A good friend who lived at the top of the hill behind my place passed away this summer. Her name was Fagus, a Latin name I believe. 

I’m guessing that Fagus was close to 100 years old. I can’t be certain because I never counted her growth rings.

Yes, my friend Fagus was a tree. Fagus Grandifolia is the official name for North American beech, those heavily crowned forest sentinels with smooth bluish-grey bark and saw-tooth leaves.

I don’t know what killed her. It was likely beech bark disease, which has become a grim reaper in Ontario’s beech stands. The disease is caused by the combination of a canker fungus and the beech bark beetle, an invasive bug from Europe.

Fagus had a short life, considering beeches can live for 200 or more years. But hers was a happy and productive life, spent giving and helping others.

It might seem odd to be writing an obituary about a tree. However, trees have lives similar to humans. Like us they are born from seed, grow through life stages of childhood, young adulthood, maturity and old age. Like us they have to fight off diseases and try to protect themselves from natural disasters.

They are a vital part of overall life on this planet, probably more so than we humans, and deserve recognition and respect. 

Fagus stood on the edge of a trail I use regularly. Whenever I walked up the hill I stopped and leaned against her trunk to catch my breath.

I often thought it would be nice to talk to Fagus, to hear her story and what changes she has seen over the last century. Some indigenous cultures believe that trees have spirits that talk and people can speak with them if they listen deeply and learn their language.

There is no solid evidence of that but scientists tell us that trees do communicate with each other through underground fungal networks. There is a growing pile of research that shows trees send water and nutrients to each other through underground networks that also carry warning signals about dangers such as disease and insect attacks.

I know little about talking to trees, but I have learned much about Fagus’ life just by observing her and her surroundings.

Fagus believed that even as a lone individual she had a critical role in sustaining the world around her. She gave of herself fully and her generosity was evident everywhere.

She regularly dropped high-protein nuts that gave bears, deer and some smaller critters the energy and strength they need to live in their harsh environments. 

She sheltered many birds in her dense foliage, protecting them from predators and killer storms. Birds, squirrels and chipmunks gave birth to their young in nests she allowed them to build in cavities created where branches were torn from her trunk by strong winds and heavy snows.

During her life Fagus took in about 48 pounds of carbon dioxide a year, or more than two tons over her 100 years. She released enough oxygen into the air for 10 people to inhale each year. 

It was all part of that miracle process called photosynthesis in which trees take in and store harmful carbons and give off helpful oxygen. Without photosynthesis there would be no plant life on earth, and therefore no human life.

Fagus dropped her leaves every autumn, fertilizing and protecting the soil around her. Her massive crown of leaves provided shade that helped to regulate temperature extremes.

Along with all her good work, Fagus also raised children who are the promise of a strong, healthy forest future. 

Even in death Fagus is not finished giving. Her wood could be used for plywood, pallets or even railroad ties. However, I’ll cut her wood into rounds, and split them for the woodstove because beech burns hot and slowly and is rated among the top firewoods.

I’m sad to see Fagus gone, but happy for the generosity of her life. Like humans she provided much good, but unlike humans she never did anything bad.

Thank you, Fagus. You were kind and generous, and beautiful to look at.

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The trees and me

Leaf budding is taking its time because of this spring’s chill. But slowly and surely new leaves are appearing, and soon those long views through a naked forest will be gone.

That’s a bit sad because walking a leafless forest with the snow gone is a fine experience. You see interesting details that are hidden at other times of the year.

From the hilltop far back in this bush I peer through skeletal trees and see the lake below, dancing sparkling blue in the spring breeze.

The humps and hollows of the land are all visible, and I can see almost the full length of the ravine being navigated by a doe and her yearling.  Mom is moving very cautiously, likely because she has picked up a hint of my scent.

Walking here tells me how the woods withstood winter’s ravages. Twigs litter the ground, snapped from trees and tossed about by stiff winter winds. Also, some larger, full branches have been brought down by stronger winds and heavy snows.

You get the feeling that all this is part of a natural culling of the weak to make the overall forest stronger, healthier.

Something similar is happening in our human population during this coronavirus pandemic. The old and the infirm are succumbing in greater numbers, but unlike with trees, the human culling weakens, not strengthens, our population.

There are a lot of older tree folks back here in this forest. Rugged silver birches with shaggy bark look like old men nearing the end of their time, but still hanging on to give shelter to birds and animals.

The most commanding sight in this leafless world are the granite ridges, solid Canadian Shield faces eight to nine metres high. In winter they are obscured by ice and snow. Soon the leaves on the oaks and maples will hide them completely from anyone nearby.

Today they are awe inspiring, dominating this piece of undressed forest but giving no hint of their past. The things they must have seen over thousands of years!

