Finding the Mother Tree: Uncovering the Wisdom and Intelligence of the Forest

by Suzanne Simard

This made sense! Here on the crest, the trees invested more in mycorrhizal fungi because they needed more from them in return. I leaned against the oldest tree, at least twenty-five meters tall with branches like the ribs of a whale. Seedlings were germinating in a crescent along the northern dripline of the tree, their needles stretched like spider legs, and I excavated one with my knife. Fungal threads streamed off the end of its roots, and I felt intoxicated, already forgetting the wasp sting. I pressed the seedling and its woolen mycorrhizas between the pages of my notebook so I could look more closely at home. But I already knew; these little seedlings were linked into the network of the old trees, receiving enough water to get them through the driest days of summer. My students and I had already learned that the deep-rooted trees brought water up to the soil surface at night by hydraulic lift and shared it with shallow-rooted plants, helping the archipelago stay whole during prolonged drought. Without such an attachment, death of a seedling in the hot August days can be nearly immediate, needles turning red and the collars of their stems wounded with burns, leaving not a trace by snowfall. For these young recruits, small resource gains in moments of vulnerability make the difference