Survivor’s Guilt
Noel Laflin
January 22, 2015
I am much
older than I appear. But I’m not letting
on by just how much. Do you wish to guess?
As a point
in fact, I am older than those of you reading this today - or for that matter, the
combined years of any of you and the three fathers that preceded you. We are talking centuries, my friend. And I have the rings – as well as scars - to prove
it. But I prefer to keep those intact
for a bit longer, so don’t get any ideas of trying to disprove my claim just
yet.
I am a
survivor of drought, fire, insect and man.
And of them all, man was the worst by far. But I suppose some of you already knew
that. However, for those who may not
know my story, come closer and share my shade as I enlighten you as to how
things have changed in my little ‘neck of the woods.’ As you have no doubt deduced by now, unless
you are as dense as the granite encasing my roots, I am a tree – a trustworthy
fir – honest to my ancient core and a credit to my species. Did I also mention that I was just a bit
vain? Ah, so be it. I have lived long enough for that to be
forgiven.
Now, in my
beginning, the land about you teemed with greenery. Oh, sure, you see some tall trees today
surrounding this open plain, a plain once known as Lightingdale, but it pales
in comparison as to how it once appeared.
And believe
me, it was a ferocious gamble that one could even make it above topsoil when I
first sprouted so long ago. It was a
veritable jungle out there when I was a youth.
Oh, not a tropical jungle, have you – I use the term metaphorically –
but a jungle in the sense that it was a game of mere survival of the fittest.
Old
companions of mine, now long gone unfortunately, told me how they marveled at
my tenacity to live at all, given that there was such competition for sunlight
and moisture. Oh, sure, the winter snows
were plentiful for the most part, but summers were not always so kind to us
when it came to rainfall. And the crowded
canopy above, as well as all about us, was intimidating to say the least. One had to push and shove his way to the top
just to grab a faint glimmer of life-sustaining sunshine. But, I was determined to live and grow – and
I did.
As those
first decades passed I was eventually assured of a place on this mountain. I
shared this higher elevation with giant ponderosas, flame-resistant incense cedars,
ancient oaks, sweetly scented Jeffrey pines, and other firs – all competitors of
course, but good solid, upright friends nonetheless. Beneath us grew ferns, buck brush,
monkey pods, willow and the occasional lovely snow plant. Our forest was abundantly dense with lichen-encrusted
trees and rocks covering every rise and fall of the land. And we also had this flat plain to center us,
and the occasional lightning bolt to enflame us. But it is today, as I look down
upon the openness from my lofty height, much as it was back in my youth. Only, there were so many more of my kindred
back then keeping guard as we pressed in upon this clearing …
It was also
during this time in my youth that I first became aware of man.
The humans would
come to our clearing every spring. The
older trees informed me that they had been doing so for many generations. The men and children were as naked as the day
they were born. The women dressed in
modest skins. They carried little as
they walked up from the deep creek below – the creek that was their highway into
the sky.
For nearly three
centuries I bore witness to the arrival of these gentle creatures who came to
the coolness of the mountain in order to escape the desert harshness
below. They did not stay but for five
moons each season before picking up their brightly colored baskets and babies
and making the trek back down the steep creek highway once the autumn chill was
well under way. But while here, they fared well, sitting beneath our shade,
hunting small game, and collecting the nuts, cones and berries that were in
such great abundance. If you look
closely – just over there by that stand of oaks, you can still see where they
ground the acorns they so highly prized. The women crushed them with smooth stones
into the gentle indentations that can still be seen in the face of that large
flat rock. They spoke softly to one
another as they toiled so. Children were
taught the ways of their elders and grew as quickly as young saplings. The
people of this era considered the giant bears – those that so freely and abundantly
once roamed these woods - as kin. The families that migrated here each season
never harmed grandfather bear – never partook in his killing – never ate the
meat or wore the skin of their ancestors. Yes, they had manners, these gentle
humans. And I miss them. I have not heard their quiet words for more
than a century and a half now. Nor have
I seen grandfather bear in nearly that long as well.
