The Lodgepole

The Lodgepole

I’ve been trying to be a better listener. They say trees whisper to you as you jaunt through the forest. Yeah, right. Wind ripping through masses of branches and needles and leaves can create unspoken words, falling on red, numb ears. But if they could talk... These ears don’t hear the voices that escape through the lips of nature, though, they are too aloof. But if you stop and listen, really listen, you can hear their stories. ...What would they say?

Oranges, reds, and browns blanket the forest floor. My backpack weighs onto my shoulders and presses into my back, the burden becoming more noticeable by the third day. I bet Mike put rocks in here before I left camp, asshole. The brisk, wet autumn air seeps into every crevice of my clothes where they aren’t bound tightly, caressing my sweaty body underneath all of the layers of fabric. I hold a camera tightly in my gloved hand, patiently awaiting a moment to snap a shot of anything that seems interesting enough to apprehend. I’ve reached the point in the hike where I take it step by step, my legs feeling like they’ve been dipped in cement. Left. Left. Left right left. Head down, I trudge on. There is somewhat of a path, traveled just often enough to make it visible, but not often enough to clear the rocks out of the way or clear all of the grass patches. Breathing hard, patches of hot air that escape my mouth leave traces of wispy vapors in the wind. The air stings as I inhale and the taste of blood resides at the back of my throat. My lungs are burning.

Plopping onto a damp log, I fling my stuff over my shoulder and onto the ground with a solid thud, and place the camera gently into the folds of my bag. There goes my granola bars. Not that they were ever whole to begin with. Thanks Nature Valley. I can only have my camera out for so long before the cold takes its toll on the shutter speed. Knowing when to have it out and when to put it away has proven to be the most difficult aspect of my trek so far. I breathe hard a couple more times, feeling every muscle in my body slowly untense and melt onto the log. I can’t feel my fingers. Once I catch my breath, I blow warm air into my gloves and rub my hands together, desperately coaxing friction to return the warmth to my fingertips. Continuing to blow warm air I look out across the path and into the thick fir and pine trees for the first time during today’s trek. Look at that. Our national parks never cease to amaze me. I always forget to look up while hiking, too worried about the ruts or the rocks I may trip on. And consequently, I’ve missed many of the views like this.

Moss grows on the sides of the pines that conglomerate to form the dense forest. The landscape transforms from aspens, shrubbery and winding trees behind me, to large stoic pine trees that hug the path so closely you could almost get lost in it going forward. One large pine sits in the doorway, a harbinger of the brooding and heavy forest ahead. Well hello there, beautiful. But it sits proudly away from the other trees, a guardian into the realm it’s relatives call home. Its outstretched branches welcome passers, and the forest floor below where the roots outline a bed of needles and dirt would make a good camping spot. Maybe a Lodgepole Pine? For how large it is it sure looks scraggly. Succumbing to its call, I lift up my load once again and make my way over.

The bark of the tree is so thick that sections protrude inches out, the creases so deeply imbedded my fingers could disappear into them. If they don’t fall off first. I raise a numb hand to my face to pull the glove off with my teeth, and then reach to the bark instinctively to map the groves by touch. My hand rests flatly on the bark, the circumference of the tree being large enough that only if I were to wrap my arms around it would I know it’s curvature. Hmm. Leaving my hand on the tree, I circle the trunk, feeling each notch rough against my hand. Oh, looky here. On the other side, an area where bark has been worn off stretches a vertical span of at least six feet. My eyes follow the worn bark upward, to a spot where bark has seem to split from the trunk, and a dark scorch line splits the tree into halves. Woah. Places where bark has been peeled away show traces of thin, curving lines. A… carving? My feet carry me around still, my eyes remaining averted upwards. Higher into the branches sits a mass of twigs, arranged like a circular game of jenga, but extremely wide and girthy. That one would take hours. Along the other side of the tree lay holes, side by side, all the same diameter, as if the trunk were a connect-the-dots puzzle. Those are the little buggers that have been waking me up every morning. Circling back around to where I began, I looked last at the branch above me. The base of the branch, strong and sturdy, also showed signs of wear a couple feet out.

The wind blows harshly again through the maze of trees. If it gets any colder I’ll be cuddling with the wolves tonight. I grab the glove from between my teeth and pull it back to its rightful position on my hand. I tug my jacket hood strings tighter and blow into my gloves once again to warm the hand that since being out of the glove has now lost its sense of touch and feels foreign to my body. Anything but my trigger finger, that one’s worth about $150 and maybe a Kit-Kat. I keep my hands close to my mouth as I survey the tree again, taking in all of its striking features. The old pine sways with the wind and creaks gutturally. Looking to the canopy, I watch as the branches above dance between the others, opening and closing patches of sky. The chirr of the tree reverberates in my ears. Another gust sends the pine into a frenzy of unspoken communication. Okay. I’m listening.

And so the pine tells me it’s story, spanning back to more than a century ago. The voice quivers and warbles and shows the speakers age, which is over 100 according to its broad trunk and chunky branches, reaching what seems like 10 times my height into the sky. This tree extended its roots into the ground just before Yellowstone National Park drew it’s distinction lines, encompassing this tree and it’s family members alongside it. A barrier built to protect this beautiful home.

