Field Notes -- On Trees

Tend to the roots.

Heal with fire.

Think longer term.

I have the great privilege of living among trees… a lot of trees.

On this stolen native land that I now inhabit,* several trees are in my direct care. My family of trees includes five sister redwoods, a mature maple, California bay laurels, a miniature crabapple tree (whose spring blooms make my life worth living), two varieties of magnolia, and a beleaguered apricot that (bless her) nevertheless persists. It’s an embarrassment of riches.

Since the CZU Lightning Complex fires that tore through the Santa Cruz Mountains in t 2020, tree work has been a constant in the area. Homeowners, utilities, and municipalities, desperate to mitigate risk in the face of worsening fire seasons, have kept the sound of chainsaws and chippers ringing across the little valley where I live. Understanding that cutting and culling is important, and proud of the work of local State Parks, Cal Fire, and the Amah Mutsun Land Trust to prioritize prescribed and cultural burns, a little part of me still cringes every time I see another tree truck trundle down the street and wonder what familiar friend will next be missing from the landscape.

It was with that ambivalence—knowing the need for tree care while also caring about the trees—that I set about looking for tree people. The large maple had been shedding large waterspout branches, signaling that it is again ready for its every 8-9 year haircut. And the crabapple and apricot had also been suffering from my inexpert and all-too-seldom pruning. It was time to call in the pros.

A search engine and serendipity led me to a women-owned company with a different approach. A RADICAL one—as in “originating from the root.”

Unlike the typical crew, eager to cut, chip, and run to the next job, Elemental Tree Network looked first to the health of the tree, starting at the root.

Tend to the roots. They walked through a full assessment of each tree in the context in which it is situated. This included looking at the roots for the stories they tell about the tree’s development and health (e.g., girdling is when a tree root begins to wrap around the trunk, effectively choking itself). It included paying attention to what groundcover (i.e., ivy) might be stealing nutrients and a reminder to “leave the leaves!” so that the tree can nourish itself as it sheds and renews itself each season. They applied a carefully balanced fertilizer treatment to benefit both the maple and the nearby crabapple, strengthening the trees from their roots up.

Heal with fire. They examined the surface of each tree, the bark of its trunk and branches, to see vulnerabilities to disease. They used a handheld torch to apply fire, removing pest infestation or infection. They also used it to cauterize large cuts after pruning. Fire, wielded wisely, protects. It can harden and heal.

Think longer term. They approach cutting and pruning knowing that trees are living, growing, and constantly changing organisms. Pruning isn’t a cosmetic job that leaves the perfect image of a “tree” but rather becomes part of a year-to-year journey together with the tree. They cut parts away now, with the advice to observe how it continues to grow and change shape, and to anticipate cutting again—not merely a year, but two years from now, five, ten. It also meant being aware of whether the tree bears fruit on new or older wood—many only fruit on two-year and older wood. Things take time.

All of these trees were here before I arrived and many, if well cared for, will remain after I’m gone. This experience with very skilled and caring tree people reminded me that in our own work, what we do now will be borne out over the coming years. It’s generational… *and* it affects the more than human world. (Credit to author/activist/teacher Michelle Cassandra Johnson for the language “more than human world” to give voice to natural life that extends outside ourselves.)

Epilogue

This experience also motivated me to rip out a bunch of nutrient-stealing ivy, that mysterious mat of vines that I had assumed harbored rats’ nests. Thankfully, there was nothing of the sort. A few spiders, but not anything like what I had feared. Just the soil, that can now breathe. And await the leaving of the leaves.

Next time, I think I’ll write about committing to composting as a practice (ritual?).

*I reside in the Santa Cruz Mountains in California, the unceded territory of the Awaswas-speaking indigenous people represented today by the Amah Mutsun Tribal Band.