by Eric Rutkow
The utility of trees has made them a centerpiece of countless climate change initiatives. One of the most popular tactics is old-fashioned tree planting, plain and simple. The elder President Bush—always a fan of low-cost environmental programs—recognized this early on. As the New York Times reported in January 1990:
With insufficient credit, President Bush has just broken with former President Reagan’s doctrine of killer trees. Mr. Reagan seemed to condemn trees, calling them a source of pollution. On the opposite principle that they absorb pollution, Mr. Bush has announced a plan to plant a billion new trees a year for 10 years. . . . The 10 billion new trees should in time absorb 13 million tons of carbon dioxide a year, or 5 percent of the U.S. annual emissions of the gas, according to the President’s budget report.
Similarly ambitious programs were subsequently enacted by nonprofit groups, local governments, and the Forest Service.
A related approach involves the creation of markets that set a price on tree planting based on the expected amount of carbon dioxide that will be absorbed. This technique works best when carbon emissions are taxed, as is the case for many Annex I members of the Kyoto Protocol. While America does not yet place any penalty on carbon pollution, in 2007 the Forest Service and the American Forest Foundation announced the creation of a voluntary market where environmentally minded individuals or corporations could pay six dollars in exchange for tree plantings estimated to absorb one metric ton of CO2 from the atmosphere. A few tree farms and forests are now being managed primarily as so-called carbon sinks.
Creating these new carbon sinks, of course, matters little if the established ones—like the tropical rain forests—keep disappearing at accelerating rates. The international environmental movement continues to advocate the policy of compensating poorer nations for forest stewardship. The issue was a central concern of the 2009 U.N. Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen, Denmark. What resulted was the approval of a framework for an ambitious program—something of an improved and expanded version of TFAP—known as Reducing Emissions Through Deforestation and Forest Degradation (REDD). Many environmentalists see REDD as a key to climate change mitigation moving forward. But like so many aspects of international environmentalism, REDD’s success may depend on whether the United States ultimately lends its full support.
Finally, scientists are directing research toward projects looking to exploit the carbon-dioxide-consuming qualities of trees. Breakthroughs in genetics may allow the widespread introduction of genetically modified, fast-growing “supertrees” (with all the ecological risks that entails). Programs are also under way to design a synthetic tree, a tall structure containing carbon dioxide catchers that could work a thousand times faster than its natural counterpart. Americans in the future may travel in forests of newly invented trees (real or artificial). Perhaps they will imagine it has always been that way, just as many in the present mistakenly think that America’s tree canopy has been fairly stable throughout the nation’s history.
THE BROAD TREND of the past century has been toward better stewardship of America’s tree resources. History provides abundant evidence to support this claim. Professional forestry expanded from a small group of dedicated Progressives to the boardrooms of Fortune 500 companies. Technological advances allowed logging companies to reduce waste and process all parts of the tree. The nation’s wilderness gained protection through the tireless efforts of conservationists. The management of forests developed to encompass an ecological view that valued not only trees, but the entire ecosystem they supported. America now creates more new forest each year than it degrades through overuse.
The journey has been neither straightforward nor certain. Along the way have been many obstacles, and some outright failures. Threats of a “timber famine” lingered into the mid-twentieth century. Diseases decimated two of the nation’s most beloved species. Logging and pollution severely reduced the numbers of many others. Fears over job security nearly allowed the country’s last stands of old-growth forest to be wiped out. The tropical rain forests continue to fall. Climate change is but the latest—and perhaps most consequential—challenge to the nation’s forests.
Epilogue
OUR TREES ARE living history. Each has a story to share, though it is well guarded, locked away in eternal silence. Uncovering these hidden tales requires a degree of tenacity. One must develop a feel for the many factors that determine why any given tree arrived at a particular spot and why it subsequently survived. Rarely in our nation does a tree’s life involve no intervention, direct or indirect, from mankind. Perhaps the tree in question was planted intentionally. Perhaps it sprouted from some chopped-down predecessor. Perhaps it is but one specimen in a forest that populated a neglected field or appeared from the ashes of a fire. In writing American Canopy, I have attempted to make the nation’s treescape more legible, to show how these trees shaped our society and how we shaped them in turn.
Geographers estimate that the original forest cover of the continental United States measured close to one billion acres. That figure declined gradually over the course of three hundred years, reaching a historic low around 600 million acres in the early twentieth century. The total amount of forest then began to stabilize and slowly recover. Today, the nation’s continental forest measures roughly 750 million acres. From one perspective, then, our trees tell a tale of redemption, of unchecked consumption and dependence being tempered by prudence and effective management.
