When was the last time you spoke to a tree? When was the first time you heard a tree talk back? Never? That’s common. But if you listen closely, you may find bewilderment.
Western hemlock, red and yellow cedar, and Sitka spruce make up the Haida Gwaii temperate rainforest. Of all living things, trees are a core component of biodiversity, providing us with food and shelter while regulating a massive ecosystem. The trees are listening. And they are talking all the time.
On your next walk in the woods, put your ear up to the bark of an older tree. You might hear it drinking—a distant echo, a sort of bubbling sound. What? Yes, of course, trees drink. They need to be hydrated just like us. They talk to each other too, sending distress signals warning of drought and disease. Science calls this a mycorrhizal network. In other words, they are communal—just like us. The communication takes place right beneath us, establishing a symbiotic relationship known as a fungal network.
Roots and their tiny tips stretch across the underground network, consuming the sugar that trees photosynthesize from sunlight. The roots allow trees to feed from the fungi, which scavenges the soil for phosphorus and a multitude of mineral nutrients.
Charles Darwin, an English naturalist known for the theory of evolution, believed that trees were disconnected loners competing for water and nutrients. Perhaps this oversimplification explains why wood-producing ecosystems—and the deforestation of much of Haida Gwaii—became a battleground that created the backbone of the Canadian economy.
Indeed, red and yellow cedar are prestigious resources used in house building. The ongoing U.S.-Canada trade war has highlighted the fact that fire-ravaged states cannot rebuild without Canadian timber. Moreover, barges loaded with giant second-growth cedar continue to make their way to Western markets around the world. Forestry giants have made billions over the years, and although the rate of deforestation has dramatically slowed in recent years, trees are still being cut down. They remain Haida Gwaii’s largest export.
You can hear the trees crying. The moss that blankets much of the rainforest—especially in protected areas—also speaks to visitors. Perhaps the greatest piece of knowledge I have gained in reading about the mycorrhizal network is how deeply the temperate rainforest depends on salmon nitrogen isotopes.
Haida Gwaii sits along the super salmon highway, where fish return to spawn in natal streams. Bears rely on this miracle of nature. Scientists and knowledge keepers alike know that bears eat salmon beneath trees. They leave the carcasses to rot on the forest floor. The trees then absorb the salmon nitrogen and share the feast through their interlinking network of fish, forest and fungi.
Each year, we eat salmon on Haida Gwaii. Many islanders moved here to work in the fishing or logging industries. While many of these industries have slowed down—some nearly disappearing—life on the Gwaii seems largely unchanged despite dwindling resources.
We produce TV documentaries for a living. During the COVID-19 pandemic, we travelled to the far south of the archipelago to visit the old village site known locally as SGang Gwaay Llnagaay. This is a special place, home to the world’s oldest standing carved cedar trees, known as totem poles. Some are mortuary poles; others are memorials. Most were carved centuries ago. The remains of pit houses also stand there. This was home to the Kunghit Haida for at least 2,000 to 10,000 years.
I went there to photograph the surviving poles. Some of us know them as ancestors. As the wind whistled through the village, I could almost hear the songs they sang. The trees, in their splendour, must have been huge. Though they were harvested specifically for the creation of art and the display of old family crests, the carved masterpieces still speak to the many people who visit this UNESCO World Heritage site. I felt the thrill of a child of nature, bestowed with an eye for detail and an ear for a family friend. In my mind, I sang along, feeling exhilarated for days afterward. In my soul, I felt the love and generosity of the host spirit there.
When we first moved to Haida Gwaii in 2015, a tree stood on the shoreline near our house. The photograph you see here is of that tree 10 years ago. It was the perch for many eagles, as you can see. Over time, the tree began to show signs of age and deterioration. Severe winds caused it to lose branches. Its bark slowly peeled away. One day, a branch nearly hit children playing nearby. That was when it was decided that the old spruce should be felled. There was palpable fear that it could inadvertently harm an innocent child. I watched as it came down and was struck with deep sadness.
When the tree was presumed to be dying, it was not. Today, it remains a dignified stump, like so many of its kind throughout the homeland of the Haida.
There is a Haida saying: Everything depends on everything else.
Say hello to your trees. They will say something back—if only you listen.