This year our annual Sierra
Nevada Wilderness Managers Conference was being held at a fancy resort only a
few miles outside Sequoia National Park. After a too-long drive from Bridgeport
on an overcast October day, the four of us had finally arrived and were in
Montecito-Sequoia Lodge’s spacious lobby. Last to check in, I started following
my cohorts back out to our green truck for my “things” (being an old-school
ranger, this meant a beat-up backpack, not a suitcase). But I paused in the
foyer and quickly scanned a big rack filled with brochures and pamphlets hoping
there might be free maps of the park. No maps. Instead, an emphatically happy
statement caught my eye:
The
General Grant Tree is America’s Christmas Tree!
It was a photo caption on the cover
of our rustic lodge’s summer brochure. This grainy little picture—the size of a
domino, the big kind—was of an obviously immense tree (…almost as tall as a football field and forty feet thick at its base,
the rest of the caption stated). Other slightly-blurry images showed off
snow-covered peaks and happy campers lounging around a swimming pool surrounded by tall pines. Things
to see and do during your stay.
Probably it was from being both hungry
and road-weary but that phrase’s incongruity stirred my easily-aroused cynical
streak. The seemingly innocuous words were a textbook example of this sort of superficial
triviality. (Just the sort of thing that bothers me way more than it should…and no one else even notices.) Too late—I
was already off and running with one of my wordless rants that was largely feelings
but, verbalized, might’ve gone something like this:
Who
had the effrontery, the chutzpah, to come up with this idea of national
Christmas trees in the first place, I wonder? (Didn’t even know there was such
a thing!) Then tag one of our most magnificent living things with yet another
presumptuous label? Maybe it’s so that our tree gets to be bigger than
everybody else’s. (insert
hrrumph or derisive snort) Maybe a Park
Service maintenance crew drives trucks and cranes out there on the day after
Thanksgiving to deck the foliage with glass balls and tinsel, drape those giant
branches with a mile-long string of colored lights. Good lord, spare us! Et
cetera….
No, none of that. More than
likely it’s a Chamber of Commerce affair. Perhaps all nations in Christian
parts of the world have designated their own special trees to represent some
kind of solidarity by promoting “holiday spirit” and the General Grant Tree
happened to be our hapless recipient.
I’m such a Scrooge. But the mental image I’d conjured seemed, to me, about as undignified
as having our President do a tap dance—televised—on Christmas Eve to “Rudolph
the Red-nosed Reindeer,” dressed in an elf costume. But I took comfort knowing
that our National Christmas Tree took no notice whatsoever of its name nor
special status but simply continued being
on a grand scale: growing, shedding dead tissues, helping build soil,
converting sunlight into even more life by providing homes for literally millions of other organisms, of so many
kinds—from bacteria and fungi to birds and mammals—just as it’s done, faithfully
and without cease, since well before that very first Christmas.
A few words about Sequoiadendron giganteum, the giant sequoia
or big tree:
They’re an ancient species—living
relics whose ancestors once were spread over vast areas of a continental
landmass far different, geographically, from what would eventually become
western North America. Fossils have revealed their extensive former range. They
thrived during a much more temperate period, with warmer winters, cooler
summers, and significantly greater rainfall. The survivors live exclusively in
a narrow elevational corridor on the Sierra Nevada’s west slope where such
conditions still persist: a strip of land above the foothill zone, about 250
miles long, between elevations of 4500 and 8500 feet. All but eight groves (“groves”
being a fairly arbitrary designation) occur in a belt south of the Kings River,
only sixty miles long, in which none of the groves are more than five miles
apart. They’re the dominant plant species in what is otherwise a typical west
slope association of white fir, sugar pine, and incense cedar with similar, fairly
sparse under stories.
By the late Miocene Epoch,
roughly 7 million years ago, the giant sequoia had retreated from all but its
current range (at which time it was likely much more common than today). The
tree’s present scattered distribution is a result of isolation by subsequent, periodic
glacial intrusions and from a general warming trend that followed the close of
our last ice age (some 10,000 years ago). In time, more drought-resistant
species have taken its place. On average, each grove is home to about 20,000
mature trees and covers roughly 2,500 acres. The northernmost, in Placer
County, covers barely three acres and contains only a half-dozen mature
individuals. All told, there are a bit more than 35,000 acres of native giant sequoias
left on the planet.
They were “discovered” in 1852 (we
really do need a word for those things unknown only to newly arrived emigrants).
While the region was being settled and exploited during the rest of that
century, they were harvested for lumber by wiry loggers wielding
ridiculously-long crosscut saws. I’ve seen marvelous photos from that time
showing two men—one on either end of these extinct tools—standing on narrow, wooden
platforms driven into the tree’s trunk, well above its broad base. This was during
the era of western expansion when nature was still seen as an adversary to be
either vanquished or at least tamed, its inexhaustible productions created
expressly for human use. So I can easily imagine the appealing challenge these
lumbermen faced and their elation when, after days of hard labor, a giant
finally fell; what a rewarding sound it would’ve made, reverberating through
the forest…such evocative smells.