Within a
century or two, however, other men eventually took the place of the quiet ones. We, as an old growth species, did not care
for them at all. They were strangely
dressed, loud and disrespectful of the land.
They carried guns and axes and used both with reckless abandon – taking
down stately friends and the last of the bear clan, not to mention any deer or
squirrel foolish enough to stick around.
The new
uncouth humans – awash in wild facial hair and stinking body parts - came in
ones and twos originally, bearing strange instruments and taking measurements
of our surrounding hillsides. Then the loud
men started to arrive in droves, pitching their ugly tents, shooting those few animals
unfortunate enough to wander into our old lightning plain, pissing and shitting
in the once pristine creek that you can still hear yonder. They began to clear a pathway through many a
stand of tree on the western slope. The
men then hauled them away, only to return some of my former comrades now
misshapen beyond recognition. Without
reverence these men began to pound roughly hewed, sharpened spikes through my
old friends, all the while laying heavy metal rails onto their bleeding limbs
on this new devil of a highway they had carved around our mountain.
But this was
only a preview of the real perversion yet to come. And it came one day in the form of a
belching, smoking, clanging metal monster riding the backs of my old mates. The men cheered upon its arrival, throwing
their sweat-stained hats into the air and firing their guns willy-nilly. Birds flew, deer quivered, raccoons grabbed
their young and ran. I only wish that we
could have run as well.
Thick cables
were strung across the land and steam-powered machines began to vibrate in
murderous anticipation. The metal lines
commenced to slice through the younger, weaker trees – while teams of men
wielding wickedly sharp axes plowed into my larger friends. The forest shook and cried in pain as one
giant after another toppled to their death. I kept awaiting the axe men to lay
into me at any moment – but the moment never came. Instead, they rounded my generous girth with
their sharp cable and used me as an anchor in order to haul those who’d already perished
up the mountainside so that their dead bodies could be stacked onto wooden flat
beds and hauled away for further slaughter at the sawmill but an hour ride away.
The holocaust
went on for nearly ten years - even after the very last of the great bears was
brought down. Men came and went – tents
were struck and reassembled season after season. The pathway through the forest was ever
lengthened so that more ancient stands of trees could be harvested and hauled
away. Lightning continued to dance upon
the newly denuded hills. But by then, I was the only lightening rod within
leagues of any strike. And let me let
you in on a dreadful secret – I prayed to be struck back then. I had, what some of you refer to today as,
survivor’s guilt. I was all alone within
the first dozen years of the last millennium.
One day, the
metal beast did not return – as there was nothing to return for. The forest was gone. The birds were gone. The deer were gone. And soon, the men were
blessedly gone as well, uprooting their metal highway and leaving only the
remains of some of my old friends to rot away on the narrow pathway.
What they also left behind was a stump-filled wasteland surrounding this patch of flat,
trampled earth. It took several decades
for new growth to come about. I
sustained a sleepless vigil over the youngsters as they slowly took hold,
breaking through the tough granite and reaching for the sunlight. They had an easier time of it than I, as
there was no competition from older generations to hinder their growth.
As the young
ones grew and became aware, they questioned me in regard to the deep scars
about my base. With time, many of those
scars healed over – but not all, as you may have noticed. Some ran too deep and will stay with me for
whatever time I have left.
Four decades
passed before the next set of humans arrived.
By then, many new trees had filled in the once barren land. It’s the only reason the people returned, I
suppose.
But this time the humans were
kinder – rarely carrying axes. They have
now come and gone in waves for the past half century or more. They marvel at my girth and touch the old
scars that will never heal and wonder aloud as to how they came about. Many have not heard my story until now. So, I hope I have been of some enlightenment –
a rather not-too-subtle pun, considering where I reside, don’t you think?
The human youngsters
of today do not come from the deep creek below, as they once did with their
parents. Today they come via a different highway, or so I have come to
learn. But they remind me of a more
civilized people, despite their clothes and laughter and silly campfire songs.
They whiz past me on their winter sleds and saunter by on summer hikes. Some stop to marvel at the beauty of the
place and try to guess my age as they lay their small hands upon my bark.
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