Part 3

The glory of our western forests, however, are the sequoias, those gigantic trees of California that have become widely famous. The two sequoias, the big tree of the Sierra Nevada and the redwood of the Pacific coast, constitute the last remnants of a mighty race that covered vast areas in North America and Europe in past geological ages. It is believed that their days are almost over, for the big tree groves are few in number and small in extent, and even these are falling rapidly under the ax and saw. Nor does this species appear to reproduce itself easily; for, although numberless seeds fall from the old trees, they rarely sprout, and therefore are slow to replace what has been taken away. The redwoods, too, are threatened with extinction, though they still cover considerable tracts along the northern half of the California coast. They are coveted even more than the big trees and are disappearing with a rapidity that only modern industry has made possible.

Fortunately the redwood possesses two gifts of inestimable value that will prolong, but cannot perpetuate, its existence. The unusual amount of moisture in its wood and the absence of pitch in the sap lessen the danger from fire; while the same remarkable trait that we noticed in the pitch pine, otherwise very rare in coniferous trees, of sprouting from dormant buds at the edge of the stump will replace, for a time at least, many of the giants that are taken away.

The general appearance or type of the sequoias resembles that of the cypresses and cedars. The bald cypress is their nearest relative. The big tree often has the same spreading base, and both have the fluted, shreddy bark, traits that may also be noticed in the common white cedar and in arbor-vitæ. The diameter of the trunk of the big tree is strikingly large even for its wonderful height. Both trees lift their crowns rather high, and have comparatively short boughs, with dense, bushy, somewhat straggly-looking foliage. In its youthful stage the foliage of the redwood, like its congener’s, has a bluish tinge, which with advancing years turns to a dark and somber green that contrasts strangely with the red color of the thick, spongy bark. But the individuality of both trees, especially that of the big tree, is so impressive and magnificent that all these minor essences become involved in the majesty of the whole. The mighty bole rises in splendid proportions to where the distant fronds hang loosely down, disappearing within their somber shadows, but still carrying upward the masses of foliage, as if striving to reach the very clouds. As we view their stately and incomparable forms, so masterly wrought, so unapproachable in their magnificence, we need hardly be told that these trees are strangers from a distant and forgotten age.

Much has been said and written concerning the sizes and ages of these two largest trees of America—indeed, with the exception of the Australian eucalipti, we might say of the world. It is said that some of the latter surpass the redwood in height, though a redwood tree was discovered within recent years on the Eel River, California, whose stupendous height reached nearly three hundred and fifty feet, thus surpassing in that dimension, at least, any previously recorded measurements of the big tree. The ages of the sequoias have been more difficult to determine, but it appears that in the beginning they were exaggerated. The mature redwood, doubtless, is apt to be several centuries younger than the big tree; but so excellent an authority as Mr. John Muir has said of the latter that “these giants under the most favorable conditions probably live five thousand years or more, though few of even the larger trees are more than half as old.”

The redwoods are great lovers of moisture. In the valleys and canyons near the ocean they bathe in the ascending fog and stand dripping with condensed vapor. We shall come upon them in dense groves, where the day is a continuous twilight and the trees surpass in their combined massiveness even the red firs of Oregon. At other times we shall find them mingling in more open forest with lowland firs and hemlocks, or, in their northern range, with the splendid Port Orford cedar. The light enters these more open forests and calls forth much beautiful young growth and shrubbery: the rhododendrons of California, with large and showy purplish blossoms and evergreen leaves; western dogwoods, that might at first glance be mistaken for the eastern species; barberries and familiar hazels; and ferns and violets.

The reader must not infer, of course, that such scenes are necessarily of common occurrence in the forest; but they are more agreeable to contemplate than those that have been despoiled of their attractions. It should be remembered that if we traveled through these forests we should often find fresh signs of human interference: sections of trees lying prone on the ground, abandoned as useless by the lumberman; stripped crowns that stood in the way of falling trunks, and debris of bark and slashings. We should also notice the track of the forest fire among the stumps and charred treetrunks, and here and there the dying tops of standing trees that were unable to withstand the flames. Finally, in dry and semi-arid regions, particularly in sections of the Southwest, we should notice still another danger that threatens our forests: the excessive or ill-timed grazing of sheep, which trample to death the young tree seedlings as they pass over the ground in great herds and devour the last vestiges of vegetation, thus leaving a bare and dry forest floor, upon which the old trees subsist with difficulty through the prolonged droughts of summer.

