San Bernard Oak

A Little Hike to a Big Tree

~ shoreacres ~ 185 Comments
The Big Tree ~ Goose Island, Texas

For years after being designated Texas’s State Champion Coastal Live Oak (Quercus virginiana) in 1966, the tree affectionately known as The Big Tree reigned in leafy splendor at Goose Island State Park near Rockport.

Thirty-five feet in circumference and forty-four feet tall, the Goose Island Tree is more than a thousand years old. It would have been little more than a sprout when Dirk III, Count of Holland, defeated Holy Roman Emperor Henry II at the Battle of Vlaardingen; when England’s Buckfast Abbey was founded; or when Aeddan ap Blegywryd, King of Gwynedd, passed on.

More recently, the giant oak survived an 1864 Civil War battle that destroyed the nearby town of Lamar. After doing battle with Hurricane Harvey, although battered, somewhat broken, and stripped of leaves, it remained firmly rooted to its ground.

The Big Tree after Hurricane Harvey ~ September 5, 2017 (Texas Parks & Wildlife photo)

Today, the Goose Island tree continues to recover, but it’s no longer our champion live oak. That honor now belongs to a tree on private property in Colorado County. Certified in August of 2016, the Colorado County oak is 61 feet high, with a circumference of 338 inches and a crown spread of 114 feet.

The current champion live oak ~ Colorado County

Between the reign of the Goose Island oak and the designation of the Colorado County oak as Texas’s largest, a third, equally impressive tree served as state champion. Still the second largest live oak in Texas, and one of the largest in the United States, the so-called San Bernard Oak was discovered in 2000 and officially entered into the record books in 2003.

Estimated to be 200 to 300 years old, the San Bernard Oak is hidden away in Brazoria County, on the San Bernard National Wildlife Refuge. The area, sometimes called Austin’s Woods in tribute to Stephen F. Austin and the settlers he brought here in 1823, is more commonly known as the Columbia Bottomlands: another historical reference. Established in 1826 by Josiah Hughes Bell, Columbia (known today as West Columbia) served as capital of the Republic of Texas from September to December 1836.

The Columbia Bottomlands extend through four Texas counties — Brazoria, Matagorda, Fort Bend and Wharton — and share a forested floodplain network of rivers, creeks, ponds, and marshes.

Finding the San Bernard Oak isn’t difficult, but it does require a bit more effort than driving up and snapping a photo. This satellite image shows the upper half of the trail. At the bottom edge, toward the right, you can see the trail crossing a utility easement. Nearer the center of the image, another section of the trail is visible; the San Bernard Oak is to the north and west of the visible trail.

The Columbia Bottomlands, one of the few forested communities within the Gulf Coast Prairies and Marshes ecoregion, consist of interconnected floodplains of the Brazos, San Bernard, and Colorado Rivers. Historically a patchwork of forested bottoms and prairie uplands, they extend approximately 75 miles inland, and serve a variety of critical funtions: lessening the destructiveness of floods; reducing soil erosion; retaining river-borne sediments; and filtering out pollutants.

While some protected bottomland areas now are closed or only partially open to the public, the San Bernard Oak is accessible, and the trail leading to the oak is as interesting as the tree itself.

After a short drive from the main section of the San Bernard Refuge, a sign marks the beginning of an ecotone: a word used to designate transitional areas of vegetation between two different plant communities. Here, the transition is between wet prairie and bottomland forest; evidence of plants’ adaptations to increased shade, less sandy soil, and constant fluctuations in water levels is obvious even to casual observers.

At the trailhead, vines and a few palmettos suggest the changes to come.

As the trail narrows and shade becomes deeper, a wall of green thickens on either side. Still, at the woods’ edge, enough sunlight flickers through to encourage a variety of flowers:

Purple bindweed (Ipomoea cordatotriloba)
Blue mistflower (Conoclinium coelestinum)
Turk’s cap ~ Malvaviscus arboreus var. drummondii

On either side of the first boardwalk, no water is apparent, but soils are moist, and more flowers appear.

Heartleaf skullcap ~ Scutellaria ovata
Panicled ticktrefoil ~ Desmodium paniculatum
Texas pinkroot ~ Spigelia texana

Here and there, deer trails intersect the main path. Follow one, and the little dramas of woodland life appear everywhere. Impaled on a broken segment of vine, a moth  — perhaps a Virginia tiger moth — may become another creature’s midnight snack.

