Forests – Last Stands

The soothing escapes that old-growth forests provide are probably much closer than you think. But they’re under siege

- By Jennifer Flowers

I almost miss the inconspicuous brown sign on the side of the North Cascades Highway, which passes through Washington state’s famous mountain range, and nearly drive right past Rockport State Park. When I pull into the lot on a clear spring Saturday, only two other cars are here.

But as I meet the first of the park’s colossal Douglas firs, their hulking, wrinkled trunks alive like enormous elephants, I realize that the only fleeting, blink-and you'll-miss-it apparition in this ancient forest is me.

Here, among 670 preserved acres, all the organisms collaborate in harmony as they’ve done for countless generations. Saplings sprout from fallen logs, slugs meander across dying leaves, and spongy moss covers the earth, muffling my footsteps.

The dense canopy above me—western red cedars, western hemlocks, and those firs, some more than 400 years old and as tall as 250 feet—protects this enchanted world from over-exposure to wind, rain, and sun. As I feel my surroundings heave with untold layers of life, death, and regeneration, I catch a whiff of sweet and earthy humus, that damp smell of deteriorating twigs, leaves, and other plant matter on the loamy floor.

I’ve traveled about 100 miles north of Seattle, where I relocated after leaving New York City last year, to visit one of the state’s last remaining old-growth forests. It’s set about 50 miles inland, in the shadow of 5,400-foot-high Sauk Mountain. I’m looking for a peace of mind that I’ve come to rely upon during the pandemic. On almost daily walks in the woods around Seattle, which has an impressive 28% canopy cover, I’ve found respite from the uncertainty of the past year.