THE REDWOOD REMEMBERS

THE REDWOOD REMEMBERS

He was the oldest tree in the forest. Standing high above the other giant redwoods that surrounded him. The others called him Methusala, a name almost as old as the tree itself.

Over the years, the tree had fathered hundreds if not thousands of seeds that grew into saplings, that grew into mature trees, that grew into giants in the forest. He was wise, wise beyond years. Wisdom was the sap that ran in his veins. His strength was beyond measure and he had withstood heat, rain, gale-force winds, and even a tornado or two.

He had outlived many of his children, those who had withered through disease, fire, and those who had fallen under the axe.

He had protected a myriad of feathered friends in his branches over the centuries; his verdant greenery acted like a canopy over them. His gnarled bark had been the home to many a squirrel. The base of his spine held roomy homes for rabbits and other furry creatures while underground caverns between his roots were home to a host of crawling insects.

During the storms that frequented the area, he would call out to his family, telling them to hold tight, make sure that their roots clung to the soil far below. He would tell them to wrap their roots deep in the underground. To the young he would teach them how to lean into the wind, and when to sway. Each storm, however, would leave some of the young ones strewn throughout the forest. How he would mourn their loss. Young ones, cut down in their prime. Gone … before their lives had even barely begun.

But such was their fate.

He knew each tree in the forest, he knew their name, their age, and he had watched as each branch had developed, each leaf that had budded was his celebration as well as their own. He knew them by name and counted them as family, counting them his own.

He remembered when men, women and children and their painted ponies had erected tents nearby. He could hear their chanting, see their fires. He instinctively knew the respect they held for the forest and the land. He overheard their prayers as they gave thanks to the animals that nourished their families. They dressed in buckskins, their young held in cradleboards strapped to their backs. He saw how every part of the animals taken were used so that each animal was valued for the life they had given. He heard them reverently whisper the name Sequoia, and watched them dip their heads in respect when they passed by. Sequoia, the name of strength, heritage and longevity.

Many years passed and those with the painted ponies moved on, perhaps to different woodlands, he knew not where.

Time passed, sometimes slowly like the snails that moved on the ground at his base and sometimes quickly like the wind when it whistled loudly through the forest.

He remembered when men, women and children had exited their brightly coloured vans and danced around. They too had long hair like their predecessors, they wore bright beads and colourful clothing. They too built camp fires, but he could smell an odd smell coming from their campfires. He heard words of peace, love, freedom and harmony.

He knew he looked good for his age. Over the recent years thousands had come with their cameras to capture his height and his girth. Many had come and joined hands, circling together around him.

He had watched as men came with their brightly checkered shirts and logging machines and cut down many of his family members. His tears had fallen like those of the weeping willow.

Finally the day came when many men with yellow hats came and surrounded him, their saws and axes in hand. But before their axes could break his bark, a man with a white hat came by and shook his head and pointed in another direction. The men departed, and the man in the white hat came closer. He stood silently for several minutes, then raised his hand and placed it reverently on the bark. It was shortly after that that the chain and sign were placed around the tree. He lived, but many of his family had fallen during that dark time.

Still later, some men had come and had encircled his base with a silver-chained fence and erected a large metal sign as well in acknowledgement of his many birthdays. After they had left he had read the sign only to chuckle to himself for their guess of his estimated age was off by a considerable amount. He was much older than they ever imagined.

He had survived many wildfires in his area. Even the megafires that had wiped out generations of nearby forests had not harmed him. A deluge of unexpected rain from the creator above had saved his nearest family.

But lately he hadn’t been feeling quite like himself. The days were hotter, much hotter than what he was used to. Then there were the droughts, days and days of no rain, then weeks and weeks with no rain. There were times when he would have given anything for just a few precious drops of rain on his leaves. It didn’t seem to affect the English Ivy that had crept into the Redwood forest. He could see how this invasive species was weakening his family members. One by one they struggled just to exist as little by little the invasive plant wrapped itself around the huge giants and slowly sucked the life out of his kin.

The wind wiped through the redwood forest and he took the opportunity to reach out with his branches and scratch his bark. He could feel an intruder moving within him, could feel them creeping under his bark, leaving long running trails through the fibres on his branches. The itch could not be ignored, but worse than that, the tiny Bark Beetles sapped his very strength, leaving him as weak as a tender sapling. He could no longer put off the knowledge that his time and days were numbered. Perhaps one foe at a time he could have fought off, but the double attack of climate change, invasive plants and insects had left him in a weakened state and the tiniest of rivals, tunneling under his flesh, had finally felled him. He who had withstood the tests of time, both natural and manmade was about to succumb to the lowliest of nature, the insect.