Winds of Change

Winds of Change

As the breeze brushes through the Eastern Peninsula of Maryland, it brings with it a bit of gentler weather that has been lost to this forest patch now for about a month. But this moment is not here to stay. The warmer winds pass through, bringing in their aftermath a storm rattles through the forest. Still the ice crystals that once adorned the ground and trees are now soft puddles of leaves and muck. There is no longer any crunch to the forest floor, just the eminent damp after a long rain storm. The air is still cold on my face as my winter jacket flaps while I walk through the trees, leaves rustling in the chill.

Mind sharp and breath steady, I close the car door and look up to the sky spitting tiny drops of rain through the naked canopy. This is my second week in the forest, and I am curious to see if there will be any notable changes in its northern section. I have chosen this area with great care. A great Loblolly Pine rests to the Northeastern portion of the wood, and it is the largest that I have ever seen. If it is not at least 100 years old, then it must be getting close. (Samuelson) The bark on the bottom of the tree is a deep brown, heavily scarred and battered; it sheaths in a thick crust a massive trunk that I can’t even begin to try to fit my arms around. If not for the distinct shape and size of the chunks of bark, so many armored platelets interwoven about the tree, along with the length of the needles paired in threes, I would have never been able to identify this tree as a Loblolly. (Aborday.org) I have never seen another quite like it, since Loblollies this old and large on the Eastern Shore are considered a waste of good wood.  Younger versions of this tree are quickly dispatched by the owners of woodlots before any disease can set in and spoil the pristine grain of the lumber. I am thankful this great pine somehow remains. The elevated patch of dirt under it has become my first observation spot, a comfortable, dry and good vantage point to observe some of the other trees sprinkled throughout this area, American Hollies by the hundreds, Maples both Red and Sugar, Eastern Red Cedars, Oaks of both Red and White and Gum Trees. The forest is a myriad of different colors, barks and leaves. In the age of widespread suburbs and industrial forestry, these woods are indeed a special exception when it comes to tree diversity. Here it is not just all about the pines.

Upon entering the Southwest section of the forest, I dip and weave underneath Holly leaves, slowly moving eastward towards the road that marks the edge of the forest. Then I abruptly turn north as the elevation begins to drop. Leaves and dirt mesh into mud as I walk down the hill towards the great Loblolly Pine I sat under the week before.

My steps quicken as I pass forest landmarks like the gnarled roots of a Maple which let me know that I am getting close. But puzzlingly I don’t see it. I can’t seem to find my pine. Frustrated I start twisting and turning my head, praying that my vision is momentarily betraying me. Then, something new catches my eye. It all begins to make sense. Looking over my right shoulder, I realize that the base of my gigantic pine has been lost in the displaced canopy of a freshly fallen Red Maple tree. I rush up to the fallen tree to investigate. The red maple’s branches are torn and cracked, with smaller holly trees crushed under the sheer girth of the massive maple. I walk away from the canopy and towards the root system. The base of the maple tree is half torn with roots cracked and split on the site which it had fallen away from. This leaves a chasm at least a few feet deep, now beginning to collect a basin of water from the rain storm, evolving into its own micro ecosystem. It looks like the wind knocked this one over, splitting with its sheer force the great tree’s roots. I take a step back, amazed. There is no way that I could have expected that within the first week of my observation an event such as this would come to pass, especially in the exact spot that I chose to sit in my first visit to the forest. After returning home from this observation, I think I have already found a suitable name for this unique place. Calling it “observation area,” seems a bit tacky, and bears no resemblance of my relationship to this place. A place such as this deserves a name. I do not claim to be the person best for this task, but part of doing Natural History is giving a voice to something that can’t speak for itself. So, I decided to give the forest as honest a name as possible, so that I might not fall too far into the pathetic fallacy and claim to have the wisdom to name such a place, when it cannot create a name for itself. I have decided to call it Maple Landing, for that is the most honest name that I could think of

.

