Calocedrus decurrens
by Mike Evans
Winter Solstice 2015
As a general rule, I don’t like chopping trees down. I mostly like growing them and planting them. When I think back, I can remember the details surrounding most every tree I have felled, dead or alive. I admit that I bore a certain emotion in each instance, one I sensed coming on again during our Christmas drive into the Cuyamacas. Settle in by your fire, toss another log on, and allow me to tell you a story.
On cutting trees…
I. Dead Trees. Over the years, with axe or saw in hand, even the dead trees have commanded a lot of respect, reverence if you will, especially those which had grown wild. The big ones, aside from being a lot of work to take down, seem to dominate the moment, and when the old sentinels with their deep memories are gone, their hillside, valley or skyline is forever altered. I try to visualize the before and after, and go into these dead-tree removals with some sort of justification, or at least rationalization… it’s usually firewood. The stumps remain as bothersome reminders of my actions. Scars slow to heal.
II. Live Trees. Now taking out a live tree, big or little, is another story and the reason had better be right. I might be “thinning” or I perhaps want to use the space for something else, or I need logs, building material, a safer place, future firewood, more sunlight, or improvement, interpreted as my version of esthetic beauty. The tree must go you see, based entirely on my decision, often only to fulfill my needs. The whole affair seems a bit one sided. When I pause to consult and listen from the tree’s perspective, the best I get is a concession, and that conjured up by me. And when I look around at all the cool stuff trees give us in this life, I reckon that provision is part of their purpose. All the same, chopping one is a bit like carrying an innocent ram to the altar; a life is sacrificed at the priest’s hand. Best to recognize some accountability at the start, as the deed cannot be undone. Plantation trees, whether for fuel, wood or pulp are an easy call. Felling them is called harvest time. Wild trees are special. Best to consider each case carefully.
III. The Land. North Peak Canyon Ranch is what we call our pretty little plot; ten-acres connected to ten thousand, connected to a million, connected to all the out yonder. That’s how it is with wild places. And I connect to the whole thing by engaging with the small bit at hand. A while back, we ceremoniously cut our Christmas trees from there, and this became our tradition. Then twelve years ago, the whole mountain went up in smoke. It was the Cedar Fire that claimed our cabin the Cuyamaca Rose, and of course our tree source was lost. Our visits became sporadic as the scene was at first depressing. Then the forest’s recovery began to resemble pure chaos. Charred trees were falling in every direction and new shrub growth was emerging in slow succession. No new trees could be found for the first three years. As a result, every December since the fire we acquiesced to simply buy our tree from the Boy Scouts or Costco, basically an Oregon grown plantation noble fir. But this year we wondered again if there might be some decent seedlings at our place.
IV. The Tree. Incense cedar (Calocedrus decurrens) is one of my favorites. My brother in law first showed me the tree in Humboldt County, and now whenever I see one, I feel as though I have found an old friend, whether in the north coast, the Sierras, or the Peninsular Range of southern California. The stands in the Cuyamacas, most of which burned in 2003, represent the southernmost limit in the States. The species then skips over a big tract of dry land to reappear further south in the high elevation forests of northern Baja. It is principally a California species, barely stretching into the mountainous border regions of Oregon, Nevada, and Mexico. Because of its furrowed red bark and tall tapering trunk, it is often mistaken for a redwood.
V. The Wood. True cedars and their relatives are famous for their remarkably durable and fragrant wood as seen in the traditional cedar chest that has protected its contents from moth and ruin through many generations. Even in ancient biblical times, cedar wood was considered precious and used only for special purposes. Because of its durability and permanence, our native incense cedar has conventionally been used for shingles, fence posts and railroad ties. In the Cuyamaca Rose, a huge incense cedar post stood in the center, twenty four feet high. We had felled this tree, skidded it into place and with no small effort, stood it up to support the ridge and round rafters, also cedar. I have also used big logs as tall posts for shade houses and smaller ones as rustic fence posts.
VI. The Name. In English or Spanish, incense cedar or cedro incienso, is a pretty name, both expressive and poetic, for indeed the fragrance of the branches is unforgettable. The mere utterance conjures up the image of a beautiful aromatic forest. The Latin name is even more descriptive. I first learned it as Libocedrus decurrens and now it is called Calocedrus decurrens. Botanists are famous for these off-hand switches. “Cedrus” is derived from Hebrew root word, “se’-dar, se’-der,” stemming from “kedros” meaning “to be firm.” The species epithet, “decurrens” is Latin for “beautiful” as in “decor” or “decorum.” In the old name “Libo-” in Latin signifies “tears” which I believe refers to the small tear-shapes cones, each bearing a solitary seed. In the new Latin name “Calo-” means beautiful, rendering the current botanical name to be literally translated “beautiful firm cedar tree beautiful.”
