The good news is that the quaking aspen that was blown over by last summer’s hurricane has been resurrected in the form of a dozen new “stems,” some of which already stand eight feet tall. Where once was a patch of lawn, I now have a little forest, which I’m hoping will thrive for, oh, let’s say the next fourteen thousand years. That’s about how long a single aspen clonal colony known as Pando has been growing in south central Utah. For centuries, Pando has survived high winds, wildfires, overgrazing, drought, Boy Scouts with hatchets—even the carvings of besotted teen-aged lovers, none of whom are still alive, let alone in love.
Here I shall confess that I once carved my initials, along with those of my high school squeeze upon an aspen trunk at a place called Old Folks Flat up Huntington Canyon. What was I thinking? Did I imagine that she and I would grow old together? Perhaps. Could I have imagined that the tree I had defaced would not only survive the stabbing but go on to outlive not just the two of us but every other living thing in the entire world? I did not.
In order to assess the age of an aspen, one doesn’t count growth rings. Instead, one measures the root system, which in the case of Pando spreads across 108 acres. My newborn aspen grove probably won’t get that big because my backyard is small and my next-door neighbor runs a mower over whatever stems shoot up from his lawn. I used to do the same; that is, until it dawned on me that I’m not a plains dweller but rather a forest creature. Fact is, I love shade, and always have. Even though I grew up in the desert southwest, I always looked to pitch my tent beneath a tree whenever possible—preferably two trees, so I could string up a hammock. Then I could stretch out and gaze skyward at fluttering aspen leaves against a cerulean sky.
I have a good friend in California who tells me he wants to have his ashes spread in a particular aspen grove. I may choose to do the same when my time comes; however, I may skip the cremation part and insist on being buried instead of scattered. Because who knows—perhaps instead of rotting away I’ll take root, eventually to resurface as a Mini-Me sapling, happy to see the sun and eager to take my place in the human forest.