II

FOREST ADORNMENT

Though there can be no forest without trees, it may be asserted with equal truth that trees alone would make but an incomplete forest.[5] Under the old trees we find the young saplings that are in future years to replace them and in their turn are to form a new canopy of shade. In their company is a vast variety of shrubs, ferns, and delicate grasses and flowers that decorate the forest floor. Vines and creepers gather about the old trees and clamber up their furrowed trunks. In autumn the ground is strewed with fallen leaves, motionless or hurrying along before the wind. These gather into deep beds, soft to the tread, and at last molder away in the moist, rich earth. In the needle-bearing forests of the mountains brilliant green mosses replace the shrubs and flowers and deck the bare brown earth.

There are _lifeless_ sources of beauty in the woods, too, that are not easy to pass by unnoticed: rocks with interesting forms and surfaces; forms that are lifeless, yet take on distinct expression by their different modes of cleavage, and surfaces that drape themselves in the choicest paraphernalia of drooping moss and rare lichen; prattling mountain streams; cascades; and glassy pools. These are “inanimate” things with a kind of life in them, after all.

Lastly, there are the true owners of the forest: the bird that hovers round its borders; the free, chattering squirrel; the casual butterfly that leads us to the flowers; and the large game that inhabits the hidden recesses and adds an element of wildness and strange attraction to these quiet haunts.

All this wealth of detail gives life to the forest. The shrubs, above the rest, should here interest us somewhat more minutely. They are often the most conspicuous objects in the embellishment of the forest; and since our investigation was to be guided to some extent by considerations of usefulness, it ought to be added that shrubs not infrequently exercise a beneficial influence on the vigor and well-being of the trees themselves. Trees, shrubs, and certain of the smaller plants—so long as their root systems are not too dense and intricate—are of value on account of their ameliorative effects on temperature and moisture. This is more important in this country, so extreme in its climatic variations, than in northern Europe. In the dry and parching days of summer the shrubbery of the woods, by its shade, helps to keep the earth cool and moist. This mantle of the earth, moreover, conducts the rain more gradually to the soil, exercising an efficient economy. In the fall and winter the shrubs, which are densest near the forest border, help to break the force of the sweeping winds which might otherwise carry away the fallen leaves, so useful in their turn because they are conservators and regulators of moisture and contain valuable chemical constituents which they return to the soil.

The pine barrens of New Jersey illustrate these principles. In close proximity to the sea a welcome moisture enters the forest with the ocean breezes. Penetrating farther inland, it is not so entirely dissipated as to preclude a varied undergrowth of shrubbery, which in turn renders a welcome aid to the forest by the protection it affords to the porous, sandy soil, which would soon dry out under the scant shelter of the pervious pines. Underneath these the kalmia or calico bush, with its large and showy bunches of flowers, is abundant. In late summer the sweet pepperbush is there, laden with its fragrant racemes; in winter, the cheerful evergreen holly of glossy green leaf and bright berry. In the dry and sunny places we find the wild rose, the trailing blackberry, with its rich color traceries on the autumn leaves, and the no less brilliant leaves of the wild strawberries underfoot. We come upon the creeping wintergreen and the local “flowering moss.” The fragrant “trailing arbutus,” here as elsewhere, is an earnest of the generous returning spring. Along the creeks and brooks are masses of honeysuckles, alder bushes, and sweet magnolias.

The coniferous forests of the Rocky Mountain region are either too dry or too elevated to promote a luxuriant undergrowth; but we find it in the humid coast region of Oregon and Washington, within the forests of fir, pine, and spruce. In the deciduous forests, however, the shrubbery attains its best development, for its presence depends largely upon moisture, climate, and soil, and these conditions are usually most favorable in our broadleaf districts. In the latter, moreover, the shrubbery exercises its influence most efficiently, for many of the pines will bear a considerable amount of heat and drought, and several other conifers show their independence and a different kind of hardihood at high and humid elevations. The varied and beautiful forms of undergrowth in our broadleaf forests—the shrubs, the vines and graceful large ferns, and the smaller plants that live along the forest borders and penetrate within—may be regarded as one of the distinctive features of American forest scenery.

In such forests, and along their borders, the birds like to make their home. Among the bushy thickets they find a secure shelter, and some of them seek their food among the fruits and berries that grow there. They all possess their individual charms, and infuse such varied elements of life and cheer into the woods that even the most commonplace scenes are transmuted by their presence, while those that were already beautiful receive an added attraction. In winter there is nothing more harmonious than a flock of snowbirds flying over frosted evergreens toward some soft gray mist or cloud. For grace and ease of movement I have never seen anything more airy than the Canada jay alighting on some near bough, softly as a snowflake, to watch and wait for the scraps of the forester’s meal. Another interesting bird to watch in his movements is the red-winged blackbird. Out along the edges of the forest and in the swamps and marshes lying between bits of woodland, he may be seen from earliest spring to the last days of fall.[6] We cannot help watching him passing restlessly to and fro by himself, or circling happily about in the flock, returning at last to his clumps of alders and willows, or disappearing among the hazy reeds and grasses. But if, instead of grace and movement, we are more interested in sound, we shall find no songbird with sweeter notes than the thrush. Whatever added name he may bear, we are sure of a fine quality of music; music with modulating notes, plaintive and clear, that drive away all harshness of thought.

