16 // COASTWEEKEND.COM
Continued from Page 9
Stumbling through a
darkened wood with a large
basket of mushrooms, I
have felt that strange vortex
of uncertainty, a basket
of small fears. Would I be
spending the night in this
forest? Would rain and stiff
wind find me exposed?
Would my wife fret?
In a strange way, most of
this apprehension is not so
bad. Why? Consider this: In
a time and place in the 21st
century, it is rare to find an
opportunity to be truly alone
with Mother Nature. After
all, as the sun rises early in
the morning, the route out of
the thicket generally emerg-
es. (And perhaps a friendly
Ent — Tolkien’s tree walk-
ers — might make himself
available as a guide.)
Old friends
Approaching the mush-
room patch, I sense my old
friend, a 160-foot cedar with
bark like weather-beaten
skin and a tussle and tangle
of limbs that smells like an
old-growth forest should.
Smells of evergreen,
and a bit like cinnamon
— I come to this place the
same way Buddhists seek
SUBMITTED PHOTOS
A cedar canoe carved by the Chinook people resting above high tide
a shrine. The way Muslims
covet Mecca, or Christians
a chapel or mighty cathe-
dral like Notre Dame. If all
that stained glass speaks to
you — if the rich ethereal
experience of feeling close
to a god motivates — then
why can’t one feel emotional
when confronted by a great
cedar tree as old as the great
stone churches of France?
So, I sit a minute with this
tree pressed into my back,
into the soft fibrous bark of
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the living, breathing cedar.
Yes, we have had a
conversation, and more than
once. Yes, a communal hug
at times, though I can’t get
my arms around the massive
trunk. And no, it doesn’t talk
back, at least in English —
though, for the life of me,
I feel a sensitive presence
from the large, imposing
figure. Having said all of
this — having identified
my nature-boy self with a
tree — I feel compelled to
defend myself against the
slings and arrows of more
conservative rational beings.
Scientifically, the tree is
a living creature, made up
of molecules not so differ-
ent than yours or mine. The
tree draws carbon dioxide
from the air and spills out
oxygen, a life sustainer for
humans. Deforestation in the
Amazon rainforest and other
heavily logged areas like our
own backyard have begun
to jeopardize our human
existence.
As I write this article,
three major storms are
threatening enormous
sections of the U.S. Five
hundred-year storms, they
say — all in ten days. Trees
are not only our friends, they
offer protection.
And, to my mind, they
are beautiful. Why else
would the painters and writ-
ers and artisans of the world
be so drawn to them?
A cultural icon
Of course, the cedar was
the talisman of our West
Coast tribes, the Haida,
Chinook and numerous
Native cultures. The soft
pliable grain was split,
carved and woven into
essential life forms, into
blankets, hats, fishing gear,
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Light pierces the canopy
homes and totems. Fan-
tastical masks enriched
Native ceremonies. Their
lodges housed hundreds of
human beings. The length
and breadth of some of
those plank houses often
exceeded 100 feet. Inside,
cedar fires warmed their
bodies. And, if you wished
to travel, cedar canoes up to
60 feet or better crossed the
heaving seas with the sleek
performance of otters.
I knew a logger who
cut mountains of trees, yet
respected and loved those
old-growth forests. He
wrote poetry to them. Drew
their bodies on paper and
explored their souls. He
didn’t talk much about those
feelings. He was one tough
son-of-a-gun with a street
fighter mentality to defend.
But I wonder how many
others house a particular
fondness for these ancient
beings, these living cande-
labras of leaf and limb. Lest
we forget, as John Muir
said, “The clearest way into
the universe is through a
forest.” CW