There is a famous saying that “if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”. I found myself struck by this phrase as I walked through the forested area of a nearby park. Or perhaps I realized that my own interpretation of “no one” was too limiting. After all, humans are by no means the only living beings with the ability to sense sound and respond to it.

But the tree I found myself in front of had certainly met its end within earshot of someone human. The tell-tale angular cut left on the ground, smooth top of the stump, and still fragrant sawdust was a testament to that. When I had worked as a theater technician in high school, my friends and I had jokingly referred to sawdust as “techie dandruff”, a natural side effect to hours spent cutting wood in the shop for set builds. But that day, a sight and smell that once held comfort left me feeling raw.

I found myself wondering so many things…

Why had this tree been cut down?

Though this tree had been standing as a sentinel of the forest for as long as I could remember, this was one of the few questions I pondered that I felt I might know an answer to. The now empty patch of canopy had been occupied by a tree with a very noticeable fungus – a northern red belt, according to posts on iNaturalist – and had for many years. In fact, that was the thing that often drew me and others to the tree. I remembered checking it regularly since the start of the pandemic to see if there was new growth.

Whether they had emerged recently or I just began to notice more, there were smaller fungus circling near the base. But the stump showed no signs of uprooting or storm damage, so perhaps there was some reason I didn’t know or understand. The splinters that now littered the path through the forest were spongy between my fingers, despite the recent lack of rain.

How long had it stood there?

After a few minutes of shocked silence, I realized I didn’t know much about this tree, despite having used it as a trail marker and a sense of place for over a decade. I had been so focused on one detail that I had missed so much more of it. I thought it was a conifer, maybe a Douglas Fir like so many around it, but had never taken the time to truly notice. Due to the underbrush, I couldn’t easily see the rings, though the ones I could count from a distance showed that it had definitely seen more years than me and likely more than my parents.

I wondered how many juncos or chickadees had found refuge in its branches. Whether the pine siskins had sung from its canopy in the spring. Or whether the barred owls had ever nested there. I wondered if it had seen the mill that had long since come and gone. Seen the founding of the town. Or if it had been one of the early pioneers reclaiming the woods once these structures had fallen away. She had stood strong through wind and snow storms…through record-breaking floods. And now she was gone.

What would become of it now?

The path was already lined with other trees that had been cut, many blackened by time and oxidation or carpeted in green tufts of moss or the occasional fungus. I wondered where the missing piece had gone that would have fallen across the path – perhaps it was now bark chips or mulch for someone’s garden. To the undiscerning passerby, there was no sign that it had even been there, except for the remnants to either side of the trail.

I wondered too about the fungus that I had observed. Was it now buried beneath the trunk that remained atop the underbrush? Or had it been on the portion that now was elsewhere in the world?

As I continued to walk through the woods, they felt too open, as though there were big gaping holes where there hadn’t been before. Perhaps it was just the approach of winter and the lack of leaves in the understory, but the forest felt wrong somehow. Or emptier.

The birds seemed more vocal, almost as though they were calling out for their fallen citadel. Even the deep tones of the tree frogs seemed to have a melancholy note. I wondered if any of them had been born and fledged from that tree. And how many noted her absence.

Hope Springs…

But mostly, I had to hope. Hope that maybe somewhere hiding beneath the fallen leaves and needles was a cone. That maybe come springtime, her daughter might sprout up from the duff beneath the warming Sun, nourished as the bark breaks down. After all, forests are built on the cycle of nutrients returned by decay so that the next generation might thrive.

As these questions rattled about in my brain, I felt an urgent need to capture as many details as I could. As if somehow that tree and its existence wouldn’t be forgotten. Even months later, I would stop and gaze at the stump. Seeking words for the grief for this mighty matriarch – may her memory continue to inspire awe for our world, curiosity in our connectedness, and hope that we might better care for these beings.