The Crest

Karl walked along the ranks of incense cedar singing a song from his youth, ‘Ode to Joy.’ His voice resonated deep and powerful out in the rows of young trees. Karl liked to think the plants appreciated his singing, at least he imagined they did. The seedlings today looked healthy, notwithstanding the blistering winds coming out of the east.

“That’s beautiful, Karl,” Fernando said as he and Danielle approached from behind.

“Thank you, it’s a song I grew up with, it’s Beethoven.”

“The plants must enjoy your singing, they’re growing fast,” Fernando said.

“Real fast.”

“Four inches last month,” Fernando said.

“You’re kidding, in this heat?”

“No kidding, almost two feet this year.”

“That’s twice the regular rate.”

“I know, it’s astounding. They’ll be ready to out-plant soon. And the remarkable thing is, listen to this, the volumetric soil moisture is only .4 percent, extremely low, but they’re thriving.”

“And terpene aerosols?” Karl asked.

“Terpene aerosols have increased in recent days from .05 nanograms per milliliter to 4 nanograms per milliliter.”

“Wow, that’s good too.”

“I still don’t get it; all trees produce terpenes,” Fernando said.

“True, but if these seedlings are producing lots of terpene aerosols, at some point in the future, they will attract water vapor and create clouds. With clouds, we get rain.”

“What about carbon sequestration?” Danielle asked Karl.

“Our most recent readings show good carbon dioxide uptake at 40 micromoles per meter squared per second. Oxygen production is around 10 micromoles per meter per second. Young trees grow fast and are able to pull in carbon rapidly.”

“So, what does it mean?” She asked a rhetorical question. “I mean, these seedlings are blowing away our expectations,” she said proudly. “And it suggests that we are close to achieving our goals for assisted migration. What trees are sequestering the most carbon?” she inquired.

“Our Oregon white oaks are doing the best. They have the best carbon dioxide-to-oxygen conversion, but they grow the slowest.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“It takes a long time for them to mature, normally, and because they can live for up to 200 years, they have permanence in their carbon storage. That is, they hold their carbon tight. The carbon in the center of a mature white oak is bound up for a long time, and once oak dies, it takes decades to release that same carbon. Dense hardwoods like oak, walnut, and mulberry can store carbon even though they are small."

“But our oaks are our most resilient seedlings. Tough as nails, they can survive our scorching winds and they have thick bark for the constant fires.”

“You are correct, I put my money on the oaks.”

“What’s next after oaks?”

“Second best right now is big-leaf maple, which can store up to 25,000 pounds of carbon dioxide, but they require the most water and that is something in short supply.”

“What about my beloved bristlecones?”

“Also doing well. Slowest growing by far but our hardiest in almost every category, next to oaks. The future could be bristlecone, they endure in bad soils, little water, and scorching hot winds. And, they don’t rot.”

“God bless the oaks and the bristlecones for they will inherit the earth,” Karl jested.

They laughed. “You’re not that far off,” Fernando noted grimly.

“With so much of the Oregon and Washington forest destroyed, what now for sequestration?”

“There is little natural regeneration out there and the seed in the seed bank won’t sprout because there is no rain. It is up to our nursery trees to jumpstart the land again.”

“There are some old-growth trees left.”

“Correct and old-growth trees take up a lot of carbon but there are so few of them.”

“And what about the soil carbon? You are the expert on mycorrhiza, Karl.”

“Ah, the soil mycorrhiza. I’m glad you asked about that. Here indeed, we have some interesting findings. Forest soils store their carbon in organic material. The amount of carbon stored in forest soils is variable and depends on local geology and the soil type. Mycorrhiza can store carbon in the soil of temperate forests for many years if the land is not disturbed. With me so far?”

“Yep, keep going.”

“Mycorrhizal fungi hold 50 to 70 percent of the total carbon stored in the soil. The true success of our mycorrhizal friends is the by-product called glomalin, which captures and stores carbon in the soil, removing it from the atmosphere. Arbuscular mycorrhiza produces a lot of glomalin. Glomalin stores carbon, but the interesting thing with this protein is that it doesn’t break down easily.”

