In a labyrinth of trees, punctuated by flaming azalea and mountain laurel, our inter-generational Elderhostel group pauses at the base of a tree with dry branches. While the children shift restlessly, Liz, a naturalist who has dedicated her studies to the forests of this area explains the hemlocks are being killed by an evasive beetle species carried over on nursery imports from Asia. (This story could be told of Chestnuts, Fraser furs, Dogwoods-- tree species dying or already vanished from their native forests.) The death spreads quickly. A small boy crouching to doodle with a stick asks, "well why do they still let the plants come?" That is a good question.
Money had been allotted to prevention, to research and policy for scientists and ecologists, funds ear-marked for the EPA and National Forest Service. September 11th changed many paths. The violence of innocent deaths that shakes communities through out the world erupted within America, September 11th. In the aftermath, our grieving nation flew to the arms of the familiar companion of security with reckless abandon. Our fear carved a new path. The money was re-routed to the newly created Homeland Security Department where the millions of dollars disappeared into the impossible void of alleviating national fears and securing an insecure world. In the process, the American people surrendered their responsibility and freedom to an invisible hand promising the impossible security of an insecure world at the cost of certain freedoms. Slowly the trees die, disappear. It is all connected, our reasons, our greed, our fears, our priorities, and our blindness. Hemlock trees shade the ground cooling the temperature of the water, they are an irreplaceable part of the ecosystem.
Here in the Nantahala and West Appalachia we will probably loose 80% of these ancient trees, some over 500 years old. The water will warm and the trees will not be the only creation to suffer—following them will be trout, insects, and salamanders. The beautiful wood of the Nantahala forest will be another victim sacrificed to our madness, our fear. The desire to have whatever we want- trees from Asia, fruit in any season, parking lots and extravagant houses, everything on demand is another type of insiduous invasive species. The ghost forest whispers caution, dead branches drifting soundlessly, unobserved, joining the long history of forgotten species. Extinction.
The voices rise to disavow our connection. There is a protest to shouldering any blame, "this is not our fault, this is not caused by human hands—it’s the beetle’s fault." People like Liz, long familiar to these woods, watch the infection spread from tree to tree and their voices trail off into a silent respect for their role of witnesses to a great tragedy. They cannot convince us to bear it. We shake the responsibility off, in our comfort we will not look at the larger scope, foresight is only wished for in hindsight. The children scamper ahead full of bright energy while their grandparents tsk and amble after them. Liz and I linger for a moment, eyes on the trees.
The ghost trees gaze back at us, scrawny beings below their tall limbs, yet wielding so much power. They whisper, feeble hands reaching, trying to tell us, warn us-- our fears can kill us, our fears can swallow us whole. Fears of all shapes and sizes are still monsters—fear of the other, fear of responsibility, fear of the work of justice or conservation, of humility.
And it is all connected. What we do not see nevertheless remains present. We stockpile weapons to destroy each other, to force our truths and defend our way of life against others with the same intention. Mother Earth groans, aching for the redemption of the sons and daughters of man. We scorch her with each other’s blood and slowly suck the life from her. Cut her, slay her, use her, rape her. Cut us, slay us, use us, rape us. We are reduced to this monstrosity against each other. Our harm a cycle of fear, a cycle of selfishness, of greed, an arrogant belief in our capability to fix anything and use whatever means we can to seek contentment-- yet our wants only lead to gasping desperation for more.
The hemlocks slowly dry, shrivel, decay, whispering of our power-- to destroy nations of trees, nations of ourselves. Life and death sit before the eyes of a child, but the child laughs and snaps twigs as he races after his friends. The wind howls low and mournful as we continue our descent, below us the waterfall weeps and yet still she offers us the body of her water. Throwing herself at our feet over and over with the gift of nature’s quiet comfort and peace. The sound envelops us like a mother trying to gather us in her arms, like a mother trying to warn us of the price of disregard.
As Liz takes the role of guide, I set a pace between the children and their grandparents. I think of their shared history like the hemlock’s trunks, tree rings circling outward, encompassing the past. The trees and our grandparents have witnessed the birth and death of civilizations, of nations, they watch the children of man stumble over branches and now they wait. The grandparents slowly aging, still offering life to their grandchildren. As the trees slowly dying at our hands, still offering their shade. As we die at each other’s. If only we could learn the cycles of existing, of taking only what we need. But even now, I now greedily claim my space, I need to speak these words, be heard. Our fear of importance, our independence, our desire to do what we want, to be our own rulers and Gods lures us toward destruction-- at our own hands.
It matters, not only for the trees, but because this way of the seeing the world is a way we see each other- as means, not ends, as commodities, as replaceable, exploitive, as if all things are ours and ours for the taking. This is the way we fail to consider the consequences, fail to recognize our impact, our bond and responsibility to one another. For community's sake, we must care about the environment; for the environment's sake we must build community. We need new eyes, deeper hopes, more daring ideas, and a bigger dream. Our rings must expand outward, encompassing more, growing to include communities, cities, nations within our concept of those we are connected too. The intensifying of individuality, of selfish ambition, the grandeur of a comfortable, luxurious life is wrong at the expense of others. It is. It is wrong like the death of Hemlocks. Their dry limbs thirst for our understanding—that our lives are interwoven, we are interdependent. We stand to loose much. Too much.