Let us again consider the undergrowth in the forest. Where shrubs and tender growths abound the wintry season cannot be desolate or dreary. When the display of summer is over they attract the eye by their bright fruits and their habits of growth. Their branchlets are often strikingly pretty in color and well set off against the snow. Their intricate traceries of twig and stem are an interesting study. The copses of brown hazels that spread along the mountain side and the dusky alders or yellow-tinted willows are in perfect harmony with this season of the year.

It is by crowding into masses that our shrubs of brighter blossom produce some of the most superb effects of spring. A multitude of rhododendrons or great laurels covers some mountain side, carrying its drifts of pale rose far back into the woods. A mass of redbuds and flowering dogwoods, the former again rose-colored, the latter a creamy white, pours out from the forest’s edge among ledges of rock and low hills. The wild plums and thorns, with their delicate flowers, are beautiful in the same manner, and in addition have a pretty habit of straying out and away from the woods, much like the red juniper.

Our shrubs are no less beautiful in their separate parts than they are magnificent in their united profusion. The common sweet magnolia is especially well favored. Its elegantly elliptical leaf, with smooth surfaces, glossy and dark green above, silken and silvery below, is one of the most attractive to be found. Its flower cannot help being beautiful, for beauty is the heritage of all the magnolias. Often, however, half the pure ivory cups lie hidden in the leaves, to surprise us on a closer approach with their beauty and sweet fragrance. Altogether this favored shrub is one of the most exquisite objects of decoration, whether in the swamp, along brooksides, or through the damp places of the forest.

The hawthorns, which, like the sweet magnolia, occur both as trees and as shrubs, combine varied forms of attractiveness, such as compound flowers of white or pinkish hue; sharply edged, elegantly pointed leaves; bright berries; and closely interwoven branchlets stuck about with thorns. The redbud, which I have already mentioned, holds its little bunches of flowers so lightly that they look as if they had been carried there by the wind and had caught along the twigs and branches. Very different from these, yet no less interesting in its way, is the staghorn sumach, which is of erratic growth and bears stately pyramids of velvety flowers of a dark crimson-maroon. There is a fine contrast, too, where the serviceberry, with early delicate white blossoms, blooms among the evergreens and the opening leaves of spring.

Another word about the West. The undergrowth of the northerly portion of the Pacific coast region has already been referred to; but there extends throughout the Southwest, penetrating also northward and eastward, another kind of forest growth that is so distinct in character from all others that it should be specially described. It is, in fact, quite opposite in its nature to the shrubbery of the more humid forest regions in that it shows a tendency to seek the arid, open, sunny slopes, where it forms a scrubby, though interesting, and varied cover to the rough granite boulders and loose, gravelly soils. This growth is everywhere conveniently known as “chaparral,” whether it be the low, even-colored brush on the higher mountains or the dense, scraggy, promiscuous, and impenetrable thicket of the foothills and lower and gentler slopes.

The impression which the chaparral makes depends largely upon the distance at which it is viewed. If we stand in the midst of a dense patch of it we see of how many elements it is composed; how the shrubs of different size, shape, and character crowd each other into a tangle of branches, some not reaching above the waist, others closing in overhead. The ceanothus, with its dull, dark-green foliage and bunches of small white flowers, which appear in June, stands beside the stout-stemmed, knotty, twisted manzanita, with its strikingly reddish-brown bark and sticky, orbicular, olive-colored leaves. Among smaller shrubs we find the aromatic sage brush, of a light-gray, soft appearance, and the richer, darker, small-leaved grease-wood, or chemisal, as it is more commonly called farther north, with its small, white-petaled flowers enclosing a greenish-yellow center. Very plentifully scattered among all these we usually find the scrubby forms of the canyon live oak and the California black oak. Here and there we may see a large golden-flowered mallow, or the queenly yucca raising its fine pyramid of cream-colored flowers out of the dense mass.

The far view is quite different. Distance smoothes the surface and somewhat obliterates the colors, though we may still distinguish a variegated appearance. The eye takes in the larger outlines and the scattered pines that sometimes occur within the chaparral. Nor is the latter, as we now perceive, always a dense growth, but may be separated here and there. Indeed, it is often most interesting when interrupted by large granite boulders and jumbles of rocks, with the clean gray shade of which it forms a fine contrast on a clear morning.