Close by, an Eastern Pondhawk struggles to contain a Pearl Crescent butterfly.

Sometimes, there are mysteries. I can’t identify either this plant or the spider who did the work, but the shape of the shadow suggests something else tucked away for safe keeping.

Scattered throughout the leaf litter, older bones bespeak earlier struggles. Snake, raccoon, and deer are easily enough identified. Other fragments require more knowledge, and a sharper eye.

Eventually, dry leaves give way to water, and the value of the boardwalk becomes obvious.

Some plants thrive in the wetter conditions, blooming and apparently thriving despite being anchored in standing water.

Brazos penstemon ~ Penstemon tenuis
White swamp milkweed ~ Asclepias perennis

As the trail approaches the utility easement, the canopy opens, and flowers more closely associated with prairies and full sunlight begin to appear.

Evening primrose (white form) ~ Oenothera speciosa
Mexican hat ~ Ratibida columnifera
Gulf vervain ~ Verbena xutha
Pyramid flower ~ Melochia pyramidata
Clasping Venus’ looking-glass ~ Triodanis perfoliata
Carolina elephant’s foot ~ Elephantopus carolinianus

Here, too, the practical skill and artistry of the spider is evident.

Black and yellow Argiope cocooning its prey ~ Argiope aurantia
Golden silk orbweaver ~Trichonephila clavipes

Eventually, the boardwalk turns and runs parallel to Little Slough, and a true ‘wet bottomland’ emerges.  In especially rainy years, the area may remain saturated for months. Thick groves of palmettos indicate poorly drained soils, while trees such as cedar elm, green ash, hackberry, and water oak thrive in the watery glade: well-adapted to prolonged flooding.

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Dwarf palmetto ~ Sabal minor

Hidden among the trees and vines, a variety of butterflies, moths, amphibians and snakes secret themselves, motionless and nearly invisible.

Ilia underwing ~ Catocala ilia

Rushes and sedges abound, while long-stemmed, woody vines called lianas root in the soil before making use of their tendrils to climb or twine around the trees.

Short-bristled Horned Beaksedge ~ Rhynchospora corniculata
Vines represent one structural difference between tropical and temperate forests; where lianas have formed a hanging network of vegetation, their presence provides a good indicator of older, more mature woodlands. In the Columbia Bottomlands, rattan, trumpet vine, Virginia creeper, and mustang grape twine toward the canopy, adding a certain ‘atmosphere’ to the woods.
Where oaks are more prevalent, the canopy opens, allowing a glimpse of blue sky and sunlight. If you look closely, you’ll notice that some of the limbs seem fuzzy, and in a sense they are.

The limbs are covered in resurrection fern, one of three fern species on the refuge. An epiphyte that uses the trees for support while gaining nutrients from sunlight, air, and rain, the fern grows on the upper side of the live oak branches.

Without rainfall, the fern shrivels and appears dead; it can lose as much as 75 percent of its water content during typical dry periods. After a good rain, it rebounds within a day, once again appearing green and healthy. This remarkable ‘resurrection’ gives the plant its name, even though it never actually dies during the process.

Resurrection fern on a live oak limb ~ Pleopeltis polypodioides
Dried fronds of resurrection fern, awaiting rain

Finally, the San Bernard Oak comes into view. Its bifurcated trunk is immense; only the bench provided for visitors at the end of the boardwalk offers some sense of scale.

Given the tree’s size and the tangle of surrounding growth, photographing it in the same way as the Goose island or Colorado County oaks is impossible. On the other hand, the San Bernard Oak’s isolation has kept it safe from humans, just as the forest has helped protect it from storms.

In time, I’ll return to the tree, eager to experience it in a different season. For now, I’m happy to have made its acquaintance. Those whose work established the refuge and allowed the land to return to its natural state deserve to be honored; like the San Bernard Oak, they’re providing a legacy for future generations.

The San Bernard Oak

 

Comments always are welcome.

Those Thick-Barked Survivors

~ shoreacres ~ 129 Comments
The Big Tree at Goose Island, Texas c. 1990

For years after being designated Texas’s State Champion Coastal Live Oak (Quercus virginiana) in 1966, the tree affectionately known as The Big Tree reigned in leafy glory at Goose Island State Park near Rockport. 