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A blossom is a strange thing. Flowers can have such an astounding effect on the human psyche. They can inspire poems and songs. They can represent love and commitment. One of my favorite movies (The Last Samurai) features a line that says, “You can spend your whole life searching for the perfect blossom and it would not be a wasted life.” I entertain that thought as I slowly twist a newly formed red maple blossom, fallen from the heights to position itself within easy reach of my human frame, through the crease of my fingers. As winter has subsided, spring has swept through Maple Landing. The fallen red maple, not yet realizing its winter demise, is blooming for the last time on the forest floor, putting on one final and spectacular show before it begins to slowly dissipate into the soil.

As I smell the deep red blossoms, I ponder the purpose of human life; all of those things that we have created and altered to make this world that we live in now. I can’t help but wonder if we have lost our way as we have slowly evolved from hunters and gatherers to farmers and scholars, then monotonously degraded ourselves from laborers to pencil pushers. Each step along this path has further removåed us from any true connection with Mother Earth. Too few of us now are farmers, or even recreational foresters. We are no longer the nature lovers equal to the caliber of Thoreau or champions of wildlife like Theodore Roosevelt. We are the desk workers and the disconnected, the uncontended and the silent, the consumers and the complacent. More and more we relish our concrete and plastic cages which we have so elegantly built for ourselves, ever avoiding the realization that we have become trapped in our own fantasy. When did we ever imagine that we could completely separate ourselves from nature without any consequences? Now, to be perfectly clear, I am not saying that we should all be farmers and nature writers, or professional foresters. I understand the glamour of a modern lifestyle and the hardship of a globally conscious one. However, we have become so far removed from the rhythms of nature that we can no longer recognize when things are too far out of balance. We have completely distorted the idea of time. The fallen maple desperately clutches to its rhythms, knowing perfectly well when it is time for its grand finale as my hour in the forest comes to an end, reminding me that I have my own time to attend to.

I know that this may seem like a sad story where this fallen maple will wither away at nature’s touch for years to come, but this is not the tragedy upon which I focus. In fact, this death is not a tragedy at all. This grand maple will slowly decompose, bringing with it a host of fungi, bacteria, insects and red-backed salamanders, which will inevitably provide for more life in this forest. Some of this maple will even decompose underneath the great Loblolly Pine, providing a new wealth of healthy soil and nutrients. The real tragedy that I have come to understand is the increasing separation from the realm of the “human” to the realm of the “natural.” As I witness the rhythms of this forest, with its changes from winter to spring and where death and booming life surround me all at once, I realize that there is a time here that is totally foreign to our generation of humanity. As a human population we have forgotten the truest sense of time: ecological time. (Kulikov) We have replaced the ideas of natural rhythms and patterns with that of chronological time. We have our set calendar, with our set schedules as we learn to abide by the monochromatic lull of our watches and cell phones, as opposed to the beck and call of nature. We wake up and drive in our metal boxes, to go sit in our plastic cages, to afford to live in our sealed off houses, all the while completely ignoring the world happening around us. We have forgotten what it means to understand the rhythms of Mother Earth, so we are incapable of understanding the extent to which she suffers.

Over beyond the maple tree

that is where you might find me.

Don’t hustle and bustle,

for there you will find at peace,

Ryan David Russell.

- Ryan Russell

Works Cited

Kulikov, Sergey B. "Who Creates The Time: Nature Or Human?." Interdisciplinary

Description Of Complex Systems 13.1 (2015): 167-172. Academic Search

Complete. Web. 6 Apr. 2015.

Maloof, Joan. Among the Ancients: Adventures in the Eastern Old-growth Forests. Washington,DC: Ruka, 2011. Print.

Samuelson, Lisa J., et al. "Maximum Growth Potential In Loblolly Pine: Results From A

47-Year-Old Spacing Study In Hawaii." Canadian Journal Of Forest Research

40.10 (2010): 1914-1929. Academic Search Complete. Web. 6 Apr. 2015.

Schultz, Robert P. Loblolly Pine: The Ecology and Culture of the Loblolly Pine (Pinus

Taeda L.). Washington, D.C.: U.S. Dept. of Agriculture, Forest Service, 1997.

Print.

"What Tree Is That? Tree Identification Guide at Arborday.org." What Tree Is That? TreeIdentification Guide at Arborday.org. Arbor Day Foundation, n.d. Web. 24 Mar. 2015.