Journaling in the Redwoods #1
Part 1 introduces a redwood forest in Mendocino CA. What does this forest reveal over time about relationships between all the species?
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I’m starting something new, journaling about one place over time and through the seasons. This is how we get to explore a site deeply. The location I’ve picked is a private redwood grove on the southern coast of Mendocino County, CA. I’ve been helping this forest with clean-up and hope to protect it against further destructive logging. There’s an old uninhabitable cabin, but no one lives here except the wildlife and a few thousand trees.
Meet the creatures who pass through this property, see how the seasons change it, and follow the stories that develop. I can’t tell what will happen here, but that’s part of the fun.
Mother E will also continue articles to raise awareness about our animal and plant friends and climate-related news. Enjoy!
Robin A.
FORESTS TICKLE THE SENSES. There’s something richly stimulating and deeply soothing in a natural forest. I’ll walk you through one of my favorite forest areas— a mixed redwood grove on private property a couple of miles from the Mendocino County coast as the raven flies.
I’m writing this at a picnic table under the shade of a ring of young redwood trees I call “The Sisters.” The wooden table is set in a spot where the forest turns into a meadow. I like the contrast of shade and sun, green roof canopy, and open blue sky.
The breezes are cool, even on a July afternoon. They’re scented with piney, buttery fir smells from trees soaking in the sun, overlaid with loamy earth. If I had the nose of a canine or a bear, I’m sure a hundred other scents would be revealed to me.
Small birds flit through the forest. After an hour, I hear at least ten different bird voices: squawks of the Steller’s Jay, small peep-peeps and pulsing chirping of unseen birds in the understory, sparrows, and a raucous raven call. I remind myself to get the Merlin app for my phone, so I can meet the unknown birds vocalizing here.
I like to know the names of who’s around me because then I feel like I’m out there saying hello to my neighbors. Knowing more about individual elements in the landscape can also help you understand how they work together as a whole ecosystem, and you can start to notice emergent properties arise.
An emergent property is one which arises through the complex interactions of individuals in an ecosystem, but one that no individual has alone. This is one of my favorite things to think about—what properties emerge as we act in community?
Emily Harwitz, Save the Redwoods League
Periodically, the haunting song of a migrating Hermit thrush floats through the forest, and I eagerly wait for the next song to come. I can follow the thrush’s progress as it moves around. Its singing is just as beautiful as the fabled nightingale. A Red-tailed hawk soars over the meadow, calling with a shrill hunting skreeee that would scare me if I were a rodent hidden in the grass.
Overlaid onto this bird soundtrack is the soft hush of the breeze as it slides through the tree branches in a subtle symphony of faster crescendo and slower adagio. Air has a voice and rhythm, too, it seems. Its physicality is seen as it causes branches to stir and wildflower heads to nod. The breeze is causing close tree trunks to rub together occasionally with loud creaking noises as if the trees were adding their deep voices.
As I walk through the dappled shadows into the denser part of the forest, shafts of light penetrate through the tall trees, lighting up small groups of floating insects hovering in the light beams. Their presence gives the air a three-dimensional quality as they dart and circle. I wonder, are they hunting something even smaller and unseen to me?
Tiny spiders to old-growth stumps
A tiny critter appears suspended in the air. I’m puzzled; how can it be both airborne and stationary? Then I see the fine strand of shimmering spider web that dropped from the lacy redwood branch above. A movement of air takes the spider on a swinging ride, and it quickly climbs back up.
The forest here is mixed, mostly second-growth (logged before) coastal redwoods (Sequoia sempervirens) and alders near the creek, but shifting to Doug fir, redwood, and Bishop pine (Pinus muricata) in the higher places. About fifty inches of rain falls here yearly, as well as drifts of frequent fogs, so even in mid-summer the ground is covered with greenery. Bracken fern, Western sword fern, salal, and pink-tipped huckleberry bushes grow in abundance.
Moss covers giant redwood stumps from old-growth cuts over a hundred years ago. I try to imagine how tall and imposing those trees must have been— maybe two hundred feet high if the stumps are seven feet wide? Those thousand-year-old giants are missing from most of the landscape, but protecting this forest from logging can give them a chance to grow back.
The summertime forest today feels like it’s pulsing with life. Sprawling wild blackberry vines carpet the ground, occasionally dotted with small buttons of red or dark berries, which I will leave for the birds. Maybe the price of their song is leaving the berries. Sometimes when I walk around, the vines catch at my feet as if to say, “slow down.”
As I explore, the craggy bark of the Bishop pine draws me in for a closer look. Spider webs as fine as silk stretch across the handspan-deep cracks of the bark. A splat of light-green lichen grows inside the trunk’s crevasse.
What stories are happening here?
Like other wild places, this place has its own stories if we observe closely. There was the black bear who passed through here in late March, leaving behind a dark pile of scat that revealed a meager diet of plants such as sedges as the bear waited for the richer berries to ripen. Hunger and adaptability were part of that story.
Then there are the various animal tracks I see at the muddy spring. One of the large tracks looks like it might be a mountain lion, perhaps lying in wait for a deer coming to drink. Predator, prey, and the need for water are part of that story.
There’s also the human story, starting with indigenous people who skillfully cultivated this forest for food sources, followed by settlers who saw the giant redwood trees as a “free” resource and a way to earn money by felling them. They forgot to think of the people and animals who came after them—who never got to experience those grand groves that spanned millennia and the plant and animal lives they supported. If we have learned anything about the recent past, it’s that we need to consider what we are leaving for all the ones who come next, both human and wild.
One of our greatest challenges this decade is saving the forests of the world from further degradation. We might want to consider--what does it look like to have a true partnership with the trees and forests?
As the sun sinks in the sky, I become aware of the passage of time. A veil of fog drifts in from the west. I’m feeling tranquil and deeply grateful for the presence of forests.
Research shows time spent in nature boosts us physically as well as cognitively and emotionally. I can vouch for that, as I came to this grove today feeling burdened, but I’m leaving with the gift of lightness and peace. That’s priceless.
Robin Applegarth
I like to hear from readers. How does nature affect you? Do you have a special place that gives you strength? You can comment at the button above, or reach me privately by responding to this email. I can also be reached on Twitter @RobinApplegarth
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Love your writing Robin! I feel like you are speaking to me and I was just about to mention the Merlin app when you mentioned it in your blog. Great work!
Thank you for all you do for this forest and others, Robin— including writing so beautifully about nature and the need to preserve it. We all are so proud to call you our Sister! And we eagerly await the next installment of Mother E.