Stacy Boone
It’s time for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center.
Albert Camus wrote, “[Autumn is] a second spring when every leaf’s a flower.”
Most days of the past five years, I stall at a small copse of trees in a forest of trees. Even on the coldest days, my scarf wrapped to cover my cheeks and my hat pulled to my eyebrows, I stop. A form of what? Attesting, maybe. I post myself in muck boots or snowshoes or cross-country skis for a few heartbeats. These dozen trees deserve my pause. A stand that breaks the otherwise clear sightline to the wetlands.
Sometimes I huff about the semi-curtained view or that the branches have extended their spindly arms into a narrow walking space I clear for my own. The natural growth of branches is coercing the trail towards the uphill side of the ridge. A particular tree I regularly gaze upon has sufficient gaps for the winter sun, on clear days, to send sprays of dazzling white, orange, or blue light directly onto my upturned face.
It is February and still these branches are dressed in a flutter of leaves. Golden brown with a dark midrib and branching pinnate veins. Hanging withering leaves offer acoustic murmuring as dry leaf edges shift with a rustle only expected in full leaf season.
The term for this hanging leaf curiosity: marcescence – “mar-SESS-uhns.” Its Latin root: to fade.
Leaves fall when the space between the leafstalk (petiole) and the branch form a small separation layer (abscission). While most deciduous trees lose their leaves in the fall, some tree species—bur oaks, beech, and hornbeams—wait to sever this separating layer.
Why do this? The answer is unknown. Some scientists think it is a dining deterrent for our favorite big mammals—moose and deer that cherish tender twigs and buds waiting to burst in the warmer days to come. Surely the dry leaves lack flavor! I imagine the crunching loudness is a bit scary for prey and a signal for predators. Maybe these trees are more thirsty than their neighbors and use their hanging marcescent leaves to collect additional sips of water. It might be that dropping leaves in the spring slows the succession of plants near the tree’s base or alternatively, allows the leaves to decompose faster after hanging through the winter.
Lately, my thoughts wander towards death, but not in a fearful or immediate way. Life is temporary. For me and these trees. Seasonal cycles. Branches shed leaves like humans shed skin. Walks through the forest humble me with the security of knowing these trees have been evolving for hundreds of years. One hundred years from today what will this space be? More trees or fewer? Will someone else take on the task I have made my own—the daily regard of these trees on warm days, on bright snowy days, or maybe in the cold, gray heaviness when bark cracks with the sound of a rifle shot. Will the next witness wonder at an errant leaf on fallen snow? The leaf’s existence is soon erased as she drowns beneath the accumulation of snowflakes, weeks or months away from settling with autumn leaves already doing their job of creating the next layer of soil.
My walks accumulate silent stories from a forest always offering to speak. Today I listened, learned the human word, a new term, when the rest of the forest is in a winter rest. Some trees defy Camus and instead assert: autumn arrives in the spring—Leaves as flowers. Or maybe flowers as leaves. This is possible in the blow of snow and gale of winds because of a thin connection. A steadfast link that remains in the short winter days. Marcescence—hanging on though already dead.
Today’s Field Note was written by Stacy Boone. I’m Allison De Jong for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center, providing natural history education for schools and the public throughout Montana. To find out about upcoming events and programs at the Center, call 406.327.0405, or visit our website at MontanaNaturalist.org.
