Elegy for the North Woods

Last Wednesday around eight thirty in the morning, I went for my typical weekly self-flagellation (also known as running the loop in Central Park). Leaves, twigs, and even large tree branches littered the drive, turning the road's black pitch into something like the rain forest floor. The scene was almost beautiful. I thought to myself, "That was some storm." Then as I rounded Lasker Pool, the weight of the storm literally revealed itself in century-old oak barring the way. Crews were already trying to clear the felled tree and signaled me to turn around. I shrugged and turned, warning oncoming cyclists and runners about the obstacle.

As I headed around the bend at 110th street, near the entrance of the great hill, I realized the full import, the catastrophic devastation that the lightning, rain, and wind of the night before had wrought. Trees of enormous girth and height had fallen all over the North Woods and in the glades on the northern sides of the Park; an entire canopy had seemingly collapsed. My heart seized and I felt like crying. Trees are not people--this I know--but at that moment, they felt like family. When one has so little green space, trees become sacred. I had just lost some essential part of myself.

Some of the more than two hundred trees that came down last week date back to the original construction of the park. Olmstead himself planted one fallen giant, a chestnut tree, near a favorite new playground that is now closed. Some trees managed to stay upright but their branches deserted them, giving them the appearance of charred apocalyptic ruins.

Wood chippers and log rollers hum and buzz all over the park now, a logger's paradise. For the rest of us, the northern end of Central Park is like the scene of a gruesome battle, a painful reminder of life violently torn from us, without yet the hopeful signs of life born anew. Maybe next spring we will see the sprouts of the seedlings and each green bud will fill us both with the promise of grand elms, pines, and sycamores to come and the memory of those grand stanchions from which these new trees will rise. For now, there is empty space where once was our shade, our history, and maybe even a little bit of our soul as a city.

Please help Central Park clean up from the storm and plant new trees by donating online. Also, see my central park photo album for pictures of Central Park in the fall, spring, and winter.