History of destruction, future of hope

I first heard of the kauri (pronounced kah-oo-ree), the world’s third-largest tree after two types of sequoia, when I read Annie Proulx’s epic 2016 novel Barkskins, about man’s historic destruction of much of the world’s forests. Once the loggers of North America had exhausted supplies of white pine and other large trees there, they turned their attention in the early 1800s to New Zealand. Settlers had been clearing the land of kauri trees to make way for farming, and hence the loggers discovered an even bigger and better prize. Like pine, kauri is a conifer, but unlike pine, it’s self-pruning, dropping its branches as it grows, thereby leaving few knots — which made it even more desirable to shipbuilders and furniture makers. It grows straight, to more than 50 metres tall, with girths of up to 16 metres, and has a wide crown of green leaves sitting way up top. Kauri trees can live for thousands of years.

The tree’s size and perfection are what led to its literal downfall. Its gum was prized, too. Massive blobs of kauri gum that had dropped to the earth and become buried over time would harden into chunks that have the look and feel of amber. Similar to the goldrush, “gumdiggers” came from all over the world to unearth the stuff; it was in high demand in Europe and North America because it could be melted and used as a durable varnish.

Kauri logging went practically unchecked until it was banned in the 1980s, leaving less than two per cent of the original forest standing. Most remaining kauris are in the Northland and Coromandel regions of New Zealand’s North Island. And they’re fighting a new threat: a fungal disease, Phytophthora agathidicida, or kauri dieback. Spores attach themselves to the tree’s roots and slowly kill it. There is no known cure, so the focus is on prevention.

Snow Tane is the general manager of Te Rorua, the Maori iwi (tribe) whose land encompasses the Waipoua Forest. His iwi, along with New Zealand’s Department of Conservation, is leading efforts to fight the dieback. “Our elders have long said ‘We are the forest, and the forest is us,’ ” says Snow. “If the forest isn’t healthy, then the people aren’t. We have to get past this crisis.”

Among the many measures put in place to help prevent the disease’s spread are elaborate foot-washing stations that people must pass through before entering the forest and boardwalks, so that feet don’t even touch the ground. Many areas of the forest are also off limits to visitors. And seedlings harvested from the cones of unharmed trees, deemed to be resistant to the dieback, are being planted.

Snow acknowledges that because kauri are so slow-growing, he will not live to see the fruits of this labour, nor will even his great grandkids. But he has hope. Efforts to stop the dieback are well-coordinated and there is a sense of urgency. “It’s going to be a long fight, but I have a good belief in Mother Nature.”

Tane Mahuta

Of course, I could have seen Tane Mahuta during the day — and I will come back tomorrow to do just that — but this night walk with Naera feels particularly special. “Maori traditionally do their storytelling around the fire at night,” Naera tells me, “so sharing stories and songs on a night walk is a way to honour that tradition.”

We come to a stop in an open area, and we turn off our small flashlights. In total darkness, Naera sings a spinetingling Maori-language song of praise for Tane Mahuta. Then he aims his most powerful flashlight at its trunk, and turns it on.

I’m filled with awe. It’s the largest tree I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how else to put into words the experience except to say that it’s humbling, and makes me feel so grateful that some of these trees have been spared to continue to go about their quiet, peaceful existence — perhaps for thousands more years. There’s an even older kauri in this forest, Te Matua Ngahere, or “Father of the Forest.” It’s some 3,000 years old.