NEBRASKAland Magazine is dedicated to outstanding photography and informative writing with an engaging mix of articles and photos highlighting Nebraska’s outdoor activities, parklands, wildlife, history and people.
Issue link: https://mag.outdoornebraska.gov/i/377644
OCTOBER 2014 • NEBRASKAland 65 I have long dealt with charges from a colleague that I am guilty of pre-emptive plagiarism, stealing his ideas before he has a chance to have them – sometimes by decades and when he was still in grade school. Now it's my turn: I was right in the middle of writing a column about trees, and particularly the bur oak, for this page (I do have witnesses) when my December 2013 copy of NEBRASKAland arrived and I found Gerry Steinauer's article about … bur oaks. Well, there's more than one tree in the forest, and for that matter in Nebraska, including some trees that have strayed far from customary landscapes. I've been fascinated for years about the constant flux of wildlife, things appearing where they haven't been before, other things that seemed a part of the usual suddenly no longer seen. Some of that, of course, is a matter of changes in my own perceptions: I spent a lot of time in all seasons pounding Highway 30 between Lincoln and North Platte in my youth, not once noting fields full of geese and/ or cranes, but once I saw and heard them in the skies of central Nebraska it seemed I couldn't see anything but geese and cranes. On the other hand, when I moved to the sandy ground on the Middle Loup near Dannebrog, one of the delights I found here were tiny lizards that danced and raced across the naked sand every time I walked the uplands. Now? Nothing. Not a lizard to be found. I never saw a groundhog out here until three years ago and now they have become pests. Eagles, wild turkeys, buzzards, whippoorwills … Never saw them, now I do. There is talk about elk now along the river and mountain lions. A porcupine died on the highway just across the river not long ago and while they once may have been common, now they are rarities. Animals wander, sometimes surprisingly long distances. Okay, I understand how animals expand or contract the areas they populate as conditions change – climate, human population changes, food and water availability, that kind of thing. But trees? How can we explain the appearance of trees well outside their customary distribution range? Aside from Tolkien's ents, trees tend to be relatively immobile, right? Brule Lakota Sioux elder Richard Fool Bull explained things such as the unusual enclave of bur oaks around Dannebrog, a historical population since they were here (on Oak Creek, for Pete's sake!) when the Danes crossed the river in 1871, as resources deliberately planted and maintained by Native populations long before the white man's arrival. They were food sources, after all, so as tribal people traveled and camped, they quite logically carried seeds (in this case, acorns) and put them where they would be available for later arrivals. Indians didn't just leave everything to chance; they did what they could to assure a continuing source of plant products where they knew they would eventually be camping again. Mr. Fool Bull scoffed at the notion that unusual expansions of plants like oak trees could be attributed to generations of squirrels carrying generations of acorns hop by hop westward a hundred miles or so from the Ur-tree somewhere along the Missouri River. But what of more modern mysteries? It may be a small surprise, I realize, but a couple years ago I noticed a small tree crowded under a juniper along our river road that somehow seemed a bit peculiar. The leaves are bigger than I generally see and differently shaped. I leafed (!) through our tree books but the closest I came was a pawpaw tree. Having never seen a pawpaw however I couldn't be sure so I wrote to Justin Evertson, whose title – no kidding – is Green Infrastructure Coordinator for the Nebraska Forest Service and the Nebraska Statewide Arboretum (his business card is three pages long!) and sent some photos. He too was uncertain about what this mystery tree might be and since he was headed out this way, thought he could stop by and take a closer look. He came, he saw, he left still uncertain. But then he, compatriot Bob Henrickson, and old friend Karma Larsen did further research and determined it is a white ash (Fraxinus Americana L., for the scientifically inclined), unusual for the area. Well, that's nice. I intend to cut away the overhanging juniper branches to give it some room and to keep track that it has enough water in this tough environment. I can't help but think it will need all the advantages I can give it. I have found white oak leaves and wondered about how they got here. I did some scouting and found exactly two white young white oaks on this property, a good mile from the closest possible parent trees in town or along Oak Creek. Still, I can imagine how a stray acorn or two could jump that mile. Along the river I have found escaped irises, hops, and day lilies and while they are something of a surprise, it's easy enough to imagine how a spring flood might wash out a planting and populate a new river bank downstream. But what can I make of this white ash? Justin Evertson says there may be a parent tree somewhere around here and I am looking. But even at that, how do I explain its journey here? It sure wasn't the river. Perhaps someone visiting us drove down to the cabin, hit a bump or brushed that juniper and jarred loose an ash seed that had lodged under a fender or in a bit of mud behind the bumper? And there it was, ready to give a try at pioneering some new ground. Not unlike the Danes or my own German-Russian people who came far from the Russian Steppes to plant new roots far from their customary soils. I can imagine other people not even noticing that lonely white ash tucked away under the evergreen along the road to our river cabin, but every time I go by it I give it a nod in appreciation of its bravery in defying the elements and going where no white ash has ever gone before. ■ The mysterious appearance of a white ash tree still puzzles. By Roger Welsch There are Pioneers, and There are Pioneers