A WIND-STORM IN THE FORESTS
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.
[Illustration: A WIND-STORM IN THE CALIFORNIA FORESTS. (AFTER A
SKETCH BY THE AUTHOR.)]
After one has seen pines six 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 200 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 algae 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 madroños 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 200 feet in height waved like supple
golden-rods 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 Aeolian 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 100 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.
[Illustration: YELLOW PINE AND LIBOCEDRUS
The two inside trees are Libocedrus, the two outside trees, Yellow
Pine.]
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 madroños, 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 foot-hills, 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 mountain 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 tree-wavings—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.