Woods No One Owned

“At one time in the world there were woods that no one owned,” wrote Cormac McCarthy in Child of God.

If you want to tell a story, start at the beginning. But there is a problem if your tale is about a forest. When exactly was the beginning?

I once attended a lecture on Alabama’s National Forests at which a government forester claimed that the U.S. Forest Service was enacting a management plan to restore public lands to their “original condition.” I raised my hand and asked when the forest was “original.” After a great deal of stuttering and stammering he admitted that what he really meant was before any logging.

That’s a beginning with which we can work. What did Alabama’s forest look like before anyone owned it – before logging?

My best guess is 1775, the year that naturalist William Bartram documented his travel through central and southern parts of the state. Bartram was a true “Renaissance man,” an explorer, botanist, artist, and writer, and his descriptions and drawings of plants and animals are the definitive narrative of the southern landscape before European settlement.

What Bartram described is something vastly different from what exists today.

In what we now call the “Coastal Plain” he found longleaf pine savannas, vast areas occupied by “the stateliest pine trees that can be imagined.” This forest was open and prairie-like, with large, widely spaced trees “standing like columns or pillars,” and a ground cover of grasses, wildflowers, and shrubs. The openness of this forest allowed him to travel through on horseback. He accurately surmised that the longleaf ecosystem was maintained by frequent fires, which occurred both naturally and through intentional actions of the natives.

A reasonable estimate of the longleaf forest in Bartram’s time is 30 million acres. Today there are about three million, and much of that consists of young longleaf plantations. There is a lot of interest in restoring the ecosystem, and public and private agencies offer grants and other funding to encourage landowners to plant longleaf.

Along rivers and creeks, he found something entirely different. Great stands of massive hardwood trees including oak, ash, elm, baldcypress, sweetgum, and southern magnolia. Thick vines grew up into the canopy, and the groundcover consisted of ferns and lush vegetation. He described this forest as “cool, shady, and luxuriant.”

The bottomland forest in Bartram’s time is estimated to have covered six million acres. Today there is about 2.7 million, with most of that having been cut at least once.

Just south of what is now Montgomery, Bartram described something foresters find puzzling – a nine-mile-long stretch of flowering dogwood trees so dense that it was a monoculture, punctuated occasionally by a southern magnolia. The curious thing about that is that dogwood today is found as individual trees scattered across the uplands. What he described does not exist today.

While Bartram did not travel through the hills and valleys of North Alabama, we can surmise what he might have seen from the writings from settlers in the early 1800s. Oak, hickory, American chestnut, hemlock, and various pine species covered this area. Most has since been cut and regenerated several times, and a substantial portion is now in pine plantations. American chestnut, which may have constituted 30% of this upland forest is extinct, killed by a blight over a couple of decades in the early 20th century.

The bottom line: the forests we have today are quite different than the “original.” The terms “virgin forest,” “virgin timber,” or “old-growth timber” simply do not apply in Alabama. Every forested acre that can be logged has been — several times. A tree over 130 years old is rare, and a group of trees that age standing together on an acreage large enough to be considered a forest is non-existent. There are a few exceptions, of course, but they are occupying land that is extremely hard to access – which is why they are still standing. These “patches” of forest exist in areas so steep, narrow, swampy, or rocky that no enterprising timber man ever figured out how to get in to cut them. We have lots of trees, but they are not as old as you might think. Next time I will tell you a little bit about how we got from Bartram’s “original” forest to that we have today.

Photos generated by AI

A Walk through the Forest

I am a professional forester. Or at least I was for about 35 years. Now I am retired, which I suppose has reduced me to amateur status. This happened much earlier than expected, and not by choice. A couple of diseases from a tick bite changed my life, both personally and professionally.

Forestry was a decent way to make a living. I did not get rich, but I am not poor by any means. I met a lot of interesting people and walked through some of the most beautiful places in Alabama. A lot of my time was spent in solitude, which allowed contemplation. But most of the work required a certain amount of haste. Nothing leisurely about it. Not enough time for a sincere appreciation of the sheer wonder of it all. I regret that.

Now that I have more time, a visit to the woods is a rare treat — and almost never made alone.

One thing that has always amazed me is how little people know about forests and forestry. Alabamians especially. The state is about 70% forested, and the associated forest products industry is the second largest in terms of economic activity. But the majority can’t see the forest for the trees.

The Redhead asked me to tell you a little about it, probably so I won’t keep telling her about it. I suspect it will be a long tale, a mixture of fact and opinion. Some parts will hopefully be interesting. Others, maybe not so much. Just skip the boring parts and jump back in later.

I will give you the ending here, at the beginning. The forest landscape is about to undergo an epic change in the South. It will not be caused by any natural disaster, insect, disease, or plague. It will be diminished by a forest product called pulpwood.