At the base of the rock face I see a splotch of color. It is the pale tan of dried and dead beech leaves that a young beech refused to drop last fall.

There are others not far off and that is a good sign. Beeches are terrific trees and I hope they all grow up to have long and fruitful lives.

Science has yet to figure out why all beeches don’t drop their leaves in autumn. There is no firm evidence of why, but much speculation.

One theory is that holding on to the leaves reduces water loss and provides a small amount of nutrients to the tree during winter and early spring.

Winter leaf retention, called marcescence (mar-ses-sense), is seen mainly on young beeches, or sometimes the very lowest branches of a larger beech. It is also seen sometimes on other species, notably oak and ironwood,

The retained dead leaves are pushed off by new buds that appear at this time of year.

Some people are bird watchers but I am a tree watcher. I find it interesting to follow their transitions through the seasons, standing stoically against extreme elements that often break their limbs, snap their backs or uproot their lives.

They are the one living species on earth whose sole purpose is to benefit other species. They feed and they shelter and give of themselves so others can be well and happy. As we all know, they absorb carbon dioxide and release oxygen, helping to save mankind from its own pollution.

It is important to watch trees and to learn from them. For instance, we are learning more about how trees affect human health.

A 2013 study reported in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine found that human deaths from cardiovascular and lower respiratory illnesses increased with the devastation of ash trees attacked by the invasive emerald ash borer.

The study found that the deaths of huge number of ash trees could be linked to an additional 21,000 deaths – an additional 24 deaths per 100,000 people every year. That is a 10-per-cent increase in mortality for those two diseases.

Naked or fully leaved, there is much more among the trees than meets the eye.

Among the oaks

There is no better place to sit and think than on one of the rocky outcrops offering entrancing views of the magnificent Haliburton landscape.

I am sitting on one now, staring down at the mysteries of forest life, and into a clearing where perhaps a doe and her fawn, or a meandering black bear, might appear.

This is a wonderfully intriguing place, but not just because of the chance to see wildlife. From my vantage point I get to study a small piece of nature and reflect on what a great teacher it is.

What fascinates me is how anything can grow on this hill of blue granite, created thousands of years ago from a surging of molten rock.

There is little plant life on this tabletop of hard rock. Yet somehow there are trees. Not just any trees, but regal red oaks standing strong and proud like monarchs overseeing their kingdoms.

Somehow these oaks made a home here. Over many decades, decaying vegetable matter carried by the winds gathered into crevices in the rock, eventually becoming soil. Acorns dropped by birds, squirrels or wind found their way into the soil-filled crevices and began the lives of the mighty oaks now here.

However, some of the oaks are mighty no longer because they are not standing. And that’s the reason that I am up here.

A couple of summers ago a wild, twisting wind roared into this forest, knocking down poplars and evergreens in the lower areas. Not content with wreaking damage down there, the wind turned and spun its way up and across this rocky hill.

The oaks are rooted tenuously on the rock, and sixteen of them were uprooted by the wind, which I believe was small tornado. It was sad to find them lying there, their only use now being winter firewood, to which I am entitled because I have legal deed to this forest although in fact I am only its temporary custodian.

Cutting firewood is satisfying, but tiring, work. So whenever I stop the chainsaw to take a rest I sit on the rock and think about this forest.

The similarities between human life and the lives of trees in this forest are fascinating.

The oaks have formed a colony on this rock tabletop because they are strong and conditioned for living in meagre conditions. Enough rain slides off the smooth rock surfaces into crevices to quench the roots’ thirst.

Below the hill, the fast-growing poplars have colonized the soft, rich soil areas. Some now are 80 to 100 feet high, threatening to block the sunlight needed by the oaks on the hill. Poplars, unlike the oaks, have a short life span and the tallest ones will have expired before they become a real threat to the oaks.

Two other interesting trees have gathered in preferred living areas of this forest. Young white pines, once the dominant tree species of this part of the country, are populating open areas featuring sandy soil conditions. Here their roots can spread easily and their needles can catch the sunlight and the open air that they love.

Farther off to my right and out of sight are the clean-cut, smooth-bark beeches. They occupy an east exposure hillside that bathes in the morning sun.

Not one beech is found on the far side of that hill. Why I am not sure. Perhaps they simply favour the morning sun over the evening sun. They seem to have found a place they like and have no intention of spreading farther.

These tree families are much like people families. There are times when change forces them to migrate. When they do, they pick places where they believe they can put down roots, have productive lives and raise future generations.

Looking down from this outcrop I can see patches of mixed forest. Areas where pines, poplars, oaks, maples and beeches are living together despite their different needs and preferences.

The human world also is well along the way to blending into a mixed forest of people.

When you sit staring out from a rocky outcrop, nature tells you that while there are many species of trees, and many different races of people, trees are still trees and people are still people, no matter what their differences.

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