Of Restoration, And Why It Is Not Optional
Cogitamus ergo silvae sumus. — ascribed, perhaps falsely, to a forester in Saxony.
There is a polite version of sustainability that I will not be writing in these pages. The polite version says: choose the better tote bag, refuse the receipt, and you have done your part. The polite version is a useful fiction sold by people who would rather you not measure carefully. This journal does not subscribe to it.
The honest version is harder. It begins with an inventory of what is being lost and proceeds, slowly and unsentimentally, through the question of what could plausibly be retained. It accepts that not everything will be. The honest version requires a forester's patience, a botanist's eye, and a coroner's willingness to say what has died. It is not a happy science. It is, however, the only science we have left.
Begin with this: a single mature European beech, Fagus sylvatica, transpires roughly 400 litres of water on a hot day. It hosts more than fifty species of insect that occur nowhere else. Its shade keeps the forest floor cooler by 4°C. To replace one, after felling, is the work of a hundred and twenty years. We fell them in an afternoon.2
This is not a metaphor. This is the arithmetic. The arithmetic is the case for restoration -- not because nature is sacred, although it may be, but because restoration is the only ledger that, kept honestly, balances over a long enough horizon. Every other ledger we have tried collapses by the second generation.
The work, then, is to see the species before us. To name them. To understand their roles in the systems we depend on. And -- and this is the rebellious act, the one that the polite version omits -- to refuse the loss of any one of them as necessary.
2. Schmidt-Vogt, H., Die Buche, Hamburg, 1973. The figures hold; the trees, mostly, do not.