Dethroned in 2003 by the discovery of an even larger tree in Brazoria County — the San Bernard Oak on the San Bernard National Wildlife Refuge — it still remains the second largest live oak in Texas, and one of the largest in the United States.

Thirty five feet in circumference and forty-four feet tall, the Big Tree is more than a thousand years old. It would have been only a sprout when Dirk III, Count of Holland, defeated Henry II, Holy Roman Emperor, at the Battle of Vlaardingen, when Buckfast Abbey was founded in England, or when Aeddan ap Blegywryd, King of Gwynedd, passed on.

More recently, the giant oak survived an 1864 Civil War battle that destroyed the nearby town of Lamar, but most recently it did battle with Hurricane Harvey: a battle that left it battered, somewhat broken and stripped of leaves, but firmly rooted to its ground.

The Big Tree at Goose Island, Texas ~ September 5, 2017
(Texas Parks & Wildlife photo)

After hearing that smaller trees surrounding the Big Tree had been uprooted or shattered during the hurricane, a local fishing guide said, “Well, that’s why we call some people thick-barked. They’ve got what it takes to survive a storm.” Given the track record of a certain thick-barked oak in my own town, I fully expect that The Big Tree will recover. A few of you know the story, but it’s worth the re-telling.

Between the years 2000 and 2010, the town I call home grew from 45,874 residents to 83,560. Since then, the rate of growth has increased, and shows no sign of slowing. Homes, schools, and churches are flooding into the surrounding countryside. New businesses are multiplying, and traffic has become a critical issue.

Some years ago, plans to convert heavily traveled Louisiana Avenue from an open ditch rural roadway to a concrete-curbed, storm-sewered thoroughfare were progressing nicely, until some observant citizens realized an obstacle stood in the way of all that progress. The obstacle? An uncommon and historically significant tree: the Ghirardi Compton Oak.

Compton oaks are wonderful trees, a cross between overcup and live oaks. Tolerant of poor drainage, overcups will grow in nearly any condition but standing water. Live oaks also are site tolerant, but prefer better drainage. While live oaks produce masses of tasty acorns, the overcup’s developed a bit of a reputation as the “acorn of last resort” for hungry animals.

The relatively rare Comptons combine the best traits of both parents. Faster growth, larger, tastier acorns, and heavy production are typical of the Compton, although individual trees may favor either the live or overcup side of the family.

Compton oaks also happen to be extraordinary beautiful, with large, overspreading canopies. That makes them a nice fit for League City, where beautiful trees abound. The city’s live oak legacy began in 1854 when three interrelated families — the Butlers, Cowards and Perkins — traveled overland from Calcasieu Parish, Louisiana, to the coastal prairies of Galveston County. Settling somewhat west of League City on Chigger Creek (now Clear Creek), they established cattle ranches and followed Acadian tradition by planting oaks from the bags of acorns they carried from Louisiana in their wagons.

The trees thrived. When George Washington Butler moved his ranch headquarters to town in the 1870s, he brought with him a multitude of young oaks that had been started on Chigger Creek. After the community renamed itself League City in the first decade of the 1900’s, Butler asked J.C. League to ship in some flat cars of live oaks to continue transforming the prairie. When the shipment arrived, any homeowner who couldn’t afford the price of $4 per tree was given one to plant in his yard. Today, many of those Butler Oaks survive: century-old trees that have become the symbol for League City.

While the early tree-planting was taking place, agriculture also began to flourish. Truck farming of strawberries, corn, cucumbers, beets, figs, tomatoes and grapefruit became the specialty of a group of Italian families rooted in Cercenasco, Italy: a town in the province of Turin.

Over a thirty year period, these Italians entered America through Ellis Island, then sailed for Galveston. Unlike many Italian immigrants who remained on Galveston Island, the Vaglienti, Arolfo, Daro, Cucco, Morratto, Bocco and Ghirardi families moved inland, establishing a strong, cohesive community.

While still a young man, Clarence Ghirardi used to sort canteloupe under the disputed Compton oak, which shaded land owned by his uncle. Over the years, Clarence’s son Michael and grandsons Eric and Drayce played beneath its limbs. When the need for construction arose, the Ghirardi family preferred to see the tree remain in place: perhaps with the street curving around it. Once that option proved unworkable, Clarence offered to donate a half-acre of his own land in order to provide a new home for the tree.

