Way of a Tree (eBook)

Chapter 4:
From Cutting to Caring:
A New Perspective on Tree Stewardship

A Moment of Clarity: The Mesquite Moment

There was a time when I was taught that the best way to care for trees was to cut. It was what the industry expected, what clients demanded, and what my peers praised. But over the years, as I spent my time working on trees and making careful observations, something began to become clear to me. The more I watched, listened, and gathered data, the more I realized that the very practices I was implementing in an attempt to care for trees had the opposite effect.

This realization didn’t come overnight; it took time. It began with a nagging feeling that something just wasn’t right. I remember the day it hit me the hardest. I had been pruning mesquite trees, which was common during my years in the desert southwest, and had multiple calls from clients who had branches break post-pruning. So, feeling awful—something not felt by all in the same situation—and concerned for their care, I reviewed my pruning objectives and compared them to industry standards. I also analyzed the scientific practices common to other companies in my industry. My conclusion: I had done nothing wrong—at least, according to the guidelines I had followed.

But back to how I felt awful. It’s something that some people have, but not everyone does: empathy. Almost a tortuous virtue, if you know what I mean. The kind that keeps you up at night wondering what you had done wrong, concerned that your actions had caused someone else pain. In these cases, there is only one thing that alleviates your torture: fixing the thing that you think you’ve done wrong.

A New Understanding: The Problem with Thinning

So, I continued with caution. Maybe it was just something to do with the wind in relation to the weight of the branches and the time of year, I kept telling myself. But that didn’t make me feel any better.

And then another call came in, my torture personified. I found myself in so much emotional pain that I went back to that quiet inner place that I had developed in my youth, a place that had always guided me when my world didn’t make sense. I stayed there until something clicked: the branches had been isolated by the wind due to the thinning that had taken place, and those branches weren’t accustomed to the load.

It wasn’t so much the wind loading that was the problem but me changing it. Reaching this conclusion was a monumental moment for me, as I was a lone wolf. I had no science-driven engine behind me or peers to bounce my ideas off.

It’s also worth noting that the region in which I worked was extremely cutthroat. Fortunately, years later, I’ve found a different group in arboriculture that is supportive, but it’s a group worldwide.

But back to my deduction. Mind you, it was also in the late 2000s, and thinning was a normal practice—encouraged even. So, I immediately stopped the practice of thinning and began to speak out, loudly, much to the angst of my peers. Some understood what I was saying, but others took it as a personal attack. And some still do.

Fortunately, today I have a much better understanding of the concept and can articulate the science behind the relationship better through mass damping, reaction wood in relation to load, and how biomass loss affects wood functionality, physiology, carbohydrate levels, and respiration rates.

Shifting the Culture of Tree Care

I had a celebration of sorts at the Iowa State Shade Tree Short Course a couple of years ago when it was announced that thinning had been taken out of the pruning standards. It was music to my ears and validation that the observations I had made earlier in life were correct.

However, it took a long time to reach this point. Even back then, after changing my approach and realizing that the best way to care for trees wasn’t through excessive cutting or giving in to a client’s aesthetic demands, the battle was tough—and still continues, I might add, as we attempt to reshape the culture through education and awareness.

People need help understanding not just the importance of trees, but the best practices for maintaining them. My current role as an educator does more good than running a tree service ever did. This shift in perspective not only freed me from the cycle of destruction—both of my body and my environment, because, after all, there is no future in removing trees—but it also allowed me to focus on the deeper connection I have with trees, the people I meet, the environments I set foot on, and the world in which I live.

Unfortunately, I am one of a very small percentage that have come to this understanding and then gone on to make the change. Early in my career, I was attacked for my position, and at times, that still seems to continue, as those who wield a hammer inevitably crush their own toes. So, the cycle of cutting, pruning, and removing tree parts continues to this day, driven by many factors—overhead costs, client demands, industry standards, insurance policies, complicit cultural practices, and so on. People cut because it’s what they’ve been taught to do, what their clients expect, and what the industry supports.

A New Perspective: Caring for Trees

But if we look at trees through a new lens—if we could see their life from start to finish—we might begin to understand that our current practices don’t make a lot of sense. We might begin to see that what trees need most isn’t our controls, our maintenance, our cutting, and misapplied care, but our understanding. And that’s the revelation that has been growing within me since I was a child, and it’s something I hope to share with you.

In summary of the last section, our efforts to manage and maintain trees must shift away from control toward actual care—not care that is the result of a conclusion from a flawed publication that fails to bring to light the extent of its variables, but care that acknowledges trees are not just resources to be managed, but living organisms with their own needs and roles within our environment. Care that identifies most of our tree problems are actually problems with ourselves. We need to adopt practices that support the natural processes of trees. And by doing this, we can create environments where trees can do what they are meant to do—more than merely survive.

One story that comes to mind when I consider this shift is of a particular oak tree on a client’s property. The tree had been pruned and pruned again over the years until it was a shadow of its former self. The client had called me, expecting more of the same—another round of shoot maintenance to keep the tree in compliance. But when I arrived and looked at the tree, they got something quite different.

I informed them that the tree was struggling—in fact, dying—and at risk of a decline spiral, for no other reason than the pruning that had been practiced. All those years of response sprout removal (epicormic shoots) had taken its toll, and this is all too common—most times the tree is subsequently removed by the very hands of the ones who caused the decline.

I went on to tell them that the last thing this tree needed was more pruning; instead, it needed a chance to recover and gather itself from the extended abuse. I explained that the best thing we could do for the tree was to leave it alone, to let it respond to the stress that it had encountered and give it time to find the balance required to maintain its vascular function.

The client was skeptical at first, but, as is true of everything, when you speak the truth, it plants a seed in someone’s heart—a nagging seed that they can’t get away from. So they agreed to the care plan. They also heard something that I tell many in this situation: that “a healthy tree always looks better than a pruned tree.” And then I usually follow that up with, “You can always remove a branch later, but you can’t easily put them back on.”

Much of the reason for these sayings, that I’ve said over a thousand times, is because of one’s perception of what is good. They are concerned with what others might think or whether they are doing something bad. Because, after all, cutting the tree to pieces is something we’ve done for far too long. But we press on. The pruning stopped, and in a short time, the tree’s vitality began improving. In addition, it freed up some of the client’s resources to reinforce some old cabling that had begun to bind branches.

Over the next five years, we watched that tree transform. Branches grew stronger, the canopy filled out, and it began to thrive in a way it hadn’t for years. There was no longer a need for dead branch removal because they were no longer dying. The sprout development balanced out and aided the tree’s overall functionality. For too long, it has been said that sprouts steal from the crown. It is mind-numbing to me to hear the perspective that a tree could steal from itself. In fact, the tree is sensing the crown’s decline and responding.

But back to sharing my story. My client ended up passing away, but the tree remains as a testament to him and our interactions. The last time we talked, his face lit up with joy as he said, “I’m glad to know you’re caring for my trees.” It was a powerful reminder that sometimes, the best thing we can do for people and...