This tree’s parents lived miles from here. It’s mother, almost as old as this tree is now, would shed pine cones filled with seeds all around them every fall. But it wasn’t until a fire scorched the landscape that the cone opened, allowing the fresh seeds to spill unto the Earth with grace. This seed in particular didn’t stay put. Carried along the hoof of a horse, this seed made it quite a ways from home. Rooting down in where it now resides, it forged a new path for it’s kind.

The right amount of rain and good weather would allow the sprout to soar higher into the sky. As long as a herd of elk didn’t come by for an afternoon snack, that is. The days went by slowly. The stars were the trees only friends in those days. Watching them rise and fade across the sky gave the tree hope that new and good things would always come and go.

When this tree was newly mature, the Nez Perce indians fled General Howard, and took refuge among this tree and those who stood tall around it. A small, indian boy laid by this tree. He told stories to it and played games with it when the tribe halted its progression to rest. A tradition of his tribe included tree carvings. When it came time to leave, the boy ran back to his tree, sharp flint in hand. There wasn’t time to do much, but quickly he was able to chip away bark to carve an image of an eagle, which represented his brother that had been captured by the army of 600 that had been pursuing them. “Migisi” he whispered into the bark, bringing life into the lines, the wings fluttering in flight before resting into the image. The image sat infinitely carved into the tree base, the bark around it chipped away to never grow back. There would be many more tribes, and indians that would pass by the forest this tree calls home. And each of them would leave another heartbreaking mark, as they realized their culture would soon be lost.

As this tree continued to grow, animals of all kinds would saunter by in search of their next place to bed down. With open fields just south of the aspens, elk would make their way to the pines to find cover. Families of elk would warm the forest floor beneath the tree, and the earth would warm the elk through the shelter of the trees. As they would pass through, a rub or two would take place to itch off the felt covered antlers. This tree has been a common rubbing spot, leaving the bark scratched off and exposing the inner wood of the trunk. The elk still came by often enough to exchange company for protection, and so the rubbing spot remained raw.

The forest life around the tree thrived from it’s protection. One species in particular, the woodpecker, took special interest in the tree and those around it. Chipping its beak into the bark, the woodpecker would store items in the holes or search for bugs beneath the bark for a quick snack. Pitch tubes along the bark suggested that the woodpecker would be able to find multiple forms of life beneath the bark. The woodpecker helped the tree to rid itself of the pests that would feed off of it rather than reciprocate the circle of life. They are not welcome here.

A different bird nested in the top of the tree. Not recently, as the bottom of the nest now has holes in it where the twigs have come loose and fallen with the winds. But at one time, a bald eagle deemed this tree worthy of its nest. Trusting the tree to care for its young and watch over them while it was away in search of food. The highest of honors. These young eagles would soon learn that the tree was a sacred place, and return to it often, especially as their wings were still learning how far they could go. This would be where they would take their first flight, where they learned the importance of family, and where they would eventually return. Not to the same nest, as that isn’t their nesting site. But they will stake out their own pine, and deem it worthy to hold their children. This tree hasn’t seen eagles return to nest for years.

Some animals would visit the tree less and less. The tree would witness as time went on the disappearance of the wild buffalo, who once roamed strong through the lands. The tree would listen as the howl of wolves grew fainter and fainter. The forest became more and more quiet as time went on. Eventually some of the life that once made the forest so vibrant would return, however the howls wouldn’t sound the same.

Standing tall and large, the big branches were open arms to all of the skies creatures, including the air, the rain, and sometimes the lightning. Taller than all of those around it, and just far enough out, this tree is in the perfect place to catch the currents of the earth in its embrace. Not once, but twice. The first time was trivial, a small hit, nothing more than a boom and a flicker. More energizing than calamitous. But the second time, a strong wind and a thundering boom rattled the Earth, sending a scorching strike to the tree, effectively stripping some of the bark and splitting the tree up towards the top. It hurt for some time, but with some nurturing the tree became stronger, more resilient than before. The hanging bark is a flag waving in the wind; it symbolizes strength.

And the spot where the branch had become worn, according to the tree, was a spot where some animals would stop to rest or nap, creating a home base to keep land creatures from reaching them and interrupting their slumber. A mountain lion, or young bear cub, might rest in the nook against the tree for safety every now and then as they pass through. From the perch, you could see where the tree line changes, where the lightly worn path winds around to, and where the landscape turns hilly and brown. A perfect treehouse.

That’s a story worth listening to. My backpack thumps on the ground once again as I set it down and dig like one of those claw machines from Walmart entrances to find the camera. My frozen fingers slip over the top just like the unforgiving claws as well, before finally, $5.00 in quarters later, I cling to it like a 3 year old clinging to a purple tiger. I swing the weight of the pack back onto a shoulder and take a few steps back. Here’s to nature’s most resilient tree, to the Lodgepole.

Click.