Long, long ago, before the 1970s, thousands of people would
make a springtime pilgrimage to the Catoctin woods of Maryland to enjoy the
flowering dogwood trees. Today, the
tourists no longer come, because 79 percent of the dogwoods are dead, and the
rest are dying. A mystery fungus created
a rapidly spreading blight, which penetrated the bark and blocked the flow of
water and nutrients. It killed new
dogwood seedlings. The experts were
puzzled. Could the trees have been
weakened by acid rain, smog, increased UV radiation, or a changing climate?
The dogwood die-off captured the attention of Maryland resident
Charles Little, a conservationist and writer.
It inspired him to spend three years visiting 13 states, observe dying
trees, interview experts, and read papers and reports. Then he wrote The Dying of the Trees. It was a heartbreaking project, because everything
he learned was grim, and worsening.
On one trip, he visited Hub Vogelmann, in the Green Mountains
of Vermont, a region downwind from the industrial Midwest. Three-quarters of the spruce trees were dead,
and there was no evidence of insects or disease. In tree ring studies, vanadium, arsenic, and barium
began appearing in the wood around 1920.
Following World War II, the wood also contained copper, lead, zinc, and
cadmium. Aluminum is commonly found in
forest soils, but acid rain breaks down aluminum silicates, enabling the metal
to be absorbed by plants. It kills the
roots. Vogelmann was sharply criticized
for suggesting that the problem was related to acid rain, an emerging issue by
1979.
Acid rain was killing forests in Germany and Eastern
Europe. It was killing the sugar maples
in New England, Ontario, and Quebec. In
the Appalachian region of Quebec, 91 percent of the maples were in decline by
1988. The rain was ten times more acidic
than normal. It was leaching the
phosphorus, potassium, and magnesium out of the soil — essential nutrients. In some places, the livers and kidneys of
moose and deer contained so much cadmium that the Canadian government issued
health warnings. In glaring defiance of
the evidence, the U.S. Forest Service reported that the maples were healthy and
improving.
Little visited Rock Creek, near Beckley, West Virginia. It was home to a remnant of the mesophytic
forest, bits of which are spread across several states. This ecosystem may be 100 million years
old. It was never submerged by rising
seas, or erased by glaciers. It was the
mother forest for the trees now living in eastern North America.
Sadly, mature trees at Rock Creek, in full foliage, were
falling over, their trunks hollowed out by rot.
Fungi, supercharged by excess nitrogen, were now able to penetrate the
bark. Trees were producing up to 80
percent fewer seeds. John Flynn was
among the pioneers in reporting the acid rain story to the national media. He was harshly criticized by both industry and
the U.S. Forest Service.
Once, on a visit to England, Little met an elderly sailor who
had visited Oregon as a young man. The
immense virgin forests had amazed him. Little did not tell the old fellow that those
ancient forests were mostly gone now, and that industry was eager to destroy
the ten percent that remained. It took
the Brits a thousand years to exterminate their ancient forest. Americans largely did it in one generation,
thanks to better technology and mass hysteria.
The vast white pine forests that once stretched from Maine to
Minnesota never recovered. Deciduous
trees took their place. Ancient forests
are not renewable resources. “In
clear-cutting such forests, then, we not only kill the trees that are cut, but
we annihilate the possibility of such trees for all time.” Forests are incredibly complex ecosystems,
and logging disrupts a state of balance that took eons to develop. Many wildlife species cannot survive on
cutover lands. A monoculture tree
plantation is not a forest, and is more vulnerable to cold, drought, pests, and
diseases.
Little visited Colorado, where many forests were brown and
dead. The original forest was exterminated
about 100 years ago. The second growth
that replaced it was a different mix of species, mostly shade-tolerant, which were
more vulnerable to spruce budworms.
These trees were densely packed together, thanks to a strategy of fire
suppression — promptly extinguishing every wildfire. The dense growth was attractive to budworms, which
weakened the trees. Then the bark
beetles were able to finish them off.
Dead forests loaded with fuel invite fire.
Native Americans controlled fuel buildup with periodic
low-level burns, but this is impossible today, because of the massive
accumulations of fuel. There is no undo
button for a century of mistakes. The
government cannot afford to thin overgrown forests and remove the excess fuel from
many millions of acres, so the stage is set for catastrophic fires. There will come a day when the cost and
availability of oil makes modern high-tech firefighting impossible.
Forests often die in slow motion. A speedy decline might take 25 years, and be
invisible to casual observers. Forest
death increased in the twentieth century, following the extermination of
ancient forests. It worsened after World
War II, as pollution levels increased. Climate
change is likely to cause additional harm.
A vital lesson in this book is to never automatically believe
anything. Master the art of critical
thinking, and always question authority.
Our culture is out of its mind, and many of its deeply held beliefs are bull
excrement. Each generation innocently
passes this load of excrement to the next, because it’s all they know.
Here’s my favorite passage: “A hand will be raised at the
back of the room. ‘But what can we do?’
the petitioner will ask. Do? What can we do?
What a question that is when we scarcely understand what we have already
done!”
In a series of stories, Little’s book informs readers that
industrial civilization and healthy forests do not mix. But it barely scratches the surface of the
harms caused by the logging industry, or the many other industries. When I proudly received my golden meal ticket
from the university, I was dumber than a box of rocks. I was well trained to spend the rest of my
days striving for respect and status by shopping the planet to pieces.
Today, as the clock is running out on industrial
civilization, it’s essential to better understand what we have already done. We won’t discover every fatal defect, because
our way of life is overloaded with them, but the ones that we can see are more
likely to be addressed. We are on a dead
end path. We would be wise to outgrow
our habits and illusions, and remember how to live.
Little recommends the obvious — sharply reverse population
growth, end the extermination of forests, plant billions of trees, and stop
industrial pollution. He cautions
readers that we’re well beyond the point where the damage can be repaired. Our task today is damage control — learning,
growing, teaching, and mindfully reducing the harm we cause each day. The book does not conclude with the
traditional slop bucket of magical thinking.
His straight talk is refreshing.
Little, Charles E., The
Dying of the Trees, Viking, New York, 1995.
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