But the difficulty and expense of
transporting and milling such huge logs meant the sequoia was never to compete
with coast redwood as a source of lumber (despite their similar, top-quality
wood). In addition, they were brittle and tended to shatter or split upon
falling. Still, small milling operations—which often wasted up to 75% of felled
trees—produced sequoia shakes, fence posts, and grape stakes for the small
farming communities in San Joaquin Valley. An instant public fascination with
the colossal trees and indignation at their wanton, wasteful harvesting quickly
led to legislation (championed by none other than John Muir) that resulted in
creation of several protective groves and parks.
Giant sequoias are second only
to bristlecone pines as being the longest-living, non-clonal organisms. No one
knows when the largest specimens burst inauspiciously from the ground because coring
instruments can’t begin to reach the center of a thirty-foot-diameter trunk. By
examining cut cross-sections of fallen trees, patriarchs have been estimated to
be around 3,300 years old. They live to such venerable ages by virtue of their spongy,
exceptionally thick bark—up to 18 inches in the oldest trees—which contains insect-resistant
tannin. The bark is also sapless, greatly decreasing its flammability. (Additionally,
this overall thickness provides the inner wood with insulation from intense heat.)
These co-evolved features are critical because all big trees, once they stand
much above the surrounding forest, are repeatedly struck by lightning
throughout their lives. Cross-sections of fallen trees show scars from, literally,
scores of burns and most have deep ”cat-faces.” These burned-out cavities can
extend several storeys up into the trunk. All mature specimens have
“spike-tops” and have stopped growing vertically. The branches then grow up
around the trunk so that old trees appear curiously stunted, with their incredibly
massive boles encircled by relatively sparse foliage.
Sequoias are the fastest-growing
organism in the world in terms of bulk added yearly. (Bamboo would probably
take that prize if considered in the context of net annual tissue increase.) Their
growth-rings can be up to a half-inch wide. A sequoia’s prodigious growth and
mass leads to the likeliest cause of mortality—tipping and falling—after
becoming imbalanced by giant limbs breaking under heavy snow loads, or from gradual
soil erosion. (Though extensive, the tree’s root-system is surprisingly
shallow.)
Not only are they the most “successful”
organisms in terms of total growth but the biggest specimens are the very
largest living things of any kind on planet Earth.
On that Monday afternoon, we’d
all arrived to cloudy skies with a cold autumn storm on its way. An old friend
and coworker was also attending the conference. Martin and I hadn’t seen each
other for some time so, that first evening, we enjoyed a fine pink-cloud sunset
over the Great Western Divide while strolling down a nearby logging road. Later,
it rained, and we awoke in the morning to heavy overcast and several inches of new
snow. It was still coming down. This precluded much in the way of hoped-for outdoor
activity between sessions.
During the next few days we
heard rambling talks such as Applying Ecology
to Manage Wildland Fires and Resource
Monitoring Overview: Why, What, When, Where? There were range management “workshops”
and such. (In actuality, we come to these conferences primarily for an opportunity
to visit with seldom-seen friends and associates.) By Thursday people were
clearly getting restless, feeling that peculiar form of exhaustion caused by
sitting in a stuffy room all day with seventy others listening to talk, talk,
talk. The bad coffee seemed to no longer take effect after copious meals I felt
obliged to eat since they’d already been paid for.
In lieu of attending a final
workshop, Martin and I decided to play hooky. It was a brilliant day—well past
time to get out and breathe some crisp mountain air. (Plus, I couldn’t sanction
driving 250 miles to a National Park and going back home without seeing some of
the sights.) Our bosses, enrolled in
different workshops, would never know and probably wouldn’t have even cared. So,
right after lunch the two of us hopped in a green truck and headed off without
any plan aside from finding some grove of gigantic trees to amble around in.
But our knowledge of the park was virtually nil and, minutes after passing
through the entrance kiosk we were essentially lost. (As expected, our Forest
Service truck was waved through but we’d opted to not stop and ask for a free
map and risk having to pay the entrance fee.) Our last session began at three
o’clock so we had only two more hours; seeing the sign for “General Sherman
Tree parking” up ahead we figured it was time to stop.
Right off the main road, this is
one of Sequoia Park’s famed tourist attractions. I’d actually been there as a child
but remembered almost nothing from that day. (No doubt the parking lot and
trails had been re-engineered, enlarged, and paved since my family visited back
in 1968.) Martin and I had exercise in mind, something more in the way of a
real hike, but since we were there it seemed like a good idea to visit the
world’s largest living thing.
