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THE mountain winds, like the
dew and rain, sunshine and snow, are measured and bestowed with love on the
forests to develop their strength and beauty. However restricted the scope
of other forest influences, that of the winds is universal. The snow bends
and trims the upper forests every winter, the lightning strikes a single
tree here and there, while avalanches mow down thousands at a swoop as a
gardener trims out a bed of flowers. But the winds go to every tree,
fingering every leaf and branch and furrowed bole; not one is forgotten; the
mountain pine towering with outstretched arms on the rugged buttresses of
the icy peaks, the lowliest and most retiring tenant of the dells; they seek
and find them all, caressing them tenderly, bending them in lusty exercise,
stimulating their growth, plucking off a leaf or limb as required, or
removing an entire tree or grove, now whispering and cooing through the
branches like a sleepy child, now roaring like the ocean; the winds blessing
the forests, the forests the winds, with ineffable beauty and harmony as the
sure result.
After one has seen pines fix
feet in diameter bending like grasses before a mountain gale, and ever and
anon some giant falling with a crash that shakes the hills, it seems
astonishing that any, save the lowest thickset trees, could ever have found
a period sufficiently stormless to establish themselves; or, once
established, that they should not, sooner or later, have been blown down.
But when the storm is over, and we behold the same forests tranquil 'again,
towering fresh and unscathed in erect majesty, and consider what centuries
of storms have fallen upon them since they were first planted, — hail, to
break the tender seedlings; lightning, to scorch and shatter; snow, winds,
and avalanches, to crush and overwhelm, — while the manifest result of all
this wild storm-culture is the glorious perfection we behold; then faith in
Nature's forestry is established, and we cease to deplore the violence of
her most destructive gales, or of any other storm-implement whatsoever.
There are two trees in the
Sierra forests that are never blown down, so long as they continue in sound
health. These are the juniper and the dwarf pine of the summit peaks. Their
stiff, crooked roots grip the storm-beaten ledges like eagles' claws, while
their lithe, cord-like branches bend round compliantly, offering but slight
holds for winds, however violent. The other alpine conifers — the needle
pine, mountain pine, two-leaved pine, and hemlock spruce — are never thinned
out by this agent to any destructive extent, on account of their admirable
toughness and the closeness of their growth. In general the same is true of
the giants of the lower zones. The kingly sugar pine, towering aloft to a
height of more than two hundred feet, offers a fine mark to storm-winds; but
it is not densely foliaged, and its long, horizontal arms swing round
compliantly in the blast, like tresses of green, fluent alga in a brook;
while the silver firs in most places keep their ranks well together in
united strength. The yellow or silver pine is more frequently overturned
than any other tree on the Sierra, because its leaves and branches form a
larger mass in proportion to its height, while in many places it is planted
sparsely, leaving open lanes through which storms may enter with full force.
Furthermore, because it is distributed along the lower portion of the range,
which was the first to be left bare on the breaking up of the ice-sheet at
the close of the glacial winter, the soil it is growing upon has been longer
exposed to post-glacial weathering, and consequently is in a more crumbling,
decayed condition than the fresher soils farther up the range, and therefore
offers a less secure anchorage for the roots.
While exploring the forest
zones of Mount Shasta, I discovered the path of a hurricane strewn with
thousands of pines of this species. Great and small had been uprooted or
wrenched off by sheer force, making a clean gap, like that made by a snow
avalanche. But hurricanes capable of doing this class of work are rare in
the Sierra, and when we have explored the forests from one extremity of the
range to the other, we are compelled to believe that they are the most
beautiful on the face of the earth, however we may regard the agents that
have made them so.
There is always something
deeply exciting, not only in the sounds of winds in the woods, which exert
more or less influence over every mind, but in their varied waterlike flow
as manifested by the movements of the trees, especially those of the
conifers. By no other trees are they rendered so extensively and
impressively visible, not even by the lordly tropic palms or tree-ferns
responsive to the gentlest breeze. The waving of a forest of the giant
sequoias is indescribably impressive and sublime, but the pines seem to me
the best interpreters of winds. They are mighty waving goldenrods, ever in
tune, singing and writing wind-music all their long century lives. Little,
however, of this noble tree-waving and tree-music will you see or hear in
the strictly alpine portion of the forests. The burly juniper, whose girth
sometimes more than equals its height, is about as rigid as the rocks on
which it grows. The slender, lash-like sprays of the dwarf pine stream out
in wavering ripples, but the tallest and slenderest are far too unyielding
to wave even in the heaviest gales. They only shake in quick, short
vibrations. The hemlock spruce, however, and the mountain pine, and some of
the tallest thickets of the two-leaved species bow in storms with
considerable scope and gracefulness. But it is only in the lower and middle
zones that the meeting of winds and woods is to be seen in all its grandeur.
/One of the most beautiful
and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the Sierra occurred in December,
1874, when I happened to be exploring one of the tributary valleys of the
Yuba River. The sky and the ground and the trees had been thoroughly
rain-washed and were dry again. The day was intensely pure, one of those
incomparable bits of California winter, warm and balmy and full of white
sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the purest influences of the spring
and-at the same time enlivened with one of the most bracing wind-storms
conceivable. Instead of camping out, as I usually do, I then chanced to be
stopping at the house of a friend. But when the storm began to sound, I lost
no time in pushing out into the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions
Nature has always something rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb
is hardly greater than one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath
a roof.