VII. The Capacity. Before the burn in the Cuyamacas, most of the forest was around 120 years old, by my calculation, which could be the subject of a separate story. Trust me on this, I was ten years investigating it. I believe the last huge fire ravaged my place in the 1880’s. At the turn of the millennium, we had big trees of multiple species and all ages everywhere, with a healthy shrub understory, sustained regeneration, and no exotic plants; ours was a picture perfect example of a pure climax community, mixed evergreen southern oak woodland/coniferous forest. The place was exuberant and bountiful and if I would practice good stewardship, it seemed that forest “products,” would be forever there for the taking. I had no second thoughts about thinning my thick stands of sapling cedars for Christmas trees at home and for friends, much improving the prospects of the other trees and the land in doing so. Firewood abounded, black oak and maul oak. Our floor was made from thick planks milled from a huge white fir I had felled for the purpose. The national champion Coulter pine grew just down the hill, and we had a specimen on our place so huge I could spot it from miles away. Now in 2015, with all that reduced to ash and the mountain on the mend, resource scarcity will be the norm for at least a few decades. All the same, with saw in hand we trekked up the driveway at North Peak Canyon Ranch. Several fallen trees have made vehicle passage impossible, and even on foot, these obstacles are formidable. We had our mind set on Christmas.
VIII. The Cut. I once read that while on his Sierran sojourns, John Muir prepared his nightly bed by cutting fir or cedar branches, so he could go off into his dream world by his own design. And little known fact: I routinely placed green incense cedar sprigs on the fire, in the final stages of cooking pancakes or making toast in camp, so my young family could enjoy a subtle smoky essence in their simple breakfast. I have kept quiet about this until now. Secret recipe. And you have already heard about my more traditional uses of incense cedar in home construction and ranch fencing. And now know this: Except in my house, I have never seen one used as a “Christmas tree.” But experience has shown that they are excellent, especially if you like an open branched, natural look. I have found that trees of 10-14 years tend to work best, and North Peak Canyon Ranch used to have a lot of these back in the days of old growth, too many really. Might it be that this would be the first year in many that we could again have Calocedrus decurrens in our living room?
IX. The Reasoning. Part of of our puritan past tells us that land is obligated to be productive at the hands of hardworking people. I have seen this so called principle played out to the point where sadly, the land dies a slow death. On the other hand, we should like to maintain a perfect hands-off approach to remote places and wilderness where even walking through is considered by some to be a disturbance. In between these extremes I want to practice ecological resource management, where respect and caution are the first order. A long time ago I was inspired by reading Aldo Leopold.
X. The Journey. There’s a tree, or at least the top half, in my living room again. Happens every year. This one is a fresh incense cedar and it seems very thirsty, having consumed over a gallon of water in ten days. Our house breathes of the forest, and with ornaments and lights we see our tree as an honored family member. This one rode down the mountain on the roof of my car, bundled in sisal rope. A stump and a root system got left behind. We actually brought two in this fashion, dropping one off one for the Cressey’s in San Diego. Up on the mountain, the trees grew within thirty paces of each other, twelve and nine years, their ages. The stumps remain in the driveway and therein lies my justification. The driveway. The trees might have never reached maturity because should I repair the road, they would be cut down. Should, would. The fact is I did once repair the road after the fire, and spent a pretty sum in doing so. The mountain’s long term recovery program apparently includes eliminating my driveway. I might never need a driveway. Could it be that I should have left those trees in place? Could, should.
XI. The Case. Aside from fixing my road and the well, and hauling the debris from my ruined house, the only activity on my place was when my friend Lane felled some good size standing cedar fire kills, and milled the logs into stacks of beautiful plank lumber. He used the wood throughout his adobe in Oak Grove, and gave me some boards as well. This goes back to stewardship. Lane only took a few trees, leaving several snags behind for wildlife and overall forest regeneration. Meanwhile in the years since the big fire, the land owners all around me have decided to sign up for state and county programs which involve intense alterations to their land; felling dead trees, cutting and hauling the logs, chipping the wood in place, masticating or mowing the remaining woody shrubs down to the nub and repeatedly applying herbicide to any persistent sprouts and new seedlings. In addition, they plant the tree species they want from the state nursery. Basically they are redesigning the forest, and supposedly in the name of productivity and fire safety. The composition is askew and many foreign weeds have found their way in. Most of the mountainside has been peeled back to mineral soil. From across the valley, you can see my place as the only untamed, rowdy, verdant parcel in the area. I said no thanks to the program. A lot of birds and other fellow mortals have said thanks to me.
XII. The Verdict. My land project, from acquisition, survey, road, water well, electricity, septic system, and cabin construction took twelve years. Another twelve have passed since the fire. I think it was Ed Abbey who said, “Nature bats last.” I sure felt that to be true as I stumbled around the smoldering remains of the forest in 2003. And now, as I watch little cedars take root in the stone-step entry of what was my house, I think she’s swinging for a home run. I don’t know if I can realistically cut one or two young incense cedars a year, considering the rate of regrowth and the vision I have for the place. We’ll have to give that more thought. I do know that this year, we have a lovely Calocedrus decurrens in our home, and though a tree was killed for the purpose, our lives are made more joyous in the most wonderful time of the year.
On reflection…
“He who plants trees loves others beside himself,” is a quote attributed to an eighteenth century physician/preacher called Dr.Thomas Fuller. I like that. Come to think of it, I don’t know any great platitudes in regards to chopping trees down.
The hour is late and the fire burnt low. Too late for another log now. Time for sleep. Let’s say our prayers and go to bed.
God, grant me the wisdom, courage, and grace to make good decisions… following you and serving others, and to do right in those moments when my actions would affect your creation, especially your trees.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.