Woods Someone Owned

It took a little less than 80 years to transition from Bartram’s idyllic “original” forest, an unbroken landscape of “stately pines” and “lush bottomlands,” to a countryside that bore the marks of European colonial settlement. This change stemmed from a very American idea: that ordinary people could purchase land for themselves, work it with their own two hands, and build enough personal wealth to control their own destinies.

But before the land could be sold, it had to be controlled. Westward expansion into the 14 million acre “Mississippi Territory” followed the defeat of the British and the Creek Indian Nation in 1814. By 1819 Alabama had enough settlers to enter the Union as a state. By 1830 the native tribes were overcome and relocated to “Indian Territory” in present-day Oklahoma.

Back in Alabama, the territorial lands were surveyed into a rectangular grid established by the Government Land Survey System. This allowed land to be broken into parcels or lots which were offered by grant or sale to homesteaders at Government Land Offices.

Under private ownership, the towering longleaf pines and the lush hardwood river bottoms were more often seen as an obstacle than a blessing. Before a farm could be established, trees had to be cut and removed to prepare for homes and crops, and that was no easy task.

A typical homesteader cleared enough trees to build a small cabin and a few outbuildings, as well as clearing areas to grow crops. This was difficult, backbreaking labor. Trees were felled with axes and crosscut saws–called “misery whips” by settlers–and dragged to building sites by oxen, horses, or mules. The clearing and building process was gradual and often took place over several years. Once cleared, settlers planted corn, wheat, and vegetables and sometimes established fruit orchards. Rail fences were made from longleaf pine (or chestnut in the north) to keep free-range livestock out of the crops. The settlers initially relied on wild game as their meat source but soon hogs became the primary source of meat since pork could be preserved by smoking or salting. Once a few families had settled in an area, small communities developed.

The notion that Alabama was dominated by big cotton plantations and slave labor is false. The plantations were mostly prevalent in Alabama’s Black Belt Prairie (where there were few trees) and along major rivers. However, even small homestead farms eventually began producing some cotton by the 1820s. Cotton was a cash crop, and cash was scarce for subsistence farmers. Even though more land was cleared for cotton, the overall effect on the “original forest” was marginal.

Up until the Civil War, few areas of Alabama had anything resembling a large-scale forest products industry. Small sawmills were scattered across the state, usually along major creeks or rivers, but these did not become transformative until after the War. The same small scale held true for other commercial enterprises such as charcoal, turpentine, and crossties for the burgeoning railroad business.

After the Civil War, however, a new era would begin. The forest of Alabama was about to be transformed into a landscape that Bartram could not have imagined.

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.