The Old Growth That Goes Unnoticed

It's hard not to join in the chants when they come to town - mainly because it's something of a no-brainer. Old growth forests, those mythic stands of trees, whatever species they may be (if we even care in the first place what species they are), touch something deep within us that compel us to argue for them to be conserved, protected and revered. We don't care for definitions, all we care is that they're old, they're forests, and they're safely locked in reserves far from the touch of humankind.

It's a noble cause, and to paraphrase the eminent Victorian forest ecologist David Lindenmayer, we are living in a time when we shouldn't have to log or destroy our old growth forests. It is a mark of the truly civilised society, then, that the soil shall never shake with the vibration of a falling giant ever again.

But there is a question that hangs over these presumptions that no one seems to consider - what happens when the old growth dies, of natural causes? In the case of Australian old growth, the majestic Eucalyptus regnans tends to live for around 400 years - dwarfed by the 2,200 years of it's rival-in-height, Sequoia sempervirens. Are we prepared to let go of old-growth, if that loss occurs free of the hand of man or bushfire?

The greatest issue concerning Victorian old-growth forest is not so much as to do whether it is adequately mapped and protected, or whether the loss of old growth would represent a loss of a vast and efficient carbon sink. As Tim Flannery noted in his 2003 Quarterly Essay 'Beautiful Lies', it may very well be that there is an unfair level of devoted attention paid to them when it comes to debates about sustainable land management.

It's a tricky argument, and you're not likely to garner many friends (of the earth - ha!) while pursuing it - it is too easy a sentiment to be appropriated by anti-conservationists as an argument for no-holds-barred native forest harvesting. However, there needs to be a level of reconsideration when it comes to old-growth forests. As Tim Low pointed out in his 2003 novel 'The New Nature', the notion of wilderness can, at times, be an unhelpful idea - potentially even a "dangerous myth", one of the "biggest buzz words in history", an "idealised view of nature [speaking] strongly to people disillusioned with city values."

In my interpretation, the most dangerous thing about "wilderness" is that it exiles nature to that which lives outside the city limits. And thus, everything in and around our suburban gardens, city streets, and rivers - indeed, all that is closest to our hearts and homes - aren't given the due weight they deserve. This is particularly so in the case of the urban forest.

In 2007, Randy Stringer from the University of Adelaide presented a paper at the annual Treenet Symposium titled 'The Benefits of Adelaide's Street Trees Revisited'. Some of his general conclusions included the observation that trees in Adelaide's urban landscape provide not only aesthetic value, but without them, summer temperatures in the city would be 0.5-2.0 degrees Celsius warmer, translating to a per household per year air conditioning energy consumption

increase of $20. This occurred alongside stormwater reduction, carbon dioxide sequestration and air pollution reduction.

However, one of the most interesting remarks was that, all in all, older, larger street trees in urban landscapes can provide up to 60 times the benefits of younger smaller trees. Therefore - we need old growth not only in wilderness reserves, but in our cities too. This is a great challenge - it requires our planning to take account the next 50 years, and an intelligent overlap between young trees and old trees to ensure we never end up with barren streets burning in the heat of summer. Furthermore, it requires us to choose trees that will survive the hotter and drier future that awaits us.

But most of all, it is but another reason why we need to realise that we never are, and never will be, distinct and separate from nature. The distinction, if it was ever there at all, is porous and malleable. Nature's heart beats to the same ceaseless rhythm in the misty wilderness reserves as it does in the sprawling metropolis. It's just up to us to listen to it.

The Carbon Wars

Timber body under fire over climate aid claims
The Age, 27th July, 2009

A TIMBER industry body is being investigated over claims it misled the public by asserting that buying wood products helps the fight against climate change.

The consumer watchdog has asked Forest & Wood Products Australia to respond to allegations it made two deceptive claims: that the carbon dioxide stored in trees is locked up when they are logged and converted into wood products, and that forestry is one of Australia's most greenhouse-friendly industries.

The "Wood. Naturally Better" print advertisement campaign was based on variations on the slogan "It's more than attractive furniture. It's a helping hand in climate change."

It prompted a complaint to the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission by the Wilderness Society, backed by advice from community legal service, the Environment Defenders Office.

(Read More)

In the small amount of time that I've had dealing with forestry workers and professionals, this is another one of those issues where you can almost visibly see the hair on the forester's back prick-up, as they adopt that feline-esque pose that signals a mixture of aggression and outright fear.

The point of the matter comes down to a basic tenet of biological science - for a tree to grow, carbon dioxide is sequestered into the tree, stored as biomass in the leaves, limbs, stem or roots. Therefore, when it comes to mitigating the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, alongside driving your car less, eating vegetables, installing power-saving globes and never taking a plane anywhere, decking your house out with timber products is the best thing you can do.

However, you can't really imagine a Climate-Change-abatin' Green-voter saying to houseguest "You'd like a Chai? No problem. Come on in, just watch your head on the Tibetan prayer flags, we can sit around my Old-Growth Mountain Ash Coffee Table. 'Bout 350 years old, it is - whole lotta carbon in dat one!"

However, it's not totally that simple. For one, as The Wilderness Society point out, not all our forests are used for 'value-added' (as they call it in the biz) products such as furniture or high-quality flooring. Even as of 2003/04, around 75% of the log sales from native forests in East Gippsland, Central Victoria and Tasmania went straight to woodchipping - not exactly a secure resource when it comes to 'locking' up carbon.

