If only breaking hearts could stop fires

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. 

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.