A Conglomerated Collection

forest fire

The image of a forest destroyed by fire is haunting. Standing on the line between dead and alive, between burnt and thriving is even more so. After the heat and flames have finished their course, the only thing remaining is a world of black, white, and grey. The forest floor has turned to ash. The bases of the trees have been burned black. There are no birds singing. There are no insects buzzing. Just silence, occasionally punctuated by a falling branch, charred to the point where it can no longer stay connected to its tree.

If you try to walk through the forest, the ash will coat your shoes. You won't be able to get rid of the black marks for weeks, no matter how hard you scrub. Whenever you take a step, the powder billows upwards as a constant reminder of the natural disaster that just took place. If you try to touch one of the burned trees, your hand will come away a different color. The bark will dissolve under the slight pressure of your touch, leaving its mark on your skin. It even still smells faintly like smoke, even though it has been days since the fire was extinguished. The forest holds its breath, waiting for the moment when it can once again be full of life. 

It is a moving atmosphere. Mere days before you visited, a wildfire raged. Right where you stand. You wondered if you would even be able to go on the trip. Would the park be open? Would you be able to see all you wanted to see? After all, you don't often have the chance to fly across the country, drive through the desert, and end up in a forest full of tall, wide trees. When you planned the vacation, you had absolutely no idea that a fire would burn almost five thousand acres of the national park. You had no idea it would burn almost uncontained until three days before your flight. You had no idea the forest would be half alive and half dead when you hiked through the trees. You couldn't have planned the detour that you would have to take because the main path was blocked off from the devastation. And after all the chaos of the flames, it is utterly still. The trees look as if they have died an excruciatingly painful death at the hands of the heat and smoke. Yet, just behind you lies a forest full of green leaves, squirrels, and birds. You wonder where exactly the line of flames ended and in which direction it was headed. How is part of the forest still alive and breathing? How did it avoid succumbing to the intense pressure of the fire?

The giant sequoia tree is one of the most alien life forms on earth. Its trunk is so wide that two people can't wrap their arms all the way around it; the diameter of the tree can grow to be thirty feet across. They can grow over three hundred feet tall. They tower over a landscape that feels like the planet Endor from Star Wars, where you'd expect to see Ewoks roaming and treehouses perched high in the branches. As the skyscrapers of the forest, they can be seen among the surrounding redwood trees. They sustain many different forms of life, providing a home for bats, woodpeckers, frogs, and flying squirrels.

Yet, you may wonder how a tree that is thousands of years old grows. A sequoia cone, similar in appearance to a pinecone, is tight and dense. There is seemingly no way for the seeds to come out and germinate. No insect or bird could fit in the cones. So, how do the seeds get out? Fire. When the cone is consumed by flames, it opens up and allows the seeds to come out. Then, the seeds are sown, and they prepare to sprout. It takes months for them to grow. By the time the small tree is ten years old, it averages less than two inches of growth every year. It takes centuries before it can grow as tall as the other trees around it, but it is able to withstand the fires during those centuries. Without the fire in the first place, there would be nothing to help it grow. Without the fire, the seeds would go unsown, never to grow into a monumental tree.

In California stands a forest of the oldest trees on the planet: the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest. Gnarled, horrific-looking trees, they have stood the test of time. Many of them have lived for over four thousand years, and they are still standing. In the sparse forest, some trees have fallen over, immortalized even in death. One fallen tree in particular has a plaque in front of it, detailing how old it is. It explains that the tree fell in the year 1626; it was over 3,200 years old when it died. It was alive when David was king of Ancient Israel. It was alive when William Shakespeare was born. It had been dead for over 100 years when the American Revolution began. It is still intact today, almost 400 years later, just laying on its side on the ground with its roots splayed in the crisp, thin air.

A several-mile drive on a gravel road from the visitor's center plus a four-and-a-half-mile hike reward tourists with seeing the Methuselah Tree, a bristlecone pine that is 5,000 years old. This tree was growing before the pyramids in Egypt were built, and it is still alive. It, along with the other bristlecone pines, has withstood fire, ice, and drought that plague them at their elevation above 10,000 feet.

The bristlecone pine has wood that twists and contorts itself, giving it the appearance of a grey pretzel stick. No matter how ugly they are, they still grow, surviving the conditions of the high altitude and standing the test of time for thousands of years. However, they cannot attain their trademarked twisted shape without being exposed to the extreme conditions on top of the mountain. They twist and stretch to get water and continue growing. These ancient trees are still living, even if they look dead. They fight for existence, gradually growing, twisting, changing.

Like the giant sequoia, it takes extreme conditions for the tree to grow, survive, and flourish. But without these conditions, without the fire and the wind and the pain, these trees would not be able to withstand time so you can view them today, inspired by their alien-ness to worship the One who created them and ordered their lives.