Cutting trees

The thing I like best about writing is stumbling upon a story that was not there in the beginning and then dwell on the newfound narrative with gusto till the end. It doesn’t often happen, but when it does, the satisfaction one feels is different. Writing becomes even more fulfilling.

Take, for example, my own desire to see the Grand Canyon that I actually saw for the first time from tens of thousands of feet up in the air and not up close and personal on the way back to L.A. from Washington. Touching some of its geologic wonders with my own hands and taking breathtaking photos of the South Rim for hours on end were some of the most fantastic experiences I’ve had. But how I got there and what I saw on the way to that vast geologic expanse that took millennia to create was, to me at least, worth remembering and writing as well.

This was because, before I saw the canyons, I saw the trees in this place called Sedona, which has changed how I view forests and how US authorities manage their resource-rich nature reserves. Not at once, of course. But actually, seeing stately Ponderosa pines that dominate the areas I’ve been to in that brief visit to Arizona sparked an interest on how Philippine forest keepers manage our own resources. In Leyte where I was born and raised, one passes by a huge tract of forestland in the uplands of Baybay on the way to Tacloban where a vast number of lawaan and yakal trees can still be found. I have both pleasant and unpleasant memories of the place, not least because I once camped there with a contingent of Boy Scouts from a jamboree in neighboring Samar and had been bewitched by its cool, clean, unfiltered waters and, later as an adult, having to watch out for that section of road near an Army camp where supposed NPA guerillas would flag commercial buses on the way to Tacloban at 3 in the morning and begin emptying passengers’ wallets. The Visayas State University would later catalogue a species of pygmy fruit bats that thrive in its forests, although much of what I remember and saw were the balinsasayaw, or swift, that flies overhead as the bus climbs up the winding road of Leyte Cordillera and on down to Mahaplag town 46 kilometers away.

Most people I know hate people who cut trees. Their abhorrence push past the roof whenever television footage shows muddy floodwaters inundating places across the country after each typhoon visitation, and the flotsam are of fallen trees and logs that almost always have been illegally cut. In Ormoc, more than 5,000 drowned in 1991 when the Bao, Pagsangahan and Bangongbong rivers overflowed and inundated the city after millions of gallons of rainwater poured over the eroded upland watershed areas. In Guinsaugon, St. Bernard, Southern Leyte, the folly of cutting indigenous trees for coconuts and abaca decades in the making was exposed in one horrific landslide that snuffed the lives more than a thousand. In most people’s minds, my own included, are imprinted the generic warning: “Cut trees at your own risk.”

But one reads the literature and discovers that while the horror of denudation is real, there are perfectly good reasons for cutting trees. It is certainly untrue that all forms of tree harvests are bad, that it hurts the environment far more than it gives out benefits. One needs only understand that trees are living, breathing things that, like your neighbor, son or daughter, require space around them to grow properly. When responsible forest management is observed, trees need not compete among themselves for space, light and water and do the important job of absorbing man-made carbon dioxide from the air that remains stored in the various wood products unless burned or allowed to decompose again. The responsible removal of trees allows them to grow big and healthy. Allowing trees to grow too close to each other renders them susceptible to insect infestations and drought cycles. Regularly harvesting the trees makes the entire forest a more livable place for its residents.

The VISCA literature that I’ve read point to the economic choices made by residents in the area converting erstwhile forested patches into coconut and abaca farms helping accelerate the denudation. This is sad, of course. But like I said, there are sustainable forest management techniques, a reliable body of knowledge that allows for people and businesses to achieve their economic targets without ruining the environment. Then there are quite a number of concerned people and organizations dedicating their lives to the responsible use of forest resources, such as the Philippine Wood Producers Association or PWPA, for instance.

Reading about these guys and their colleagues in the various advocacies have been enlightening. Their work makes me appreciate more the labor that went into crafting the 3×1.5-meter dining table at home in Leyte that my late father commissioned in the 1960s.

The hardwood red and white dining table of my youth was so heavy I remember 10 groaning grown men could hardly move it a few feet before putting it down again. I understand one can’t buy such wood in the market at present without paying an arm and a leg for it. I asked one accredited hardwood furniture maker in Lepazpi City about a year ago and the set, significantly smaller than the one at home in Leyte, costs about a month’s pay plus inflation. Hefty.

That is why I love posting that picture in my Facebook page.