But if we assume that, idealistically, we begin to treat our timber as high-value and make only the finest furniture and houses from it, what argument do we have against doing so? This is especially a question to consider when we acknowledge that the carbon emissions from wood as a construction material as opposed to, say, aluminium, concrete or steel, is vastly minimal, almost negligible.

And so, this issue touches on the one that rumbles on incessantly when it comes to dealing with our environment - and that is, how do we wish to use it? Do we want to use it? Or am I showing my ideological bias by even phrasing the question in terms of use? Where exactly does modern man sit with his land?

For the time being, the protectionists and productionists will continue the tug of war - and unfortunately for many foresters and scientists, their only input will be to silently watch from the sidelines.

Black Saturday: Reflections and Responses (without trying to sound sanctimonious)

A few weekends ago, a friend finally left his family home and moved into a small cottage buried amongst the gravel backroads of the numerous forest towns of the Dandenongs. We spent the morning packing his fragile belongings into whatever spaces we had in our cars and delicately navigating them down graded and rippled roads, only to repeat the process, reversed, when we reached his new abode. Joining us was another friend who has recently moved into the hills with her partner. She occasionally ask me about environmental aspects of her new home. Most of the time it’s “what tree’s that?” but on that weekend, she was looking at the dried tree ferns that populate the Dandenongs and asked, “Does that happen every summer?”

To an extent, yes. The common tree ferns (Dicksonia antarctica & Cyathea australis) seen in the Dandenongs and the Central Highlands are a slow growing, fire resistant species, which shed branches during its growth. However, the conditions of the past month, with extreme heat being prevalent for numerous days, has resulted in chlorosis of the fronds, the floor of once-green areas are now pricked with auburn hues.

This scene has been repeated all around the state, the public now all too familiar with the consequences of our past summer. The wet forests that once adorned the communities of Marysville, Kinglake, and the Black Spur have been left smouldering. Journalists have frequently alluded to Cormac McCarthy’s The Road as if it were prophecy, not fiction. Black Saturday, while considerably smaller than Black Friday or Ash Wednesday, has broken an ominous record in its death toll – compounded, undoubtedly, by the rise in population of mountain communities in the last 70 years.

As expected in the aftermath of any catastrophe, the public, whether represented by the media or the government, has begun searching desperately to find the cause – or, perhaps more crudely, a place to lay the blame. It is unfortunate that these searches all too quickly become misguided and, after the media coverage has ended and the public outrage satiated, the proposed solutions serve to do more harm than good.

Environmental matters typically hold a variety of stakeholders who doggedly pursue their own interests with the vigor of fantatic born-agains – the environmental scientists who preach from their laboratories and textbooks; the inner-city conservationists that admire from afar; the rural luddite townsfolk who harvest their knowledge as they plow their fields; and the public servants that so adeptly stride the fence. Each are interdependent, yet this diversity of knowledge means that successful and sustainable management of our land can become incredibly confused in the swill of vitriol, ulterior motives and personal/political agendas.

And so, in this vacuum of adequate response, we have seen an outpouring of proposed solutions from sources that could barely call themselves ‘experts’ in any field. One that has caught particular traction and has been espoused from opinonistas as diverse as Andrew Bolt and Germaine Greer is the increase of fuel-reduction burning.

The theory behind this is that with the frequent burning of our forests, implemented by the relevant authorities (in the case of Victoria, the Department of Sustainability & Environment), fuel loads will have no time to build up, and thus the devastating consequences of Black Saturday will be avoided from ever occurring again. Further justification is thrown in by allusions to the Aboriginal firestick farming hypothesis, in addition to a few photos of Sam The Koala, and - case closed.

However, this sentiment is not only phenomenally naïve, but also a horrendous insult to the diversity of our landscape. There are over 141 species of Eucalyptus present in south-east Australia, each having their own specific ecological response to fire. Boiling this vast complexity down, Eucalyptus species generally take one of two paths after a fire event – either they are a resprout (shoots grow from the bark after fire) or they seed (the tree dies, but releases a batch of seed to assist regeneration). Generally, the response is related to the frequency of fire in the area – resprouters generally found in areas of higher fire frequency, while seeders are found in areas of lower.

The hardest hit areas of these fires were in the Central Highlands, which are dominated by Mountain Ash (Eucalyptus regnans), a wet sclerophyll species found in higher elevations, sensitive to fire, characterised by vast quantities of bark, leaf and branch litter, and a seed species. The ecology of these forests are designed that they burn once every 75-150 years, and require one event of fire every 300-400 years to ensure the species legacy. The

trees themselves conspire to ensure so, with their oil-laden leaves and high litter levels. There is no strong evidence to suggest that these wet, high elevation forests were ever part of a frequent Aboriginal firestick-farming regime. Frequent fire, whether firestick or prescribed burn, would induce seeding, but kill the next generation before they reach seed maturity. The very existence of these forests provide evidence in themselves that frequent fuel reduction burning has not, and cannot, sustainably exist in the wet sclerophyll forests that featured predominantly in the Black Saturday fires.

This is not to disregard the use of prescribed burning or the role of firestick farming as a part of Australian history, however. It thus, rather, a matter of using the appropriate management technique to suit the ecological conditions, rather than assuming our environment can be managed simply under one homogenous umbrella.

Of all the environmental problems we have faced as a nation, there is one common thread that has run through them all – we have yet to completely grasp the Australian environment, and what it means to live in this ancient continent. We prefer to ignore the grand complexity in favour of simple solutions frequently driven by ideology of all shades and hues, rather than considered understanding and knowledge of the land. The broad-brush fuel reduction burn solution only seeks to administer yet another unsustainable practice upon the land, and further our misunderstanding of how to adequately respond to the challenges of our country.