It was still early morning
when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious sunshine came pouring over the
hills, lighting the tops of the pines, and setting free a steam of summery
fragrance that contrasted strangely with the wild tones of the storm. The
air was mottled with pine tassels and bright green plumes, that went
flashing past in the sunlight like birds pursued. But there was not the
slightest dustiness, nothing less pure than leaves, and ripe pollen, and
flecks of withered bracken and moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the
rate of one every two or three minutes; some uprooted, partly on account of
the loose, water-soaked condition of the ground; others broken straight
across, where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The
gestures of the various trees made a delightful study. Young sugar pines,
light and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground;
while the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a
hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches
streaming fluently on the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing and
shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas spruces, with
long sprays drawn out in level tresses, and needles massed in a gray,
shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they stood in bold
relief along the hilltops. The madronos in the dells, with their red bark
and large glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected the sunshine in
throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the rippled surface of a
glacier lake. But the silver pines were now the most impressively beautiful
of all. Colossal spires two hundred feet in height waved like supple
goldenrods chanting and bowing low as if in worship, while the whole mass of
their long, tremulous foliage was kindled into one continuous blaze of white
sun-fire. The force of the gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of
them all rocked down to its roots with a motion plainly perceptible when one
leaned against it. Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the
most rigid giants thrilled with glad excitement.
I drifted on through the
midst of this passionate music and motion, across many a glen, from ridge to
ridge; often halting in the lee of a rock for shelter, or to gaze and
listen. Even when the grand anthem had swelled to its highest pitch, I could
distinctly hear the varying tones of individual trees, — spruce, and fir,
and pine, and leafless oak, — and even the infinitely gentle rustle of the
withered grasses at my feet. Each was expressing itself in its own way, —
singing its own song, and making its own peculiar gestures, — manifesting a
richness of variety to be found in no other forest I have yet seen. The
coniferous woods of Canada, and the Carolinas, and Florida, are made up of
trees that resemble one another about as nearly as blades of grass, and grow
close together in much the same way. Coniferous trees, in general, seldom
possess individual character, such as is manifest among oaks and elms. But
the California forests are made up of a greater number of distinct species
than any other in the world. And in them we find, not only a marked
differentiation into special groups, but also a marked individuality in
almost every tree, giving rise to storm effects indescribably glorious.
Toward midday, after a long,
tingling scramble through copses of hazel and ceanothus, I gained the summit
of the highest ridge in the neighborhood; and then it occurred to me that it
would be a fine thing to climb one of the trees to obtain a wider outlook
and get my ear close to the EEolian music of its topmost needles. But under
the circumstances the choice of a tree was a serious matter. One whose
instep was not very strong seemed in danger of being blown down, or of being
struck by others in case they should fall; another was branchless to a
considerable height above the ground, and at the same time too large to be
grasped with arms and legs in climbing; while others were not favorably
situated for clear views. After cautiously casting about, I made choice of
the tallest of a group of Douglas spruces that were growing close together
like a tuft of grass, no one of which seemed likely to fall unless all the
rest fell with it. Though comparatively young, they were about one hundred
feet high, and their lithe, brushy tops were rocking and swirling in wild
ecstasy. Being accustomed to climb trees in making botanical studies, I
experienced no difficulty in reaching the top of this one, and never before
did I enjoy so noble an exhilaration of motion. The slender tops fairly
flapped and swished in the passionate torrent, bending and swirling backward
and forward, round and round, tracing indescribable combinations of vertical
and horizontal curves, while I clung with muscles firm braced, like a
bobolink on a reed.
In its widest sweeps my
tree-top described an arc of from twenty to thirty degrees, but I felt sure
of its elastic temper, having seen others of the same species still more
severely tried — bent almost to the ground indeed, in heavy snows ---
without breaking a fiber. I was therefore safe, and free to take the wind
into my pulses and enjoy the excited forest from my superb outlook. The view
from here must be extremely beautiful in any weather. Now my eye roved over
the piny hills and dales as over fields of waving grain, and felt the light
running in ripples and broad swelling undulations across the valleys from
ridge to ridge, as the shining foliage was stirred by corresponding waves of
air. Oftentimes these waves of reflected light would break up suddenly into
a kind of beaten foam, and again, after chasing one another in regular
order, they would seem to bend forward in concentric curves, and disappear
on some hillside, like sea waves on a shelving shore. The quantity of light
reflected from the bent needles was so great as to make whole groves appear
as if covered with snow, while the black shadows beneath the trees greatly
enhanced the effect of the silvery splendor.
