"The Trees Are Not Indigenous"

Several years ago as a Scoutmaster, I took a small group of young boys on a camping trip. We drove to a location that I had visited myself decades earlier, as a young Boy Scout. I remembered the mountains and the stream that wondered through the camp, surrounded by large towering pine trees. These were wonderful memories and I was excited to have the scouts form similar memories of their own.

When we arrived at the camp I barely recognized it. ALL the huge pine trees had been cut down and replaced with tiny scrub oaks protected from the hungry deer and rabbits by chicken wire cages. The campsite had changed from a cool, shady retreat with the sound of quiet breezes rustling through the pine trees, into a veritable desert, wasteland.

When the camp ranger came to collect our fees, I ask her what had happened to all the trees. Her calm, environmental response sent chills down my back...

"We cut them down because they were not indigenous," she stated.

"What do you mean, 'not indigenous'?" I responded.

"Pine Trees are not indigenous to this area," she replied, as she tried to straighten out the folded dollar bills I had handed her. "That is why we planted those Oak Trees. They ARE indigenous." She explained to me.

"Those trees must have been over a 100 years old!" I emphasized. "Some of these stumps around here are over two feet in diameter!"

She was obviously not impressed with my sincerity as she handed me a receipt and put the money into her pocket. Then she calmly responded, "Or even older," and then walked back to her truck.

Later the next day, after I had taken all the boys home, I made a special visit to the local US National Park office in town. I didn't bother to change out of my Boy Scout uniform, as I thought it would make me look more official. After explaining my complaint to the receptionist behind the counter, I was soon greeted by a 60 year old woman who had obviously survived Woodstock as a young hippie. Her long gray hair lay naturally down over her dark wrinkled neck and partially covered her sun-dried lips. She scanned my uniform with her make-up-less eyes and calmly asked me what I wanted.

I related my story to her about the missing trees and expressed my disbelief that the US National Park Service would cut down those old trees. She gave me the same party line that I had heard from the ranger...

"Pine Trees are not indigenous to that area," she repeated to me.

I started to get angry. "Who are YOU to decide what is or is not indigenous?" I asked her. I soon realized that no amount of logic or reason was going to change her mind. Besides, the trees were already gone and nothing I could say was going to change that sad fact. However, since I had lost the agrument, I figured that there was no harm in leaving my mark on her stubborn, environmental brain. As I prepared to leave, I changed the subject...

"I have hiked all over the Santa Monica mountains and they are so beautiful," I said.

She was touched by this comment and responded, "Oh yes, I certainly do agree with you. I have hiked them as well."

I continued, "Once I found sea-shell fossils near the top of those mountains!"

She sensed my enthusiasm and responded, "I know. I have seen them as well. Aren't they wonderful?"

"I would venture that the entire mountain range was once under water," I suggested.

"You are probably correct," she agreed, her dry lips and wrinkled skin trying to form a difficult smile.

"You know," I began, "Instead of planting those tiny scrub oaks, you should probably be planting seaweed or plankton."

Her dry, cracked smile transformed into an angry frown. "This conversation is OVER!" she growled as she walked off.

"Yes it is," I said quietly to myself. "Yes it is."