Several years ago, while driving north on Interstate 5 to visit a friend in Oregon, I was passed by a logging truck rumbling down the road, laden with freshly cut trees. They might have been redwoods or another type of tree; I can’t recall. But as the truck went by, I was struck by how much the logs resembled giant cadavers stacked one upon another.
I have always had great reverence for trees, although growing up in Los Angeles I hadn’t had much contact with large ones—just the walnut, avocado and fig trees in our backyard.
My parents took us to Sequoia National Park when I was about 8. I had never seen redwoods before. I remember the General Sherman tree, which is said to be the largest on the planet. I remember learning that it takes 20 people holding hands to encircle the trunk. I was in awe of its size.
But now I was living in Inverness, surrounded by huge fir and oak trees, not to mention the lone redwood on my property. I had become their guardians—tending to them when they were sick, making sure they were pruned properly and always being aware of their girth and height. Of course, there was also the fear factor, which kicked in whenever there were raging rain and windstorms. I heard tales from neighbors who had lived in West Marin for many years, including one especially chilling incident of a tree falling through the roof of a home while its two residents were seated at opposite ends of the couch. The tree crashed down onto the couch between them, but fortunately they were not touched.
Once, an arborist sent someone out to inoculate a huge oak that grows in the front of my property against sudden oak disease. It was a bit like being at the pediatrician’s office, with an ungainly child who held still and did not complain. So far, the vaccine is working. However, a year ago, in the middle of the night, one of this oak’s gigantic limbs, the size of an actual tree, fell toward my house, knocking out all the foliage and lighting in its wake, missing my roof by mere inches. A crane was required to move the limb. I have a picture of myself standing next to it, to suggest perspective. The image of a big game hunter with a fallen lion comes to mind. Now I have a few cables supporting some of the larger limbs. And there is a large wound where the fallen branch used to be.
The cadaver image has never left me, and when several of my oak trees succumbed to sudden oak disease, I was required to cut them down to prevent their falling on my house at a future time. One especially tall oak, who the arborist said was probably over 100 years old, required several cranes to bring it down. I felt like a murderer as I saw the bodies literally being torn limb by limb and then fed through a chipper until they emerged as sawdust and tiny bits of wood. Like a tree cremation.
Much new information about trees has emerged in past years that makes my cadaver response reality-based. Several books, such as “The Hidden Life of Trees,” cite scientific evidence that trees communicate with each other, underground as well as above ground. Underground, there is a huge network of fungi and roots that trees use to warn each other about dangers. Above ground, they send out scent warnings when predators such as bark-eating insects are present. When alerted, trees can change the taste of their bark and leaves to discourage these insects. Thorn trees in Africa, a favorite food of giraffes, warn other thorn trees with scent, and again they change their flavor for protection. Trees even provide friendship—an interesting term to be used by tree and forest experts—by providing nourishment to ailing trees of their own species via the underground root and fungi systems. Because of these connections, trees do better when they are planted near other trees of the same species. Trees, like people, do not usually thrive in isolation.
Currently, the cutting-edge information about other life forms who make contact with each other seems to be about plant communication. As we learn more and more about all living things, it’s becoming clear that people have underestimated other animals and insects, especially their intelligence and their ability to communicate, commonly known as language. And many of us, including me, who used to scoff at people who talked or even sang to their plants, no longer roll their eyes. Hopefully, respect for all life forms will grow as we learn more.
Ellen Shehadeh is a writer who lives in
Inverness.