Elevation 12000 feet, on what the current human occupants call Mount Goliath. The oldest known tree in Colorado germinated in the 4th century BCE. Youngsters in many stands are from the 1600s AD.
Do these trees live “a long time”? Perhaps this is the wrong thought. They live not such much a long time, but in a different time. Every creature has its rhythm. For life, time is not one thing, its passage is context-dependent. For the bristlecone pine, a needle ticks its clock on a scale of fifteen cycles of summer sun and water. A sapling builds its woody core through one hundred springs. The trees call us out of our own time scale, drawing the imagination into a tempo incommensurate with our own.
A dusky flycatcher sings from the tree top, the details of the cadences of its song ungraspable by my nerves. But the bird’s nerves live in a different geometry and velocity than mine. Another time. For a bird, and more so for a microbial cell, we are the bristlecones, ancient reminders of a mostly forgotten history. At any one place in the world: thousands, perhaps millions, of times coexist.
Under the pine roots: Precambrian rocks. Ten billion new moons, a billion winters, a quadrillion cellular divisons.
(last photo: rings from fallen tree sliced open in visitor center)
The Songs of Trees has been awarded the 2018 John Burroughs Medal for distinguished natural history writing. I’m honored that the book has been recognized in this way and feel very humbled to have the book listed among the list of awardees.
The book was also selected as Best Science Books of 2017 by NPR Science Friday and Favorite Science Books of 2017 by Brain Pickings.
I’m so grateful for the support of my readers. It is an honor and delight to be able to share these stories of the interconnections among trees and people.
And now, back to the woods where the first bloodroots are pushing into the rain-drenched litter.
This morning NPR posted one of my short essays: ‘Leaf Wonder’ In A World Of Changing Forests
How do our aesthetic responses to leaves help us understand a changing world?
Some thoughts about springtime gardening, from my piece in Houzz.com this week.
“The garden is not an escape into domineering control of nature; rather it requires sustained attention to the interconnections of life.”
“Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound”
Hepatica unfurls its advertisements in both white and purple. This is true of North American species and those in Asia. Why the variation? Natural selection or genetic drift eliminates variation in a population unless some force keeps these purgative pressures at bay. In the case of Hepatica, the costs and benefits of white and purple flowers have not been measured in the wild (readers, correct me if I’m wrong here, please!). Midwestern populations are more purple than their eastern cousins.
Could pollinators or the light environment be creating different selection pressures? Many populations contain a mix of colors (white is the most common here in Sewanee, but purples are scattered among them in significant numbers), so selection does not seem to favor just one color in each location.
In spring beauty flowers (Claytonia), flowers come in red, white, and intermediate. Natural selection acts on flower color in this species complex ways. Redder flowers are more attractive to pollinators, but whiter flowers have more flavonols, chemicals that act as herbivore deterrents. So, white flowers receive fewer pollinators but red flowers get more damage from slugs. Damage from herbivory changes from year to year and from place to place. So two opposing forces — pollination and herbivory — vary in space and time, resulting in a mix of flower colors. Perhaps a similar turbulent, Puckish convergence of forces also acts on Hepatica?
Here we go, the wildflowers are a-leaping. Falcate orangetip and West Virginia white butterflies are on the wing.
From Shakerag Hollow:
There is a rain-lashing cold front on the way, but the first bloodroot of the season says what the heck, it’s time. Bring on the pollinators today please, tomorrow my petals will be food for worms. Other bloodroots: still buried under the litter.