keep polishing and dodging and returning to again.  That treasure needs to be brought back.  That treasure nags me like the Arc of the Covenant burning through the box in Raiders of the Lost Ark.  It wants to get out there.  Quit dodging.

      This weekend, in an exercise in futility, I’ve cleaned the oak catkins out of the pool over and over again.  I’ve taken a leaf blower and blown them off the deck and off the driveway.  I’m being mocked by oak trees each time the wind blows and the sky fills with more catkins floating down onto just-cleaned surfaces and into the pool.  I contemplate the wisdom of putting a pool on the edge of this tree orgy, and grab the skimmer yet again.  Maybe the chainsaw would be the better tool…  but I’m committed to what was here before me.  The next owner of this house will someday have to make the same choice.  I wish them well.

      Weekends are filled with time sucks like catkin cleanup and lawn care and an endless task list.  Weekdays offer their own time commitments.  All of this is my choice.  But I the treasure won’t wait indefinitely.  I can hear it calling me even now.  What’s this?  Catkin cleanup?!  Time isn’t your friend, and I want to be set free. I’ll honor the call – promise – but first I need to clean out the pool skimmers.  And take some allergy medicine.  But the treasure grows impatient, like a jilted lover looking for another partner to dance with.  Quit dodging already.

    • Time Travel on the Rail Trail

      I took a walk on a local rail trail during a lunch break.  The trail brought solitude occasionally interrupted by fellow walkers, joggers and cyclists. But not really solitude.  There were glimpses of frogs warily looking back at me, chirps of chipmunks announcing “here’s another one.” as I walked by, and a distant hum of traffic in the distance.  But I was alone with my thoughts.  After cutting way back on listening to podcasts and music on most walks and rows, I’ve realized a net benefit in improved creativity.  Everyone has their thing, mine is quiet.

      An acorn stood in the middle of the path, shed of its cap and firmly on its fat end seeking perhaps a bare foot.  But likely hoping for a kick to the grass where it might take root. Asphalt is no place for an acorn with aspirations.  The remains of hundreds of its kin lay massacred on the trail, victims of bicycle tires and shoes alike.  Looking back, I regret not kicking that acorn into the grass.  It might have stood a fighting chance.

      I paused at a wall, built of granite by hand. Dimpled from the stone cutter, lichen and moss-covered from a long watch under a canopy of oak and maple trees.  The wall has stood here for at least 170 years, and aside from a crack or two looks like it could stand for three times that.  If a generation is 30 years, the man that built this wall could well have been my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather.  I wonder if he thought of that when placing these stones?  Turning back the way I came, I thought the wall could easily stand for another ten generations if left to itself.  Perhaps they’ll stand where I stood today, thinking as I do of those who came before and those who belong to the future.  My moment with the wall was just a glimpse of a time machine passing from then to there, with a brief visit with me along the way.

      That acorn is a time machine as well, waiting to find the right landing place to take root and grow.  It too could outlive all of us.  And a part of me hopes that it does.

    • The Fate of Trees

      Returning to the poem The Ship and Her Makers this morning as I consider the smoke alarm in my hotel room that chirped all night. Such is the glamorous life of travel. Writing instead of sleeping in is a habit I’ve developed, and there’s no sleeping in with a chirpy roommate.

      Consider:

      THE TREES
      We grew on mountains where the glaciers cry,
      Infinite sombre armies of us stood
      Below the snow-peaks which defy the sky;
      A song like the gods moaning filled our wood;
      We knew no men—our life was to stand staunch,
      Singing our song, against the avalanche.

      – John Masefield, The Ship and Her Makers

      Living in New Hampshire I know the power of trees. The white pines that dominated the forests were cut down for masts and wide plank floors and countless other uses the trees weren’t consulted on, but they’ve grown back, and New Hampshire, just behind neighboring Maine, top the nation in percentage of “above ground woody biomass”, or as we call them around here; trees.

      “Every walk in the forest is like taking a shower in oxygen.” – Peter Wohlleben, The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate—Discoveries from A Secret World

      The irony of writing about trees thirteen stories above the largely treeless Chicago landscape isn’t lost on me. Love the city, but couldn’t live here. Give me trees. Walking amongst the tallest of them certainly brings humans back to earth. Forests are the opposite of cities in that respect too. Skyscrapers race to be the tallest, just as trees do, but they’re all in it for themselves. Not so with trees.

      “But isn’t that how evolution works? you ask. The survival of the fittest? Trees would just shake their heads—or rather their crowns. Their well-being depends on their community, and when the supposedly feeble trees disappear, the others lose as well.”

      – Peter Wohlleben, The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate—Discoveries from A Secret World

      There’s an underlying sadness in Masefield’s poem emphasized by the first line. We grew on mountains where the glaciers cry. What a portrait of what once was… we were once this grand forest, now we’re the planks under your feet and the mast above. Such are the sacrifices for mankind. Forests regrow of course, but we all lose something by the loss of old growth trees. Wohlleben wrote that in the quote above; when the supposedly feeble trees disappear, the others lose as well. The others aren’t just the other trees: they’re also us.

    • Northeastern Forests

      Northeastern Forests

      I recently finished reading The Hidden Life of Trees, a profoundly interesting book that taught me something new about the forests and the tress around me than I’d ever thought possible.  The relationship of trees to the fungal network they’re connected to, the way the support each other with sugar through that network.  How they migrate over the years.  Incredible book.

      Of course, it got me thinking about the forests around me.  I’ve long appreciated the forests of the Northeast United States and Eastern Canada.  Driving north through Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont and Western Massachusetts you ride through miles and miles of forest.  Upstate New York, for all it’s farmland, is still, or rather once again heavily wooded.  Even Connecticut and Rhode Island have heavy percentages of their land wooded.

      Encroaching developments eat into this magnificent green blanket, and the trees that once stood where developments are going up end up as firewood, lumber, bark mulch or paper products.  A little piece of me dies when I see lots being cleared.  I’m not opposed to development, I just greatly prefer the woods.

      I was talking to a friend of mine about a place where we once camped on New Year’s Eve.  We drove deep into the woods as far as his car could go in the deep snow and hiked in to a favorite spot of his.  We lit a bonfire and drank beer and listened to the coyotes in the still night.  I woke up in the middle of the night to embers melting into the plastic outer shell of my sleeping bag as my buddy stoked the fire up and howled at the coyotes.  We still laugh about that night almost 30 years later.  He mentioned to me that it’s now a development with hundreds of houses.

      I imagine that’s how the Native Americans felt when they watched the deep forests that generations walked through were felled for ship masts and houses.  Roads were cut in, and the sprawl began, rapidly displacing those who came before.  Through it the trees survived to fight another day.  Where once a farmer’s field lay claim to the land a forest has reclaimed it.  Most of the forests I drive through as I travel New England are new growth – reclaiming the land over the last century or so.  There’s a measure of hope in that, balanced with caution.