If we look still farther up toward some higher slopes, miles away, we shall see only a uniform and continuous stretch of low brush that appears at that great distance hardly otherwise than a green pasture clothing the barren mountain. As we walk toward it the bluish-green changes to a bronze-green, and then suddenly we recognize the broad sweep of chemisal, with a few scattered scrubby oaks and mountain mahogany in between.

In the account of forest embellishment should be included those humblest plants, the liverworts and mosses and the lichens that so beautifully stain the rocks and color the stems of trees. A close study of all their delicate and tender characters, both of form and color, is always a revelation. Among these lowlier plants it is no uncommon sight in the depth of winter to see a field of fern sending a thousand elegant sprays through the light snow-covering; or half a dozen kinds of mosses, all of different green, but every one pure and brilliant, gleaming in the shadow of some dripping rock. Between the rock and its ice cap, covered by the latter but not concealed from view, there is a fine collection of the most delicate little liverworts and grasses, herbs with tender leaves, and even flowers, it may be, on some earthy speck where the sun has melted the ice—all as if held in cold crystal.

A word also remains to be said about the vines and creepers. As far north as Pennsylvania, and even to the States bordering the Great Lakes, these clambering plants are a conspicuous element in the forest. Virginia creeper, clematis, the hairy-looking poison oak, and the wild grape, are among those that are most familiar. In the woods of the lower Mississippi Valley the wild grapevines often make a strange tangle among the old and twisted trees and hang in long festoons from the boughs. They are not uncommon in some of the northerly States, though less rank and exuberant in growth.

The common ivy is one of the most beautiful of all creepers. It makes a fine setting for the little wood flowers that peep from its leaves. I like it best, however, where it clings to some old oak or other tree and brings out the contrast between its own passiveness and weakness and the strength of the column that gives it support.

III

DISTRIBUTION OF AMERICAN FORESTS

The geographical distribution of trees has been referred to occasionally in the preceding chapters. This distribution, gradually accomplished during the progress of ages, has not been accidental; on the contrary, it has been due to natural causes, and arises out of the special needs and adaptations of each species. The geology of a region, which determines in many respects the character of the physical forces of both the earth and the air, is no small factor in the development of the forest. The character of the climate, the nature of the soil, the degree of moisture in the soil and in the atmosphere, the amount and intensity of the sunlight—in short, the various elements and natural forces that constitute the environment of a tree—are the all-important conditions of its life. On these it depends, and according to its own peculiar nature and its special needs, selects its natural home.

Yet the manner in which this selection is accomplished, though simple in theory, is complicated by many circumstances. Frost, fire, insects, and floods, by destroying the trees or their seeds, may retard the progress of the species. The wind may be unfavorable. The seeds hang upon the trees ready and ripe for germination, but a breeze comes along and carries them to a place where the conditions are ill adapted to their peculiar nature. The following year the wind is propitious and the little trees soon start into life. But presently the seeds of another tree, whose growth is by nature faster, are conveyed to the same spot, and the intruders outstrip the others in rapidity of growth and spread a canopy of foliage that screens the smaller trees from the life-giving sun and dooms them to destruction. Thus only a few of the numberless seeds that are produced each year live, and fewer still are able to maintain or extend the boundaries of the parent tree. Sometimes, too, the frugality or hardiness of a species may be the reason for its exclusive occupation of a certain locality, since other trees may find it impossible to live at high altitudes and on rocky ridges or to subsist upon rough, poor soil. Consequently we shall find some kinds of trees exclusive, gregarious only among themselves, while others mingle freely in the general concourse.

Through the persistency, therefore, of the vital forces of nature, through a suitable climate or situation, through the power of adaptation and the delicate adjustment of many details, the vast armies of trees, like migratory races, have at last accomplished their purpose and found their several homes; and to us the varied aspect of the forests, as we traverse the extended territory of our country, is in a manner explained. There are stretches of land over which the tree growth is dense and uniform; where the forest is given over, it may be, almost entirely to a single kind of tree. In other places the trees may join in varied luxuriance, young and old, familiar and strange, on some fertile, protected plain or well watered mountain side. In still other places they may be seen struggling up the steep slopes and maintaining a precarious existence on bleak, rocky ridges.

While the eastern portion of the United States is, generally speaking, the home of the broadleaf species, and the northern and western portions are similarly occupied by the coniferous forests, these areas may readily be subdivided into specified regions of distinct forest growth. The latter, however, cannot be accurately delimited, since the regions naturally penetrate into one another and overlap, on account of the manner in which forests have extended their bounds.