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Thumping Hickories

If you see me in the woods running my hands on the bark of a tree and considering it carefully, or even thumping it a little with my ear to the trunk, I hope you won't think me odd. I'm just reminiscing about an old friend and looking for a good story. Trees are much older and infinitely more patient than we are, and they can tell quite a few stories if you know how to listen.

When I was young I spent a lot of time walking in the woods of southern Ohio with an old woodsman named Charlie Summers. In addition to his small trade in bait and fishing tackle, ginseng, golden seal, and black cohosh roots, Charlie made and sold a number of traditional, handcrafted items like stick chairs and stools, lap dulcimers, baskets, walking sticks, and even brooms, all made from materials he gathered in the woods near his cabin. He was careful never to waste anything, and to make sure that he cut the right wood for the right purpose Charlie had learned to "listen" to trees.

When we went out to gather hickory bark for baskets and chair bottoms, for instance, Charlie might say "See how the lines in this hickory's bark are packed close together?" and "see those monkey faces? This tree grew slow and branchy; it's no good for weavin' bark".

Then Charlie would walk up to another hickory with a smoother, more even texture and few "monkey face" branch scars. He would put his ear against the bark and thump it with the butt of his hand, beckoning me to do the same. "When a tree's got thick sapwood, wide rings, and good weavin' bark, you can feel the water in it. The bark gives a little and kind of echoes". Charlie related how old timers could tell a great deal about trees from the look or feel of the bark- which would have wide growth rings for bending or making splits or barrel staves; which would have a tight, dense grain for furniture legs or table tops or have curly or figured grain, and whether the wood would twist too much to make a straight board or a good longbow.

On these walks Charlie showed me how to judge a creek's high water mark by the ice and debris scars on adjacent tree trunks, and how frost cracks told of trees popping like rifle shots in bitter cold weather. We examined buck rubs, sapsucker holes, and scars on ancient beech trees that might have been made by black bears before they were all "shot out". Because beech makes fine charcoal but poor timber, an old forest with very few beeches was often a sign of a long abandoned pig iron furnace somewhere nearby, and larger trees growing in a line with deeply buried bits of fence wire, wild apple trees, or low branched wolf trees told of old homesteads that had since been swallowed by the forest.

Old Charlie was just as attuned to animal tracks and dens, bird songs and tree cavities, and where to find the best wild fruits, roots, and mushrooms as he was to trees, and I always felt that he was more than just a visitor to the forest community; he was a full fledged member. Nowadays when I walk the woods, especially in winter, I often listen to the trees for insights into the history of the land, the climate, the wildlife, and the people who have gone before me.

For me, it's a way of connecting to both nature and history, and maybe someday becoming as good a naturalist and story teller as that old, uneducated root digger who was kind enough to share his knowledge with me.

Other writings by Naturalist William Hudson:

A tribute to the Asters of September,
an essay by Naturalist William Hudson

The Greatest Show on Earth,
an essay by Naturalist William Hudson

Large Scale Stream Dynamics

On taking kids outside,
an essay by Naturalist William Hudson

Another Symbol of the Wilderness in Peril,
an essay by Naturalist William Hudson