“Oaks are not only important members of greater ecosystems, but every oak tree is also a wonderful, infinitely complicated ecosystem unto itself.”—from The Life of an Oak: An Intimate Portrait by Glen Keator
“The falling of a giant tree, whether witnessed or not, is a dramatic event.”—from The Biography of a Tree by James P. Jackson
“I leaned my back against an oak, thinking it was a trusty tree, but first it bent and then it broke…”—from The Water is Wide, a traditional English folk song.
Over a decade ago, when we acquired our cabin along the Illinois River bluffs, there were three massive black oak trees living on the property. But only after a few years, the one near our driveway entrance abruptly died, and I thought it best to have it cut before it fell. I knew it was an old tree, but I was still surprised when I counted the growth rings on its stump to find that this tree was over two hundred years old.
A couple of years later, the second of the three ancient oaks died just as unexpectedly as the first. Still, it looked as if it could be a standing dead tree for many years to come, and when it finally did fall, it would not block the driveway; so I was determined to let it stand, to provide a home for wildlife, to lose its twigs and branches gradually over the years, and eventually be reduced only to the standing main trunk, until that too would fall, perhaps after decades, finally decomposing into the soil.
But that was not to be. When a line of dangerous thunderstorms recently passed over the area, the old snag was literally pushed over by the wind, taking a hackberry tree and our neighbor’s split rail fence with it. We’ll have to restore the fence, so the fallen tree will have to be removed in sections, cut up, split, and stacked as firewood. It will provide hours of warmth at the cabin’s fireplace before being finally gone. And its soot will be returned to the woods.
As I contemplated the task of how to remove such a large tree, I kept thinking of the remaining old black oak in the northeastern corner of our property. It stands within a remote, thickly wooded area that I probably only set foot upon once or twice. Over the years, my focus at the cabin has been mostly toward the west, with its river bluffs, Quiver Lake, and the big sky over the wide river valley. But that would have to change, as I now began to feel anxious about this tree, of losing it before I ever had a chance to enjoy its living nearness and link to a time when the Lewis and Clark expedition was a breaking news item.
The last of the original three old black oaks.
So before I left for home that day, I blazed a new trail through the woods, the “Old Oak Trail” loop, which I would now include on my walks around the property. Of course, there are other trees that get special attention on these walks: the pawpaw, which I planted a few years ago; the big hickory with the strangely angled trunk that speaks of some long ago event that left a permanent influence on its growth pattern; the middle-aged bur oak just above flood level; the green ash down on the sandy beach that has yet to be attacked by the emerald ash borer, a certain death that is only a matter of time; and the big cottonwood that serves as a resting and hunting perch for bald eagles. But the last old black oak now has my full attention, like a venerable war hero, a tattered survivor of the ages, and a reminder that there is so much more to existence than the brief time span of our current era that is so easy to consider the most relevant.
A new trail leading to the last old black oak.
[Author's Note: Another Old Oak Done Gone, posted in 2015, is about the first of the three old black oaks at the cabin to die.]