The land bordered a park already in development, but the plan required moving the tree about 1500 feet: an expensive and complex operation which offered no guarantees, but which at least might avoid turning the tree into firewood.

As you might imagine, there were months of commotion. Vigils were held, arguments grew heated, and the usual complaints about frivolous use of tax dollars were voiced. (As it turned out, no tax dollars were spent, thanks in part to a $10,000 contribution by Trees for Houston which helped ensure the project’s success.)

Eventually, the tree had its own Facebook page, and people who’d never heard of the Ghirardi family or a Compton oak were stopping by for a look.

Barry Ward, Executive Director of Trees for Houston, advocated tirelessly for the tree. “If everybody pitches in and cooperates and thinks about what we can do, the likelihood is you will save one of the most significant Compton oaks in North America. The question now is: Does the city council have the will to go ahead and make it happen?”

In the end, they did have that will. A bid from Hess Landscape Construction of Orange County, California for $197,500 was accepted. It was money well spent. When Erik Hess and his crew showed up and went to work, they not only impressed the town with their competence, they inspired a community as well. And when they put their 1,300 horsepower and 400,000 pounds of equipment to the test, the old Ghirardi oak groaned, creaked and complained – but she moved.

Moving a tree of such size involved far more than a bucket and a shovel. There were dimensions to be taken, soils to be tested, trenches to be dug, and on-site boxes to be built. As the great oak took on the appearance of a Texas-sized bonsai, it became the center of the town’s attention.

The machinery that made the move possible was less impressive than the people who made it work. There’s something beautiful and inspiring about watching a tightly-knit and competent team accomplish a goal. Hess’s team was remarkably disciplined, and so attuned to one another that unexpected problems never rose to the level of crisis.

When one of the primary cables linking the excavators and bulldozers snapped just before the tree was moved into its new hole, the problem-solving process seemed to be more nerve-wracking for observers than for those actually solving the problem.

After the move had been completed, I talked for few minutes with Erik Hess. “I’ll bet you’re going to sleep well tonight,” I said. Laughing, he acknowledged some relief and suggested that the whole team would be sleeping better.

Pondering the stressful nature of the move, he said the Marine Corps had taught him a good bit about how to deal with it. “You get around it not by focusing on the stress, but by paying attention to the challenge in front of you,” he said.

Clearly, he’d learned the lesson well. Only after I uploaded my photos from the day did I notice one small, ambiguous gesture that might have suggested stress – the lightly clenched fists in the photo below.

Beyond that, there was only what a woman watching nearby called artistry: a beautifully choreographed pas de deux of knowledge and experience that ended with accolades and applause.

After the oak had been replanted, mulched, irrigated, and fed, there’s wasn’t much action down at the park. Experts kept an eye on the tree, but watching a root system reestablish itself isn’t the most exciting thing in the world.

People did drive down Louisiana Avenue to look at the tree from the road, or parked and walked across the pasture to take a photo. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” they’d say to one another. “I’d love to see them move that tree again.”

Thanks to the same people who committed to saving a piece of their town’s legacy, they can see it again. And you can watch, too – just to see how wonderful it truly was.

Today, five years have passed since the tree was moved and replanted. Over the course of those years, there have been difficulties. Water accumulating beneath the tree caused part of the root system to die, weakening it and allowing for the emergence of Hypoxylon canker, a tree disease with no effective treatment. The installation of a drainage and irrigation system allowed the roots to begin growing back, and today, the canker is in retreat.

Experts generally agree that if a transplanted tree survives for five years, its chances for continued survival increase. Today, absent any extraordinary circumstances, the survival of the Ghirardi oak seems assured. A lovely park named for the family has grown up around the tree, filled with native plants, water gardens, walking paths, and an outdoor classroom.  In the midst of it all, the tree is thriving: producing its acorns, and standing sentinel amid the falling light.

The Ghirardi Oak silhouetted against high cirrus from Hurricane Irma ~ September 12,  2017

Best of all, it no longer stands alone. Another great oak known as the Moonshine Tree lives nearby. According to Michael Ghirardi, it grew outside a shack in which his grandfather, along with other relatives from the Sarracco and Arofolo clans, distilled a little home brew.

Perhaps, when the moon is full and the night grows silent, the wind-ravaged trees of the middle coast will hear the call of these companions:  “We have survived, and you will survive. We thick-barked ones always do.”

The Moonshine Tree ~ September 11, 2017

 

Comments always are welcome