Forest Trees and Forest Scenery

by G. Frederick Schwarz

An Open Forest in the Southwest

It is a universal truth in nature that when a living thing has made the best possible use of its environment, when the power within has been sacrificed and united to the circumstances without, there is evolved a dignity of character and a resulting expression of fitness and beauty. This principle is exemplified in the very open forests of the Southwest. In the mountain ranges of New Mexico, Arizona, and southern California the forests have a hard struggle for existence. The winter months at the higher elevations are severe; in the summer rain is scarce, or entirely absent, and the sun beats down upon the dry earth through the rarefied atmosphere with intense and desiccating power. Naturally the forest trees are scattered, and on the steep, crumbly slopes, dry and rocky, they hug the soil and cling to it with uncertain footing. But in a sheltered ravine, or on the back of a rounded ridge, or in a slight swale or hollow of the mountain—repeatedly, in fact, among those rugged slopes—we meet with the dignity, the beauty, and the peculiar expressiveness of the open coniferous forest, with its fine definition and stereoscopic effects and the depth and perspective of its long vistas.

On the crest of the mountain, where, from the valley below, the early sunlight is first seen to break through, the trees, standing apart, do not appear so much like a forest as like a congregation of individuals, each with an identity of its own. Indeed, there among the fierce gales of autumn and winter each shapes its own life in a glorious independence, expressive in the knotty, twisted boles and the picturesque crowns. But in summer the breezes strain through the foliage with the lethargic sound of the ocean surge; or a halcyon stillness reigns under a deep blue, cloudless sky.

A Storm-beaten Veteran

Large old trees, these, with a history, that have braved life together. They have seen companion veterans fall by their side, long ago, into the deep, closely matted needle-mold. Thence arose out of the moister hollows beneath the rotting trunk and boughs a new generation, and the greater number of these have disappeared, too, for some reason or another; only the strongest at last leading, to take the place of the departed. How dignified, how simple are these old, stalwart trees on the exposed ridge of the mountain.

Thus the coniferous forests, by virtue of their inherent qualities and by means of the effects they borrow from their environment, possess a tone that is as original and distinct as the character of the forests belonging to the other class. It has already been intimated that the two are not always strictly separable, but that individual trees, or groups, or whole stretches of woods of the one will sometimes mingle with the other, a fact that has probably been noticed by the most casual observer. While the cone-bearers, however, not infrequently descend into the lower altitudes, the leafy forest trees are not so apt to be found at the high elevations at which many of the former find their natural home. Where the cone-bearers are merely an addition to the broadleaf woods they do not quite preserve their identity, but rather impress us as being merely a part in the general adornment and composition of the forest to which they belong. Where they remain “pure,” however, as they do, for instance, in the pineries of the coastal plain in the South, they never fail to express, in one or another manner, their individuality as a forest; as by their uniformity in size and color, by their odor, or by the scenic character of the region of their occurrence.

All the preceding qualities of coniferous forests practically address themselves in some manner to our physical senses. But, like the broadleaf forests, these also possess a trait that rather addresses itself to our mood or personal temperament. A characteristic air of loneliness and wild seclusion belongs to them that contrasts strikingly with the cheerful tone of the other class. It has been commonly remarked that to some kinds of people the coniferous forests are oppressive, at least on first acquaintance. Such natures feel the weight of their gloom and lose their own buoyancy of spirit if they stay too long within their confines; and it is noticeable that even the inhabitants of these lonely retreats are not infrequently affected with a reticence and a kind of melancholy that impresses the stranger almost like a feeling of resignation. This peculiar temperament, however, may be judged too hastily, and is understood better after a time. It is probably true that the familiar and accessible woods of valley and plain, where trails and wood-roads give us a feeling of security, are more attractive and agreeable to most of us; yet there is a wonderful charm about those dark forests of the mountains that have grown up in undisturbed simplicity. After the first feeling of strangeness wears off, as it soon will, they grow companionable and interesting. There is a virtue in the sturdy forms that have grown to maturity without aid or interference by man. We would not change them in that place for the most beautiful trees in a park. Even the woodsman, whose days are spent here in the hardest toil, feels a longing for the forest, his home, when his short respite in the summer is over. So we, too, though we may long for civilization after a few months in the forest, will yet feel the desire to return to it after once thoroughly making its acquaintance.

The attitude of the woodsman toward the forest is much like the affection which the sailor has for the ocean. There is, indeed, a similarity between their callings, and even the elements in which they pass their lives are not so dissimilar in reality as may appear on the surface. In his vast domain of evergreen trees that cover mountain and valley, the woodsman, too, is shut out from the busier haunts of men. He lives for months in his sequestered camp or cabin, where his bed is often only a narrow bunk of boughs or straw. His food is simple and his clothing rough and plain, to suit the conditions of his life. A large part of the time he is out in snow and rain, tramping over rough rock and soil. The camps that are scattered through the forest are to him like islands, where he can turn aside for food and rest when on some longer journey than usual.