BY HARRY WEEKES
It is the time of year when I catch leaves. More specifically, a leaf.
At some point in the fall, when the leaves are dead or dying and the wind starts blowing, I look for the chance to catch a leaf—an annual event that marks a transition into winter and keeps me darting about through the cottonwoods. Of course, winter doesn’t start, technically, for a couple of months, but when the leaves are gone, when the temperatures are below freezing, and when there is snow on the ground, technicalities take a back seat.
But I digress. At least a partial point of my leaf catching is to focus on something I often take for granted—trees, and plants in general. Oh, I realize all of the wonder and splendor of the plant world as I cruise the aisles of the supermarket and when certain aspen trees light up yellow and orange in the fall, but for the most part, the life of a tree is an utter mystery to me. Trees remain at a strange distance, probably because they are so different from me, and for all of the obvious reasons.
Trees stay rooted in the ground, in one place, making their food out of sunlight. Even young ones are old by human standards, and the ability to really observe them necessarily requires several human lifetimes, which means I am mostly reading about them, which is a kind of abstraction in and of itself. And then, along comes a book that blows the world open, as Peter Wohlleben’s “The Hidden Life of Trees” just did for my class of seniors and me, who are exploring “Ways of Knowing” this fall.
In our attempt to explore different ways of seeing the world, we have looked into the minds of tigers and octopuses, and are now turning to the minds of trees. Even the idea of tree minds sounds absurd, but in story after story, Wohlleben (a world-renowned forester) unlocks the incredible secrets of this wooden world.
He talks convincingly about trees’ senses and feelings and their ability to count and remember. He talks about them as architects of ecosystems and colonizers of the terrestrial realm. He gives us a glimpse of a social world at once intimate and familiar, and simultaneously impossible to understand. Like trees caring for dead and dying relatives and neighbors over decades, and vast tracts of forest sharing sugars and resources through a kind of fungal internet below the soil.
Forests act like a giant conveyor, pulling water across continents and creating a kind of habitability and health important both to plant and also animal. A healthy forest literally oozes, through hundreds of volatile compounds, healthy air, a healthy air that has attracted humans as long as there have been humans. An old, stable forest is, in many ways, a standing spa for humanity, something easy to test for yourself by dropping into an area with big trees and breathing, deeply.
Of course, you don’t have to go to this length to appreciate trees. You can simply find a tall aspen or cottonwood rustling with the dry leaves of fall and wait a few minutes. Even in no wind, a leaf will fall. Catching one after its chaotic and jerky flight is sure to put a smile on your face, and, if even for a few fleeting moments, focus your attention on trees.
Harry Weekes is the founder and head of school at The Sage School in Hailey. This is his 48th year in the Wood River Valley, where he lives with Hilary and two of their three baby adults—Penelope and Simon. The other member of the flock, Georgia, is currently fledging at Davidson College in North Carolina.