But a more careful review forces us to look beyond this somewhat triumphalist description of a forest that fell and then rose. America contains not one great forest but many, and their evolutions differ. Woodlands in the East, for instance, have made great gains as abandoned farms and fields gradually returned to forests; those in the West have shrunk under pressure from industrial logging. Moreover, forest quantity is not the same as forest quality. The contemporary forest often differs greatly from its forebear. The giant monarchs are nearly all gone. The unregulated diversity of nature has often been circumscribed—indeed, some managed forests contain a single commercial species for miles on end. And even in unmanaged forests, the trees have changed: Many of our once prominent native species have fallen to diseases, aggressive logging, or introduced competitors—changes that cannot be undone.
The national statistics also overlook our impact on trees outside of the country. But our forest footprint is ultimately international—importation rates for many forest products have been rising steadily for years. In the age of global warming, Americans can no longer afford to speak of “our trees” and “their trees.”
Changes take place not only within these sylvan worlds but also within our understandings about them. The language we use to describe forests has shifted immensely. Colonial notions of savagery and fear eventually transformed into environmental refrains of rejuvenation and salvation. We started as a people who saw tree clearing as the key to our survival and expansion. We became a people who found a moral imperative in reintroducing trees across the landscape, whether it be a cutover forest or a paved-over metropolis. We developed an American society through the beneficence of these trees, their wood the foundation of our industrial economy and our domestic life. As we matured, our daily intimacy with trees and their products gradually diminished. We transformed trees into a commodity, grown and harvested afar, then sawed and pulped and processed until the final product seemed stripped of anything natural. Today, objects that appear wooden are often facsimiles, their grains and textures stamped on during fabrication.
Our progress might suggest that we have tamed our trees and unlocked their secrets. We have studied them to the cellular level and beyond. But our mastery remains superficial. History has shown that trees and forests refuse to submit to our dominion. Though we have learned much, we are still tormented by fires and diseases. Our remarkable advances in forest management face constant revision as we learn more of ecology. There are limits to how far we can exert our will over nature. This is a lesson worth
keeping in mind as we explore new frontiers in tree genetics and trust in our technological prowess to combat a climate crisis.
The trees and forests are not passive actors, despite what appearances may suggest. They channel our collective behaviors and influence the way we think. American attitudes toward resource consumption were formed against a backdrop of seemingly unlimited access to wood. The country’s industrial expansion differed from that of Europe in large part because of trees, which allowed (perhaps even encouraged) a style of development that favored speed and immediacy over permanence. It may well be that the reason Americans today consume more than any other nation traces back to the once limitless bounty of their forests.
But this aspect of American identity hardly suggests the full extent to which trees have shaped and continue to shape national culture. The woods have been the source for many of the country’s traditional folk heroes, from Johnny Appleseed to Daniel Boone to Paul Bunyan. An American style of literature first emerged when writers such as James Fenimore Cooper began reflecting on the great tree-filled wilderness that stretched across the continent’s interior. We are all inheritors of the municipal parks movement of the mid-nineteenth century, the national parks program that John Muir inspired, the forestry crusade of Gifford Pinchot and Theodore Roosevelt, the alphabetical conservationism practiced under Franklin Roosevelt, the wild regions saved by men like Aldo Leopold, and the regulatory framework of the post–Earth Day generation. With all of this as the basis for our modern culture, it is understandable why most Americans feel an affinity for trees.
Trees also manage to provide a counterbalance to the excesses and alienation of modern life. Henry David Thoreau realized as much when, in 1845, he fled Concord, Massachusetts, for two years of contemplation in nearby Walden Woods. But the life that Thoreau temporarily escaped would seem downright pastoral by current standards. What would he make of the present day, surrounded by technology, further removed from the tactile sensations of the real world?
As we rush headlong into the twenty-first century, the physicality of trees seems more vital than ever. The modern workplace and home are becoming increasingly antiseptic. Americans now spend their days staring into computer screens that receive information as if by magic. Daily life seems alarmingly virtual. Trees provide the antidote. The smell of pine needles, the crunch of autumn leaves, the roughness of bark are all reminders that we are a part of nature. Tree hugging, in its most literal sense, offers a reconnection with the physical world, the world of our forefathers. The forests and their trees are a sanctuary for the spirit. To enter them is to seek renewal.
Rarely do these trees receive the public attention that they deserve. Gone are the fears of a “timber famine” that might destroy the economy. Our success in preserving our forests from total destruction has made it easy to overlook them altogether. Trees appear frozen in time, and the invisibility of gradual change can make problems difficult to spot. The nation tends to rediscover its tree resources only in periods of catastrophe. The rest of the time many of us motor along with indifference, leaving the issue to the government, corporations, and the permanent environmental movement. But this is a risky approach. America’s forests and trees are more necessary now than ever.
Acknowledgments
I HAVE BEEN CARRYING the project that would become American Canopy with me for more than half a decade. During that time, many people have provided support, counsel, and encouragement. I can only imagine that even the most resolute among them began to weary of the constant talk of trees. (And not just trees, but tree history at that!) I hope that the final result will justify their patience.
