What will you steward?

Forests, fungi, and fixing what's broken

Today’s accompanying tune:

Measured in the lifespan of a ancient tree, the discovery was relatively nascent. Discovery is a bit of a stretch, as well, given Indigenous folks have often pointed to the connections, the ecosystems, the trees, as interconnected in a robust, thriving symbiotic relationship. But scientists, ecologists, botanists, arborists, mycologists confirmed those teachings: plants are very much living entities, and heavily rely on each other and fungi in their root systems to survive.

In what will amount to be a gross oversimplification, let me explain: some fungi that live in soils will amass themselves near the tips of tree roots, breaking down molecules in the soil so that they are easier for the root to absorb in exchange for the sugary waste expelled by the root. The small caps hikers or mushroom hunters see is even less than the tip of the ice berg — it is the smallest sign of the massive network sprawling out below their feet. The fungi form a network between trees, shuttling small bits of nourishment and information from the oldest trees down to the saplings, just starting out. It is widely believed that fungal networks are some of the most telling signs of a healthy, vibrant forest.

As with many networks in the natural world, the tree-fungi connection is a delicate balance. Too much or too little of any resource — sun, light, decomposing material, heat or cold — can send the system into a rapid downward spiral. But by and large, its main threat is humanity. Clear-cutting and other aggressive forestry practices decimate existing networks, wiping out mature trees with their centuries of accumulated wisdom and associated fungi to the detriment of those planted in their wakes. Even selective harvesting can doom it — the increased light and heat becomes a threat, as does the disruption of topsoil and decomposing material on the forest floor. Networks built over hundreds, maybe thousands of years, wiped out in an instant.

Without the fungal networks, young trees struggle to fend off pests, parasites, and disease. They more easily succumb to invasive species — plant, insect, and mammal alike — and grow less robust than their predecessors. They burn easily, fueling catastrophic wildfires. In many cases, they struggle to take root at all. Without the guide of their elders, without the guide of the networks into which they could easily tap, the forest limps along, a shadow of its former self, doing its best to make do with its meager rations, its perilous circumstances. If left undisturbed, forests can recover. It is a slow process, one with a timescale of generations rather than years. If the beleaguered first generation remains healthy enough to produce seeds, the next generation will be slightly better off from the trials of its parents tree. It won’t have the type of generational knowledge built into an old growth stand, one that has withstood fires, floods, earthquakes, droughts, deluges, wind, and anything else Mother Nature can throw at it. But it will have something, just enough to make do for now. Hopefully, enough to reach its own maturity, produce its own seeds, and add its own experiential knowledge to the network, leaving its progeny marginally better off in turn.

Desert plants have a similar relationship, though it is more easily seen given the nature of shallower root systems in drought-plagued ecosystems. The cryptobiotic soil acts similarly, providing nutrients and pathways among creosote and desert almond and agave via a network of fungi and other microbes. The soil is a living, photosynthesizing organism, in and of itself. Signs dot popular hiking trails in Joshua Tree asking visitors to stay on designated trails, as a single footstep on the cryptobiotic soil can kill the millions of organisms living there and put the plants that rely on them at risk. The damage can take hundreds, if not thousands, of years to reverse, if it does so at all.

And so the cycle slowly turns, the resilient quest for survival playing out daily underneath our feet with an agonizing pace. Trees, and plants generally, are some of the few living beings that do not have the benefit of immigration, save for the lucky few seeds that hitch a ride on a soaring avian highway or a furry forest foray. Their roots, for all their life-saving and life-giving properties, do not allow trees the flexility to change their circumstances. To, say, migrate from a clear-cut section of forest with a damaged fungal network to one peppered with old growth matriarchs generous with their fungal friends. Beetles, flycatchers, polar bears, pronghorn, coyotes, pigeons, humans — all can adjust their circumstances, adapt to a new environment, and, to varying degrees, survive in the face of hardship simply by taking to the sky, sea, or sidewalk. Trees and their associated fungal networks are not so lucky. They must survive where they’ve rooted, regardless of the atrocities committed before their inception. Though some will become victims of circumstance, others will survive despite circumstance.

Trees are rarely a wayward guide in turbulent times. The same can be said for nature broadly. When I am struggling to process the daily atrocities to which we are all exposed, I find myself retreating to nature, whether via books about natural processes or a visit to my soon-to-be backyard. I visit the mature alder on the back part of my property, replanted with the simple goal of another clear-cut. I navigate the unreasonably gargantuan stumps of old growth matriarchs long gone, their kin growing from the remains. I take my mind underground, to the networks of fungi that have shepherded these trees from infancy to today as best they could. I plot and plan to bring this forest back to its former glory, back to life. I acknowledge that damage done in an instant cannot be similarly undone; I will very likely not live to see the forest restored entirely as our timelines only briefly intersect. I am but a visitor to their lands, having left a more hostile life for one I can only hope will be marginally easier. The least I can do is leave it better than I found it, to make my mark upon a desecrated land one of healing. To use my mobility, my privilege, to aid those without such luxuries. To restore a network I had no place in destroying, to benefit life I may never personally witness. It is all I can do to ensure life is marginally better for the generations behind me, those that will root one step, two steps, three steps removed from the atrocities we are currently witnessing. The land doesn’t belong to me, neither does the forest. The fungal networks do not recognize a deed, a certificate, an identification card. I am merely their steward, their voice, their ally. If that is all I am, then that is enough.

Here’s to knowing that no one is ever illegal on stolen land.

- Megan