The Wolf Tree

The stories this old tree could tell, I thought as I admired the twisted branches and massive trunk of the huge oak. It stands at the edge of the park, just out of reach of the lawn mowers and leaf blowers. The bark bears scars, large and small. Ragged arms reach out, broken at the ends by storms or simply the wear and tear of so many seasons. Just how old are you anyway? I ask aloud, making my own path through the underbrush to get closer to the ancient ancestor that has survived here for ages. A woodpecker, annoyed by the intrusion, scolds me from where it fled onto a neighboring oak, another old but smaller tree, obviously planted when the park was born out of a cow pasture almost a hundred years ago. I compare the two oaks, the lone elder giant and the newcomer who is part of an orderly row of kindred oaks that line the asphalt lane through the park. Again, I wonder what stories the old one could tell.

Empty shells of acorns litter the ground. It was a good harvest for the squirrels this year. The shells crunch underfoot as I get as close as I can to the tree. I notice a fresh wound where the rough bark has been stripped away.  Something catches my eye and I stoop to pick up an antler recently shed. It resembles a forked branch. Gently I touch it to the tree’s gnarled trunk and ask who else has been here. I close my eyes and let the stories come through me.

Caught up in the swirling spiral of tree-memories, I am taken back to the sapling’s early days. The silent tread of moccasins, the whisper of bow and arrow, and a hunter kneels beside the stag who is breathing his last breath. A song rises into the air, grateful and humble, before the knife makes quick work of the forest’s gift. The sapling bends in the autumn wind and another night falls. Under the full moon, a pack of wolves passes by, marking their territory.

The sapling grows taller and stronger as seasons pass.  Men with axes clear away many of the other trees, piling the wood up to make shelters for themselves and their animals. The animals also clear the land. The oak is now tall enough to provide enjoyable shade for these people as they work and play nearby, so they let it live. Passenger pigeons darken the sky in huge flocks. Gunshots echo over the hills, bringing them down.

At night, a hungry wildcat stalks through what’s left of the forest, drawn by the noise and scent of the animals penned in wooden stockades. Again, the gunshots roar and the wildcat screams one last time. The wolves huddle together as if they could protect each other from the blasts. An elk peers out from the shelter of the woods, then turns back to find refuge deeper within the darkness.

The people move westward, abandoning the pasture they cleared. The oak remains, roots and branches thriving, scattering acorns that are carried off and buried or sometimes sprout where they fall. Now the tree, an elder among the rest,  overlooks the beginnings of a more open woodland. Wolves still prowl but the elk and the wildcat become scarce and eventually disappear. The oak survives in a matrix of younger trees that are barely a hundred years old.

Again, the land becomes a pasture. Cows graze and laze in the oak’s abundant shade on summer days. Boys steal into the pasture from the little town that is growing around the bottom of the hill, playing hooky from school, looking for mischief, and always wary of the bull that may be lurking behind the knoll. They climb into the oak and dare each other to swing from the strong armed branches.

By now the wolves are all gone. But a man comes one day and remarks to his companion, “This ugly wolf tree…”  The tree waits patiently. It has no choice. The man continues, “…is a valuable wildlife unit in the vast stretch of North American woodland…” His companion shakes his head. “Worthless!” he replies, tapping the trunk. “Hollow, no good for lumber, should be cleared away. It’s preventing the growth of anything around it!”

But a number of wolf trees survive to this day, elders of the eastern forest, their value finally appreciated. The term “wolf tree” was first used in 1928. Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it as: “a very large forest tree that has a wide spreading crown and inhibits growth of smaller trees around it.”  Today the remaining wolf trees may be as old as 300. In a reversal of roles, the trees growing around them have now grown large enough to encroach, shade and kill off the wolf trees. These ancient elders deserve our respect and preservation, as they continue to offer refuge and resources to the wild residents with whom they share the passing seasons, spreading seeds for future generations.

Look for wolf trees near old stone walls or at the edge of what were once pasturelands. They’re usually standing tall and twisted among a group of smaller trees, their trunks thick and their crowns spreading wide. They will seem to be out of place. If you are lucky enough to find one, stand close and listen well. Perhaps it has some stories to tell.

References:

Public Land Journal website – http://www.publiclandjournal.com

American Forests magazing, Fall 2014