Excepting only the shadows
there was nothing somber in all this wild sea of pines. On the contrary,
notwithstanding this was the winter season, the colors were remarkably
beautiful. The shafts of the pine and libocedrus were brown and purple, and
most of the foliage was well tinged with yellow; the laurel groves, with the
pale undersides of their leaves turned upward, made masses of gray; and then
there was many a dash of chocolate color from clumps of manzanita, and jet
of vivid crimson from the bark of the madronos, while the ground on the
hillsides, appearing here and there through openings between the groves,
displayed masses of pale purple and brown.
The sounds of the storm
corresponded gloriously with this wild exuberance of light and motion. The
profound bass of the naked branches and boles booming like waterfalls; the
quick, tense vibrations of the pine needles, now rising to a shrill,
whistling hiss, now falling to a silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves
in the dells, and the keen, metallic click of leaf on leaf — all this was
heard in easy analysis when the attention was calmly bent.
The varied gestures of the
multitude were seen to fine advantage, so that one could recognize the
different species at a distance of several miles by this means alone, as
well as by their forms and colors, and the way they reflected the light. All
seemed strong and comfortable, as if really enjoying the storm, while
responding to its most enthusiastic greetings. We hear much nowadays
concerning the universal struggle for existence, but no struggle in the
common meaning of the word was manifest here; no recognition of danger by
any tree; no deprecation; but rather an invincible gladness as remote from
exultation as from fear.
I kept my lofty perch for
hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy the music by itself, or to feast
quietly on the delicious fragrance that was streaming past. 'the fragrance
of the woods was less marked than that produced during warm rain, when so
many balsamic buds and leaves are steeped like tea; but, from the chafing of
resiny branches against each other, and the incessant attrition of myriads
of needles, the gale was spiced to a very tonic degree. And besides the
fragrance from these local sources there were traces of scents brought from
afar. For this wind came first from the sea, rubbing against its fresh,
briny waves, then distilled through the redwoods, threading rich, ferny
gulches, and spreading itself in broad, undulating currents over many a
flower-enameled ridge of the coast mountains, then across the golden plains,
up the purple foothills, and into these piny woods with the varied incense
gathered by the way.
Winds are advertisements of
all they touch, however much or little we may be able to read them; telling
their wanderings even by their scents alone. Mariners detect the flowery
perfume of land winds far at sea, and sea winds carry the fragrance of dulse
and tangle far inland, where it is quickly recognized, though mingled with
the scents of a thousand land flowers. As an illustration of this, I may
tell here that I breathed sea air on the Firth of Forth, in Scotland, while
a boy; then was taken to Wisconsin, where I remained nineteen years; then,
without in all this time having breathed one breath of the sea, I walked
quietly, alone, from the middle of the Mississippi Valley to the Gulf of
Mexico, on a botanical excursion, and while in Florida, far from the coast,
my attention wholly bent on the splendid tropical vegetation about me, I
suddenly recognized a sea breeze, as it came sifting through the palmettos
and blooming vine tangles, which at once awakened and set free a thousand
dormant associations, and made me a boy again in Scotland, as if all the
intervening years had been annihilated.
Most people like to look at
mountain rivers, and bear them in mind; but few care to look at the winds,
though far more beautiful and sublime, and though they become at times about
as visible as flowing water. When the north winds in winter are making
upward sweeps over the curving summits of the High Sierra, the fact is
sometimes published with flying snow-banners a mile long. Those portions of
the winds thus embodied can scarce be wholly invisible, even to the darkest
imagination. And when we look around over an agitated forest, we may see
something of the wind that stirs it, by its effects upon the trees. Yonder
it descends in a rush of water-like ripples, and sweeps over the bending
pines from hill to hill. Nearer, we see detached plumes and leaves, now
speeding by on level currents, now whirling in eddies, or, escaping over the
edges of the whirls, soaring aloft on grand, upswelling domes of air, or
tossing on flame-like crests. Smooth, deep currents, cascades, falls, and
swirling eddies, sing around every tree and leaf, and over all the varied
topography of the region with telling changes of form, like mountain rivers
conforming to the features of their channels.
After tracing the Sierra
streams from their fountains to the plains, marking where they bloom white
in falls, glide in crystal plumes, surge gray and foam-filled in
boulder-choked gorges, and slip through the woods in long, tranquil reaches
— after thus learning their language and forms in detail, we may at length
hear them chanting all together in one grand anthem, and comprehend them all
in clear inner vision, covering the range like lace. But even this spectacle
is far less sublime and not a whit more substantial than what we may behold
of these storm-streams of air in the mountains woods.
We all travel the milky way
together, trees and men; but it never occurred to me until this storm-day,
while swinging in the wind, that trees are travelers, in the ordinary sense.
They make many journeys, not extensive ones, it is true; but our own little
journeys, away and back again, are only little more than treewavings — many
of them not so much.
When the storm began to
abate, I dismounted and sauntered down through the calming woods. The
storm-tones died away, and, turning toward the east, I beheld the countless
hosts of the forests hushed and tranquil, towering above one another on the
slopes of the hills like a devout audience. The setting sun filled them with
amber light, and seemed to say, while they listened, "My peace I give unto
you."
As I gazed on the impressive
scene, all the so-called ruin of the storm was forgotten, and never before
did these noble woods appear so fresh, so joyous, so immortal. |
