When trees were king

It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit. 
 

- Robert Lewis Stevenson

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – Summer has set in now.  Spring seemed just a moment, its time made short by the subzero cold and deep snow of winter.  The final remnants of the fourth season did not melt until May.

The pine's bark

But summer is here, in grand fashion. 

It’s easy to see the commercial effects – the tourists and traffic the most obvious.

But that’s in town.  In just minutes, you can be out of town.  And then the North opens to a panoply of deeply rich colors and textures – the emerald blue of the lakes, the verdant greens of the forests, the whites and oranges and stark reds of the wildflowers.

And the meadows.  I’ve long loved this northwest corner of Michigan, and I’ve often said it’s because of the lakes.  And that’s true.

But I love, too, the abrupt change that happens when thick forest meets the vast, light-green fields of the meadow.  You see that here often, in places like Leelanau County. 

What many don’t know is that this boundary of tall and flat is usually the vestige of the area’s lumbering past.

They tower above

Walk into these woods today and it’s not unusual to see the trees lined in neat rows.  Though they tower 50 feet tall or higher, they are, like stalks of corn, crops to be cultivated and, eventually, harvested.

But for these trees, the harvest never came.  The lumbering slowed, for reasons economic and otherwise.  Yet the trees remained, to grow as colossal sentinels.  Mighty, yes, but a welcoming canopy for birds, bear, deer and the occasional stream.

That’s why the meadow and forest stop and start abruptly.  It was man’s hand that configured these dividing lines, not Nature’s.  And unlike so much of what man touches, these ended up beautiful.

I mention these trees because we have, as I’ve noted, about 100 of them in our front lot.  From the north deck, the trees seem spawned at random.  But walk just a few yards to the east, off the deck, and then you see the rows … nine now, though surely there were more before this house was built.

All in a row

From the satellite, it’s easy to see our situation.  We’re on an island of pine surrounded by vast open spaces.  Here the beauty of meadow and forest is less, because of the mixed smattering of housing development.  But it’s a rich history lesson nonetheless.

At one time, in the late 1800s, most of these surrounding hills were cultivated with rows upon rows of pines.  I’ve read where this sea of green stretched for many miles east, south and west of downtown Traverse City.

Like corn or soybeans in an Illinois farm town, it was why this town existed … as a lumber portal to feed growing cities such as Chicago.  The farmers here were businessmen with names like Boardman and Hannah.

As the town grew and the lumber trade lagged, these lumber barons were left with vast amounts of land that they sold happily for commercial development.

In some cases, it was brush-clearing on a grand scale.  Cherry orchards might replace the pines – one crop for another. But more often, at least south of Traverse, the trees were felled for retail, warehouse and residential projects.

Our house and garage ... on an island of pines

Not always, though. It was the wise developer who, yes, saw the forest for the trees – who embraced what the Northern woods could bring to a home.

So pines now seclude a number of residential plats surrounding Traverse City.  Many are high atop hills, very deep in the woods, rich with wildlife.  Sanctuaries from the bumps and bruises of daily life.

What's left elsewhere are patches like ours – where the currents of development have washed away the forest around us, like a river’s torrent.

I nicknamed this house “Hilltop” because that’s where it sits.  Up here, it catches the bay breezes from the north.  On windy days, the 100 trees roar their delight as they bend and sway.

If trees could think – and I’m not sure they can’t – I imagine they welcome these more active moments, when they can stretch their rough coats of bark and shed themselves of spent needles. 

Yes, it’s a smaller chorus, this 100.  But as the gusts blow, the sentinels’ song drowns the pulsating traffic noise of Five Mile Road below – the arterial stretch most responsible for development out this way. 

From such a gust comes quiet.

It’s a reminder of when trees were king.  When they owned these hills.

And no apologies here ... it’s a reminder of what is owed them. 

A pine cone's promise