Every tree that survives its adolescence is a silent storyteller. Some of the stories are overt. I understand, for example, that scientists can take core samples from ancient trees and use them to understand climate fluctuations over the centuries. They can do this in part by analyzing the presence or absence of certain types of pollen.

There are other tree-told stories of a more personal significance. When I was small my father showed me an ancient hammer head, rusty and pitted. He explained to me that he had found it while cutting firewood, exactly in the center of a tree trunk, just below the stroke of his chainsaw blade. Apparently, someone many years before (maybe his own father) had left his hammer hanging over a branch of a small sapling and forgotten it. The tree, inexorable and unconcerned, quietly assimilated the strange object.

Another time, my father showed me the trunk of a small tree that had grown up in a contest with a honeysuckle vine; when the honeysuckle was removed the remaining tree trunk was shaped like a perfect corkscrew.

So sometimes, the story is clear as day. Other times, one wonders. Here’s an example:

My best guess is that this tree was broken as a sapling and had subsequently devoted considerable energy and resources to heal the wound. However the events unfolded, this fellow is a testament to resilience.