On Trees October 6, 2021
“Every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it.”
Henry David Thoreau, Maine Woods, 1846
My small house at #5 Pantaleon Dominguez, “pants for sundays,” in Barrio Santa Lucia, has no trees. The few potted plants struggle for limited sun, particularly as the solstice approaches, but neighboring trees do much better. Those candy-pink bougainvillea flowers hanging over my south wall bloom throughout the year, their leaf-shaped petals blowing like lipstick confetti across my barren cobblestone. A less attractive source of plant debris is the avocado tree next door. Its particular gifts to nature fall with the force of a baseball. Splat, splat, thump, go the sounds of bird-bitten avocados striking the driveway, the roof, and my shoulder.
Beyond my walls, fortunately, there are more trees. There is indeed one magnificent specimen in the center of the small park of San Francisco, on Insurgentes, sandwiched between the indigenous womens’ hospital and a most remarkable food court. In this court, there are, I believe, 6 Doñas that run the lines of plastic tables serving cheap Mexican meals. 6 Señoritas dressed in black charge at the unsuspecting wanderer, thrusting forth with identical menus—6 different kitchens making the same meals for 6 independent Doñas.
As for the giant old tree in that park, I have no clue what kind it may be or how old it is, or even what it feels like. Counting rings are not an option for me, as there is never a moment when some shady-looking guy is not hanging out by himself under the tree. It is never the same guy, just the same type of guy, like the Doñas. This park, more than any other in the city, is a transient stop. It is the closest walk from the bus station, so the streets teem with people carrying most of their possessions, exhausted, hungry. Thus, the Doñas tables are always filled. And there is always a shady-looking guy under the big tree, waiting, watching, perhaps expecting one particular arrival from the bus station.
To find trees I can actually touch, I have to leave my neighborhood. The nearest forested hill is just west of me, Cristobalito, and its tree life is like the other forests on the edge of the city, predominantly pine and cedar. There are smaller leafy trees as well, including oak, but most are mysterious. One is said to look like a wild peach, another perhaps is a renegade eucalyptus, but most are softwoods. The floor is bedded with brown needles. I see very little deadfall, as if someone is collecting. I wonder if any of this pine is Ocote.
Ocote is the resinous kindling so vital to those of us relying on a fireplace for heat. To say it is resinous is an understatement. Its tacky surface feels dipped in honey, leaving the fingers sticky. It ignites like a wooden match. I think my fingers might as well after handling one. Its flame blazes with sodium yellow, calcium orange, and potassium violet. It smells like incense. I can easily find cheap bundles for sale, 10 or 20 pesos, at the markets near the dirty river—so they must come from somewhere nearby.
The tree called Ocote is known to taxonomists as the Montezuma Pine, so I know immediately, from prior experience with Montezuma, not to eat the cone. What I do not know is whether any of the pine trees that grow on these hills are Ocote. I would expect Ocote to appear resinous, but the ones I see do not. The bark is hard and dry. They produce needles in bundles of 5, like limber pines, bristlecones, and the Montezuma. And, like the Montezuma, the needles are very long and flexible. The branches of these healthy pine trees look like they bear a hundred green mid-’60’s mop-tops.
They are called Ayacahuite, or Mexican White Pine, and they proliferate throughout the mountains of southern Mexico and Guatemala, evidently craving hard rain and intense if sporadic sunlight. There is another common pine in the high-country that I have not yet seen, perhaps because the wood is so prized, and that is the Pinus patula, or Mexican Weeping Pine. I am not sure whether I should be looking for one or listening. These trees are so pretty that they are reportedly growing in botanical gardens on five continents. So that is where they all must have went.
A man named Jorge and his quiet partner, are carrying potted plants for sale down Guadalupe Real. He claims that he has a tree that grows in the dark, but I may be mistranslating. The only way to know for sure is to buy one, take it home, and shut it in the closet. For updates on this developing tree story, see a new segment entitled On Mold.