My research would have been unimaginably more difficult without the support of two of the world’s great libraries. The early months of reading and investigating were spent beneath the painted clouds of the New York Public Library’s Main Reading Room. Later, I was granted access to the Library’s Allen Room, a phenomenal writing space where the walls are lined with the published works of former Room members. Particular thanks go to Jay Barksdale, a superb research librarian and a composer of some of the most erudite emails I have ever witnessed. I have also had access to the library resources of Yale University for the past two years as part of my graduate work. The breadth of the collections and the speed of the service continually exceeded what seems possible, let alone reasonable. Many Yale librarians have provided me with assistance, but a special debt of gratitude is owed to John Nann, who opened my eyes to the full potential of some of the electronic collections and who kindly answered far too many emails with the subject line “Another Quick Question.”
Yale also provided me with a wonderful intellectual community. Members of the History Department have been especially generous with their time and enthusiasm. I’d like to thank, in particular, Joanne Freeman, Naomi Lamoreaux, Gil Joseph, Glenda Gilmore, Paul Sabin, and Patrick Cohrs. Additionally, some of the ideas in the later chapters were debated and refined during semiregular, informal Thursday-evening gatherings with a small cast that reliably included Shafqat Hussein, Isaiah Wilner, Jose Ramirez, and Todd Holmes.
A special word of appreciation is owed to two people who graciously read and commented on the entire manuscript: John Demos and David Oshinsky. Each is a friend, a mentor, and a role model. Their thoughts proved invaluable in completing the book.
Long before the manuscript was completed, it was a sketch of an idea that I brought to my agents at William Morris Endeavor, Eric Simonoff and Eric Lupfer. They both embraced the project from the outset and have provided endless guidance along the way. My only grievance is that three Erics trying to work together can sometimes produce rather confusing emails. My editor at Scribner, Colin Harrison, brought wisdom, experience, and a great sensitivity to the challenges of writing American history. Over meals around Midtown, he guided me through innumerable problems and reminded me about the importance of failing upward. Others at Scribner also contributed their considerable talents throughout the editing and production process. These included Rex Bonomelli, Kelsey Smith, Kate Lloyd, and Katie Rizzo.
My friends provided constant, and appreciated, reminders that there is more to life than trees and writing. I owe particular debts of gratitude to Brent Barton, Chesa Boudin, Cole Ferguson, Alec Flyer, Nate Harper, Meredith Mackey, and Eric Stern. Most of all, I want to thank my girlfriend, Emilie Walgenbach, who has been by my side since I began work on this book. When she is around, it is impossible for my spirits to not be high or my stomach not to be full.
Finally, my family has been a wellspring of love and support. My grandparents—Bea and Al, and Roz and Milt, all of whom are still active and healthy—sent me countless good wishes and gladly shared their own memories of trees in America. My sister, Lainie, can make me laugh in a way that’s all her own. And she remains a model for me, as she has since the days of matching Halloween costumes and Margaret Chase Smith impressions. Her husband, Adam, joined our family while I was in the midst of writing American Canopy and has felt from the start like a brother. My parents, Beth and Ira, remain willing to go to any lengths to help me. They’ve worked tirelessly to provide me with every opportunity. My father, a historian in his own right, was the first person with whom I discussed the book, and he was instrumental in shaping it through every step of the process. His eyes have passed over the pages so many times that I fear there are some passages he now knows better than I do.
Without all of this support, American Canopy could not have been written. That being said, the omissions and errors—both the inevitable and the avoidable—are mine and mine alone.
Author’s Collection
Trees have long been used as political symbols in America.
A 1652 pine tree shilling from the Massachusetts Bay Colony. During the colonial era, certain trees also served as reminders of British control.
Beinecke Library (Edward Sylvester Ellis’s “The Youth’s History of the United States”)
In a nineteenth-century print, a royal timber surveyo
r places the King’s Broad Arrow on a pine tree. When the colonies finally moved to break away from England, revolutionaries gathered beneath Boston’s famous Liberty Tree to spread their message.
Library of Congress
A Royal Stamp Act officer gets tarred and feathered beneath the boughs of the Liberty Tree.
Library of Congress
The log cabin and cider barrel symbolized the spread of small freeholders and the settling of the forested landscape.
Both symbols were featured prominently in ephemera from the 1840 presidential campaign of William Henry Harrison. In the cities, projects such as New York’s Central Park, begun in 1857, brought nature and trees back into the landscape.
Beinecke Library (Annual Report of the Improvement of the Central Park, vol. 3)
An 1859 architect’s rendering of how trees would transform a stretch of Central Park.
Library of Congress
As industrial logging developed, logs followed many different paths to market.
Two horses haul a massive cargo of timber from Michigan to the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.
Library of Congress
An enormous raft of logs travels to market along the Columbia River in Oregon.
Library of Congress
A wood-burning train carries logs across a timber-trestle bridge in the Cascade Mountains in the Pacific Northwest.