And that’s precisely what this
so-called General Sherman Tree is: our Earth’s biggest, most biologically-successful
living organism. And it’s just an easy, two-minute stroll from the huge parking
lot which, even on this cold October weekday with slushy snow on the ground,
was thronged by eager visitors. Neither of us, being rangers, much liked playing
tourist but we swallowed our vanity and ambled over to the main attraction—just
two more, lost in a crowd.
We passed several fairly large sequoias
along the broad, paved pathway and stopped to gape; both of us had been quite
young when last we’d seen the likes of such trees and had simply forgotten how
magnificent they are. During my previous visit to this national treasure on our
summer camping trip I’d ignored the DO NOT sign to clamber on its fabulous,
spreading base (which got this nine-year-old a good scolding) but, in fact,
remember only great expanses of shreddy,
cinnamon-red bark whose color and texture induced delight. No memory remains of
its height or mind-boggling breadth. I couldn’t recall really seeing it because, as a child, General Sherman
was simply too big to fit inside my little brain. And the thing is still way
too big for my slightly-larger brain. I’ll soon forget again. In fact…I already
have.
So when we came into the
presence of this leviathan it was brand-new. And I can say with conviction that
photos of the grandest Sequoias (even superb, large-format images) completely
fail to capture their essence, their vegetable charisma. They’re one of those
things that has to be personally experienced.
That, of course, can be said of a great many things but is especially true in
this case. To stand before a big big tree is to have your entire worldview
altered, if only temporarily. The extreme limitations of our senses of time,
scale, and overall significance in the grand scheme are painfully exposed. Make
no mistake: it can be painful.
Coming closer, we’d gone silent;
words seemed utterly superfluous. I felt a strange stew of emotional sensations,
none distinct: almost light-headed, confused, giddy, faintly uneasy. Alarmingly,
I’d shrunk to about eight inches tall. It was just too much to take in. As a
diversion I read the old sign: General
Sherman, the largest living thing, is 275 feet tall. The average diameter at
the base is 36 feet; at 60 feet the diameter is 18 feet, and at 130 feet—where
the first branches arise—14 feet. The first branch is 8 feet wide, which makes
it larger in diameter than virtually any pine in the Sierra. Just the main
trunk weighs in at over 2000 tons. The tree is estimated to be about 2500 years
old.
We weren’t alone. Apparently,
two tour buses had dropped their loads, because most of those around us spoke either
German or Japanese. And there were a bunch of school-kids, laughing and
throwing snowballs. The pathway was fenced on both sides but in one spot an
enclosed corridor extended within 30 feet of the tree and, opposite it, a similar
corridor allowed a place to “stand back” for photos. From that vantage, another
large wooden sign just in front of the tree proclaiming GENERAL SHERMAN allowed
the photographers’ friends and loved ones to be framed in front of the tree
with sign included. While we were there I saw a number of people being captured
on film, a lot of them doing silly poses. Meanwhile, much comment and chatter,
much snapping of photos, and a very noticeable lack of anything resembling reverence
being paid to the object of it all. Or even much curiosity, amongst the teens (who
seemed much more interested in throwing snowballs, a true novelty).
At the time, I felt bitter and
disillusioned by the circus atmosphere, made my typical, cutting sort of
remarks to Martin who endured them patiently. But now I understand: we were all
in a confrontation with something outside our usual framework, were standing
too close to the flame. A fleeting glimpse into eternity can go a long way;
this was too much. People want relaxing entertainment when vacationing, not be
compelled to squarely face their mortality. It isn’t that the visitors aren’t
paying attention—they’re trying to not get sucked into the void.
As we all stood there being
tourists, steam emanating from that magnificent trunk rose slowly upwards.
Globs of heavy, melting snow were falling with goopy thud!s as well as a continuous rain of big drops—sun-lit,
glistening orbs that took ages to hit the ground. Squirrels and birds were
chirping. This day, the first sunny day since we’d arrived, had that
crystalline quality and the fresh forest smells were intoxicating. Meanwhile,
the tree called Sherman silently pumped life-giving water back up to the very tips
of its ancient limbs—a living factory whose thump and hum was smothered by our noisy
presence.
Martin and I soon left to hike
up into a nearby grove so we could visit with some less-famous big trees. Once
out of sight of the trail and out of ear-shot of cars, buses, and voices I
finally felt that sanctified forest-purity. We walked apart, seldom speaking
(but when we did, in hushed tones).
It was an entirely different
experience.
And on another day, if I’d been
calmer and clearer inside, perhaps I could have heard that sound, apart from
all the other forest sounds, of those great trees solemnly building themselves
in their eternal fashion using the light of old Sol and moisture from the
Earth—the pulsing of life on a grand scale. I know it’s there—always is, day
and night—but couldn’t hear because my shoes were soaked, my feet were cold,
and we were going to be late (I’d been watching my watch) for one more talk
neither of us had the slightest desire to hear entitled Federal Perspectives on Wilderness Management. And I was thinking
ahead to the long drive home.
10 Oct 94, 22 Jan 14
©2014
Tim Forsell
