The Giant Among Us

I’ve worshipped this magnificent tree since I’ve been at the cabin. It’s a huge ponderosa, tall and wide enough that it would take two people to encircle it with their arms. This giant pine grows by the creek, partly obscured by a thicket of other ponderosas that are dwarfed by the big one.

A few years ago a young couple bought the cabin and property that holds this tree and celebrated their marriage by carving a huge heart into the bark and tying a massive white ribbon around it. At the time I worried that they had done damage to this elder of the forest but also upset that they had treated this ancient being with such disrespect.

But the tree has survived, just like it has endured hundreds of years of storms, strong winds, droughts and fires. My neighbor who now owns the property recently found that the tree is likely 450 years old. Ponderosas can live for 600 years, but most are much younger—around 200, so this one is ancient.

This venerable ponderosa humbles me because I realize that this tree has more claim to this land than me. I’ve only “owned” this third of an acre for 15 years. In the tree’s more than four centuries of life, rivers have changed course in this valley and uncountable numbers of wildlife have passed through—herds of buffalo, elk and deer plus smaller animals like coyotes, wolves and foxes.

It may have stood alone for decades before its seeds birthed other pines, which helped create this forest. Hundreds of generations of birds would have built nests in its branches. An occasional group of native people may have passed through—also finding a haven under its arms and by the creek, under the imposing presence of Mount Meeker.

It was only 100 years ago when white humans started establishing themselves in this valley: cutting down trees to build houses and barns, establishing roads, digging ditches and raising farm animals, including cattle and horses. Somehow this tree was left alone while humans busied themselves with civilizing what was once wilderness.

While this tree was just sinking its roots into the earth in the mid-1500s, across the ocean, civilization was progressing in fits and starts: Leonardo da Vinci was impressing kings and queens with his inventions and creations; Shakespeare was drawing audiences to his plays; Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded; and astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus was riling up people with the radical suggestion that the earth moves around the sun.

Yet even though this tree has endured a lot, it will likely be the last of its kind. Due to warming temperatures, logging, wildfires and insect infestation, the tall ones are becoming rarer. At a watershed workshop last summer held not far from my cabin, a forester said that when these old trees die, they are not being replaced because it’s becoming too hot and dry for younger ones to thrive. To escape these hostile conditions, the ponderosa species is moving higher up the mountains or farther north where it’s cooler and wetter. As the trees disappear, we’ll start seeing more grasslands.

By tree standards, the ponderosas’ lifetimes don’t necessarily measure up to other species. The California redwoods can live to over 2,000 years, and higher up in the mountains here in Colorado the bristlecone pines can be 1,000 years old, growing at a rate of 1 inch a year while clinging low to the mountainside to avoid strong winds.

But having this ponderosa pine so close is a visible sign that the human presence is short compared to not just this tree but others around me. It forces me to imagine what this place looked like before humans—before me. It reminds me that my place in the world, and other humans, is small and that this tree will likely outlive me and will oversee a world that I can’t even envision.

The world has changed a lot in its 450 years, and yet this ancient tree goes on, still providing shelter for all the creatures—birds, squirrels and humans like me. In a world that’s becoming constantly faster, I’m in awe of something that measures time in decades not minutes, a gentle reminder to slow myself down, to be patient and to endure anything and everything. I bow to its wisdom and perseverance.

Comments

[Pattie Logan]

Practically miraculous to have that tree survive all this time! How wonderful that you share the neighborhood with it and recognize who it is and all it has seen and known. I wish we could talk to trees. Since we can't, I spend time under their canopies (one big, old, narrow-leaf cottonwood, especially) and soak in their presence and wisdom. What a gift to have that beautiful giant in your life. Thanks for sharing!

[SusanR]

What a magnificent tree. It saddens me to think of all the old growth forest we're losing in this country, both to the timber industry and to environmental changes. How lucky you are still have this old sentinel nearby. Give him a pat once in a while and wish him well.

[Pattie Logan]

P.S. Do you have an estimate on size -- how big around and tall?

[Kathy Kaiser]

Pattie, it's wonderful that you have a relationship with a big cottonwood. I think we can communicate with trees, but it's subtle for sure. I often feel like I'm absorbing their peace.
I don't know the size of "my" pine. I'm not good at estimating height, although I could measure the diameter of the tree. I'll try that.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Susan, I am very lucky to have that tree. I'll say hi from you.