“What does that mean for the nursery?”

“We have found huge amounts of glomalin in the soil, a good sign. We seem to have a super mycorrhiza fungus growing and mutating. I say this with a note of caution but…,” he paused, “the mycorrhiza might be the cause for our tree seedlings success not the assisted migration.”

Danielle seemed perplexed. “What exactly are you saying, Karl? That the assisted migration was secondary? That the seed we collected and planted was superfluous?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all, in fact, the assisted migration program was a tremendous success, but AM alone did not account for the excessive growth of these seedlings under such poor soil moisture conditions. AM could not account for the carbon sequestration rates of these seedlings either. And because we have found so much glomalin in the mycorrhiza, we have an unknown factor here, possibly new mycorrhizal mutants, moving and storing minerals underground at a phenomenal rate.”

“What evidence do you have for these super mycorrhiza strains?”

“Some fungi can sit dormant for decades. It is my belief that the Shift caused some mycorrhiza to wake up and mutate. Fungi growing inside root tissue stimulate hormones like gibberellins and cytokinins to a great degree and impart a greater tolerance to heat. In addition, our studies showed horizontal gene transfer with complete chromosome sets transferred between different fungal strains.”

“But you haven’t explained why these mutations came about, what’s the cause?”

“I have the mycology lab working out that one, but I believe there is another possibility.”

“What is that?”

“Temperature increase, the temperature’s risen two degrees F in the last decade.”

“And?”

“And some are also evolving radically, particularly fungi.”

“So, what are you getting at?” Danielle asked.

“What I am getting at is that while fungi may disappear faster than scientists can discover them, there are hundreds we haven’t discovered yet, and these species are coming into their own in these new meteorologic conditions. And we know that fungi are the best at carbon sequestration.”

“How does that impact the nursery?”

“We can train fungi to evolve thermotolerance to increasing temperatures. This could lead to an increase in organisms that can cause disease, but it can also enhance mycorrhizal interactions. Further fungi produce large quantities of infectious spores that can disperse during and environmental disruptions like floods, storms, and hurricanes and move them to places previously not seen.”

“So, you think these fungal spores came from somewhere else?”

“Quite possibly, I mean after all, we’ve lost millions of acres of land, displaced thousands of species. Why should we have assisted migration for plants and not for fungi? Our enhanced soil temperatures caused these mycorrhizae to wake up.”

“What is your evidence?”

“For one, fungi are fruiting significantly earlier and for a longer period than ever before. Secondly, past DNA studies show that thousands of different fungi can remain dormant for years and then suddenly wake up under the right conditions. Warming may have triggered something in the mycorrhiza, induced a sleeping form to wake up, one that is tolerant of drought, kind of like a fungus Rip Van Winkle.”

Danielle struggled with Karl’s logic. In the back of her mind, he made sense. Why does he irritate me so much? Yet, he’s usually on to something. His science instincts are impeccable.

As they walked back to the main office, the squall came from nowhere and without warning. It brought a fierceness that the three had never experienced in their lives. A thunderbolt struck beside them throwing them five feet across a row of trees. The thunder felt like it burst their eardrums. They moved groggily, slowly moving, their heartbeats erratic. Danielle’s ears were ringing and she saw thermal burns on her arm.

“We must find shelter!” Karl yelled, but it was too late. The hail fell in egg-sized orbs and pounded the faces of the three directors mercilessly, creating massive welts on their cheeks and bloody knots on their heads. Instinctively, they placed their hands on top of their heads, but the ice stones smashed them raw. The northern wind whipped the golf ball sideways and they cowered under the three-foot seedlings as best they could. They saw the seedlings being smashed and stripped of their branches. All the three could think of was how many of their young trees would die. Their precious progeny ripped to shreds.

The storm ended as quickly as it started. The bloodied scientists stared at thousands of denuded seedlings across the nursery…and shook their heads.