Deep in the Nantahala National Forest, due west of
Robbinsville, resides a forest that is special and ancient. In fact it is special, because it is
ancient. In the U.S. when we think of “old
growth forests” we envision forests of giant redwoods and sequoias on the West
Coast, forests that have not been severely disturbed in hundreds, even thousands
of years. We do not think of
forests on the East Coast, largely because so few old growth forests are left
on this side of the North American continent.
However, in the Nantahala National Forest, a few pockets of old growth
forest remain, and among these “pockets” is Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest.
I have been to Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest twice in my
life, my visits separated by a decade respectively. On both visits I remember feeling transported
to a different world. Indeed very few
experiences can be equated to walking through an old growth forest. It most closely resembles walking through a
cathedral without the dust and stale recycled holy air. It should be no surprise to anyone, thus, why
and how Gaudi was inspired by forests and trees when he built La Sagrada
Familia. Birds passing through the forest sing, their echoes weaving in and out
of large tree trunks the size of small cars.
Stately trunk pillars hold up the sky and sunlight filtering through the
trunks set aglow the wings of small insects that dance in between the
shadows. Underfoot is a carpet of
greenery composed of hundreds of species of wildflowers, mosses, and ferns. Very little life occupies the space between
ground and towering ancient poplar trees, save a few understory trees scattered
about. It is this latter feature that makes
the old growth forests of Joyce Kilmer so different from many other forests on the
East Coast. Most younger forests are
thick with vegetation in the shrub and understory layers, so thick in fact that
often small native forbs and wildflowers have a difficult time establishing for
lack of sunlight reaching the forest floor.
The composition and structure of most younger forests are the result of
invasion by non-native species, by fire suppression, or both. Because of these factors, increasingly we
live in a world, where forests are looking more the same than different. However, in Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest we
can at least get a glimpse of the past, what forests used to be, how they
sounded and felt, how they inspired cathedrals, how they spoke to the
existence of something or someone greater than ourselves.
In light of recent news about the wildfires in Australia, I
find myself reflecting on my walks through Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest. Right
now wildfires are consuming pockets of ancient Gondwana Rainforest, forests
that once burned, we will never get back for thousands of years, if ever. My heart breaks for the species that will be
lost in these fires. My heart also breaks
for each individual life lost, little and large, from the small unassuming
insect to the largest ancient tree, who knew of her death days before the fires
reached her canopy and waited nobly for her end via flaming scythe. If only breaking hearts could stop
fires. The fires rage on, and scientists
scorn the Australian government, saying “I told you so.” Climate change has made the droughts more
severe, and the fire season too. “We
warned you about this,” they say. “This
is why we have to address climate change, to arrest the warming, reduce the
risk of burning.” And yet here we are.
As sad as it is, the koalas suffering in these fires may be one of our greatest
hopes for the future. Videos of koalas
affected by the fires have broken many hearts, at least the YouTube views and
comments tell me so. Koalas may be our
new poster child for climate change and wildfires, as polar bears have been for
climate change and melting ice caps. What a great cost for a poster child. Yet now with a face to the devastation, maybe
we will pay attention, maybe we will care?
Maybe koalas will help us save our forests, ancient and new, from severe
destructive fires in our future. We can
only hope that we will now be a better version of ourselves, if not for the
ancient trees of old growth forests that support hundreds of little lives, then
maybe for the koalas.
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| Courtesy of Nathan Edwards/Getty Images |
Each day of the Australian wildfires makes me ache for a
walk in Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest. I
want to visit, like I want to visit an old homestead that I know will be bulldozed
tomorrow. I want to see it one last time
before the wildfires come, as I fear they may one day. And yet I also want to
visit that special and ancient pocket of forest like I want to visit a
grandmother… to be reassured that life is older than humans and will persist
with or without us. I am comforted knowing
that we are outlived on this planet by the trees. And I have hope, the kind of hope that can only
come from a broken place, that we will be better and that our koala friends
will help us find our better existence.