Four: Storm

I am sitting in a grassy field under a small tent. A young nurse is taking my blood pressure. She is dressed in army fatigues, like one of the nurses from the old television show M*A*S*H. It is sunny and the light is very bright. She is talking to me, her voice muffled like we are under water. There are no other sounds. No birds singing, no traffic, no other voices. We are alone.

“We are going to get you to a room soon honey, okay?”

“My head hurts.”

And later:

I am lying in a bed somewhere. My head feels as if it were in a vice. I hear my son’s voice.

How you feelin’ dad?”

“I don’t know what to do. They gave me all these COVID kits to put together, and the instructions are in Chinese. Can you help me figure it out?”

I would later learn that the first memory never happened. I was admitted to the hospital by standard procedure, through the emergency room.

The second did. My son found me babbling like that the next day. I had received no treatment up to that point. My fever had spiked to 103.

I remember almost nothing about what transpired in the week that followed. Most of what I write reconstructed from The Book. Other things were false (or no) memories that the Redhead explained in the days and weeks afterward.

No, family did come to see you, you talked to them. Yes, you did have your phone, but I did not see you look at it. Yes, you were awake a good bit of the time. Yes, we talked about a lot of things. No, they did bring you meals. Don’t you remember any of that?

I did not. I do not.

The Book has pages and pages of tests. Bizarre imbalances in blood profiles. Some categories were extremely low, others alarmingly high. There were also MRIs, CT scans, and ultrasounds.

They were looking for West Nile virus, but that test was negative. They considered meningitis, but never did a spinal tap (an error, given what was to come). The baffled internist bowed out and referred me to the “Infectious Disease Expert.”

After four days of intravenous antibiotics and fluids, the blood tests returned to normal.

A memory, confirmed to be true:

I am sitting in a chair and a doctor is speaking to me in a quiet voice.

“Mr. Clifton you have been an extremely sick man. We have done a lot of tests, but we do not know the cause. I suspect it may be related to the tick bite you had, but tick-borne infection tests must be sent to a lab in Virginia. It will be two weeks before the results come back. Until then, I am giving you a prescription for one week of Doxycycline just in case. By the way, I noticed from your chart that you haven’t had your COVID vaccine, and I really think you should consider…”

“No. I am not taking your shot. You should focus on figuring out what I have rather than trying to get me to take some so-called vaccine for something you think I may get.”

“Sir this is not a political thing, but…”

“No, it is not political. End of discussion.”

“Understood. I will call you when your lab results come in.”

Admittedly rude, that. It might have affected our future relationship.

The Redhead drove me home soon afterward, but to this day I do not remember the ride.

Two: The Book

The telling would not be possible without the book. A three-ring binder that serves as a sort of reference manual. Painstakingly assembled by the Redhead, a left-brained mathematical genius who can account for every penny on a balance sheet and has never met an equation she could not solve. Quite a catch for a right-brained word-man who can see the forest from the trees but cannot see the solution for the numbers.

The book is a chronological presentation of every medical visit, every test, every doctor’s summary, over the course of two years. There are spreadsheets she has constructed that compare blood test results by date for every component and how the numbers fluctuate – normal, abnormal, normal, abnormal – clues in search of a crime.

The analysis has been ignored or shrugged off by the medical community, most who seem to be more interested in moving things along so that they can get to the next beef in the slaughterhouse line. Let’s go folks, I have other patients to bill.

I offer this explanation to tell you how I know the order of events. Without the outline, the story is disjointed, the sequence and cadence lost. One of the effects of the illness has been a loss of short-term memory. Names and dates, mostly. I carry a little pocket-journal to help with that. Something a writer should do anyway. Stories and observations are often in the moment, and time blunts the imagery.

It is from this record that I know the exact date that this story began. How I can move from “Once upon a time” to June 5, 2021.

I had spent that week in the office, and a hot, lazy Saturday afternoon was just what the doctor ordered (no pun intended) for a forester and his dog. Just a short walk to a creek through a little patch of woods in Tallapoosa County, Alabama. The dog was protected from fleas and ticks. The forester, not.

An Independence Day

July 1, 2023.

My personal “Independence Day,” in a sense.

I am officially unemployed.

The Redhead is calling it “semi-retirement.”  A good phrase, but not entirely accurate. I am too young to draw my pennies and not well-off enough to quit work for a life of leisure.  My career in forestry has paid the bills, but I did not get rich from it by any stretch of the imagination.

I prefer the term “self-employed,” although I am not entirely sure what that will look like in the days ahead.

There is a story here beyond employment. One I am going to tell only because someone urged me to do so. It will be difficult writing for me because it is about me, and quite frankly there are more interesting things to write about.

It is not a tale to solicit either pity or advice, because I have had plenty of both over these last two years.

Think of it as a cautionary tale, especially if you spend time in the woods and fields of Alabama.  It is a story about chronic illness.

I will write this story as a serial, because it is much too long to hold your attention in one sitting.

It starts like this: “Once upon a time, a forester was bitten by a tick.”