Forest Token

What is a token? A cherished keepsake? A lucky amulet? More often it is something small and not very useful, meant just for show. In the field of forestry, I was a token of a different kind – someone who is tolerated in a group of people to give the impression that the group appreciates diversity, but it’s not really true. Fortunately, I would be kept company by the so-called forest itself where I worked, for it was no more than a mere token of desert vegetation that wanted to be included within the classification of forest cover.

I’ve always been bound to trees. While there’s nothing wrong with an affinity for trees, I’ll admit that I must have been a little crazy. A forester in the desert? Unheard of. Beyond that, a woman forester? That’s two strikes against success. I can’t say I always wanted to be a forester, but I had been climbing trees all through my childhood, and they were an integral part of my life. Fate seemed to step in as I spent time in parks and arboretums, and I began to see the importance of these silvan beings. It started with a love of plants and nature from childhood on. I remember climbing an apple tree when I was four, with a little help from my brother. My relationship with trees started early, playing in the woods, sneaking off to where my parents didn’t want me to go. I felt empowered when I got there. I went to explore a world that was all mine to discover. I climbed trees, peeked under rocks, and watched butterflies. I loved to see what was growing in the garden and even tried to buy plants for myself. My mother admonished her youngster, “What on earth do you need that for?” 

My long-range plan was to go to college to learn how to grow plants professionally and take my knowledge into the world to improve ecosystems and the quality of living for all. Few were thrilled for me. When I went to school to pursue a forestry degree, my brother said, “Well, there’s a forester for every tree, isn’t there?” He wasn’t the only one saying ‘what the heck?’ to my choice. My father knew my affinity, but pushed me toward the more feminine choice, horticulture. My mother was just plain embarrassed of me. A friend of hers mocked me, “She wants to spend her time in the trees? Well, that’s rather a way of life, isn’t it?” Soon after I started my studies, I also thought I had made a big mistake. I almost quit the first semester. As a lone female surrounded in the classroom by “pulpheads” in uniforms of plaid flannel shirts, I felt sorely out of place. And what did we study? - fuel load, wood grains and board feet, oh my. The moniker of “pulpheads” referred to the dead wood that lumberjacks must have in their heads. What I didn’t know and found out later was that you can take the title of forester and not be a pulphead. You could be one that studies trees for potential lumber harvest, or be one that protects them. I wanted to be the latter. So, I found I was able to stick it out and go tangential from the normal path. Some things that I experienced during my tenure at that university were real head-bangers. For instance, all forestry students were required to attend a “pulpcut,” that is, cutting young trees for pulp to be used at the paper factories. Undaunted by this silly task, I grabbed the chainsaw and got ripping into the wood. I guess I was swinging the tool around pretty good, because after that I was nicknamed “Chainsaw.” Well, the all-male classmates went from thinking I might cry at the thought of sawing a tree to actually feeling threatened by me. Hilarious. 

After graduation, I left my home in the Midwest and moved to the Mojave Desert for several reasons, namely sunshine, warmth, and to be near family. The siblings laughed and asked, “Where are the trees?” Little did any of us know - it was a forest of cactus, and yes, I would find employment in related fields. I would snag some tree-related jobs as nursery stock inspector, gardening program instructor, and even worked at a lumber store. Other experiences included volunteering for the U.S. Forest Service at a nearby national forest, part-time work at a nursery, and a seasonal position as a park ranger. After the short-term gigs, I finally ended up protecting native plants in the wild state of Nevada.  

The place where I found my career is not where you would expect a forester to be.  In the middle of the Mojave Desert in the American southwest, I became a forester for the “cactus-like trees.”  I usually referred to myself as a cactus cop.  When folks saw my uniform and asked, “Where’s the forest?” I told them it’s a cactus forest, or at least a token of a real forest. A cactus cop’s work can be likened to any cop’s: to serve and protect.  I protected the native cactus species in the Mojave Desert by monitoring wild populations: permitting legal harvests and investigating illegal ones.  I served the cactus community by checking on it every now and again, to see how it was faring.  Everyone’s heard of forest health – working in the cactus forest, I dealt with cactus and yucca health.  Cactus live in the desert – they should have no problems, you may think.  But they do. And they can’t run away. The forestry office issued “harvest permits,” and “cactus tags.”  This is so they know who is digging up plants in the desert, and how many are being taken.  If the practice wasn’t regulated, cactus forests could likely be decimated by collectors and poachers. Most incidents involve theft for commercial purposes.  Everyone wants native desert plants in their landscapes now, especially in the southwest.  I tried to make people aware of where those plants came from.

I was involved in a couple of investigations.  Someone was poaching specimen cactus from National Park Service (NPS) land but claimed innocence because the magnetic sign on his truck read “All-Legal Cactus.”  That one gets the bonehead award. The NPS has instigated the use of microchips in specimen cactus now. A chip gets inserted into the cactus at a certain place on the plant (known only to the cactus cops) and can be traced if it is ever found at a commercial nursery or on someone’s truck.  Poachers with some knowledge of plants, however, could probably find and remove the thing, though. 

So why would anyone want to work in the desert, let alone protect the little that’s in it?  That’s how I felt when I made the journey from the green Midwest to the moonscape of the Mojave.  But with time, I found that the desert held so much more to discover. The mother lode of biological discovery here is more rewarding because it takes so much more effort to find.  The plants aren’t just there in your face. You have to get out and walk, stop, get down low, and stare at a piece of ground for a while before you start seeing the wealth of life.  The desert has the most biodiversity per square foot than any place else.  Many of the plants are what we call ‘belly plants,’ because you literally have to get down on your belly to see them.  When you do, you find it amazing that such detail could occur on such a miniscule scale.  Getting to appreciate the desert is kind of like getting your eyes adjusted to using the computer screen.  Your eyes go out of focus a lot at first, but then they get acclimated, and your vision gets clearer.

When I left the southern Wisconsin forests for the southwest desert, I barely changed my gear.  Summer in the Midwest is hot, humid, and buggy. Summer in the Mojave is oven-hot, with dust and gashing winds.  The best apparel is a long-sleeved white shirt, high boots with socks over long pants, thick gloves for cactus work, a wide hat, bandana, bug spray, and sunblock.  Oh yeah, and a cell phone and radio for when the cell phone has no coverage, a gallon or two of water, a good knife, and a really loud whistle for when you collapse.  Brilliant orange, akin to hunting colors, somewhere on your head helps people to find you.  I actually had a large red ball with colorful metallic streamers that I put on the antenna of my vehicle.  That got lost in the landscape, too.  After a while in the sun, the plants look like the rocks and the ground looks like the sky.  By that time, a siren on the Jeep would have been really helpful. I learned these desert safety tips:  don’t drink soda in the desert; don’t wear perfumes of any kind; don’t wear bright colors as they attract vengeful Hymenoptera; don’t leave expensive technical equipment in the sun; don’t try to “walk out” of your predicament if you are lost. For a woman working out in the desert, going to the loo was extraordinarily difficult. Ok, I learned how to squat years ago – easy in a thick forest of tall trees.  Somehow, though, cactus and yucca don’t provide enough cover, and you surely don’t want to lean against them.  Never mind that the orange flag on your hat can be seen from the miner’s shack across the way.  

Now that I’m retired, I’m still planting trees – but in my own yard. As with all tree plantings, we may not get to see their full benefits. But we can always hope for a brighter day when women and trees are valued for so much more.