It feels inviting to approach a beech maple forest on an early spring day when the snow is just thinning. Each beech tree has a ring of open forest floor around it, as the trees radiate the sun’s heat—islands of open earth in a snowy landscape. The forest floor is newly exposed and gives off the faintest scent of life returning, writes Jess Piskor in this second in a two-part series about Northern Michigan beech trees and the now extinct passenger pigeon. Part of the forest is actively dying now, full of disease. There are the obvious fallen giants. The dead beeches rest in shattered grey tangled masses, like a pile of dead elephants. A few healthy-looking crowns have snapped off, 30 feet up—trunks weakened with disease. The branches show swollen pointed buds, as if the tree would leaf out one last time. It won’t. Many still stand, but are holed by woodpeckers. Shelf fungus grows up the sides, dropped limbs catch the foot. Here and there a few giants still look, dare I say, okay? At least one more year then, old friends. Let me gather your nuts.
