The majestic granddaddy oak stood tall and wide in the middle of the modest expanse of hilltop flat. A sovereign king, regnant on his throne, surrounded at a respectful distance by members of his royal court and innumerable minions.
I was enjoying my first exploratory ramble through a new-to-me woods located near the edge of Preble County. An unusual woods for this part of the state.
The land itself was quite rugged—surprisingly hilly, with steep banks and deep, narrow ravines. The little ravines clasped rock-ledged seasonal drainage rills in their bottoms.
To my mind, the place looked and felt like a miniature version of the Appalachian foothills you’ll find in Ohio’s southeastern region. Or at least a small-scale reminder of that hills-’n-hollers county.
I’m not the best fellow to rely on when it comes to identifying Ohio’s various oaks. In fact, I’m not even sure exactly how many species of oaks can be found in our state.
Sources vary in their counts and qualifications. They disagree about which species were historic natives, early introduced non-natives, non-natives arriving much later, sneaky invasives, or foreign escapees from landscaping or garden plantings.
Given such lack of consensus among the experts, a botanical dabbler needs to remain mindful of his limitations. Still, disclaimers aside, I’m confident in saying the huge tree in the clearing was a bur oak.
I believe this because scattered on the surrounding ground, amongst the leaf litter, were many large, distinctive “mossycup” acorns. The largest acorn from any North American species of oak. Bur oaks are often alternately called mossycup oaks. And mossycup acorns are an important food source for wildlife—everything from squirrels to deer.
Bur oaks are arguably the biggest of all Ohio’s oak trees. This is partly due to their longevity. Bur oaks regularly live 300-400 years, occasionally longer. This gives them plenty of time to grow astonishingly imposing.
To call the tree on the hilltop big does not do justice to it great size—not for height, girth, or spread.
It was truly enormous!
I’d estimate 80-plus feet to the crown, at least a 50-foot spread, and it would take at least three adults linking hands to encircle the gnarled trunk. A tree that was already of formidable size when the first buckskin-clad long hunters came slipping through the wilderness hereabouts.
Trees such as this have witnessed history. They’ve shaded the Shawnee and Miami Indians. And were around when elk and bison roamed these parts, when wolves and panthers skulked the darkness, when Carolina parakeets and ivory-billed woodpeckers settled amongst the forest’s canopy, and flocks of passenger pigeons darkened skies overhead.
I can never help but be awed and impressed when I come upon such trees. An immense and ancient oak readjusts your perspective, while interjecting dashes of insignificance and humility.
Where do we, mere mortal men, stand when compared to such trees? It’s like looking at the Milky Way, all those billions and billions of faraway stars. Light which has taken longer than all of human history to reach your eyes. Will anything any of us ever do match such gleaming longevity?
The old monarch’s nearby non-oak neighbors had lost all their leaves. They now looked undressed and forlorn. Standing naked—skeletal, bare, doubtless a bit chilled by the sharp November wind which stirred easily through this uppermost portion of the open, sprawling woods.
But the granddaddy oak was an iconoclast—stately, still clinging stubbornly to most of its leaves. Imposing in its mass of foliage. Tough leaves, in shades of rusty-brown and golden-bronze, a few with hints of scarlet and green and lemon. Leaves that acted like shards of stained glass—translucent when backlit by the morning sun, glowing like jewels.
A most resplendent robe, indeed!
I was reminded of another granddaddy oak from a few years back.
I’d traveled to eastern Kentucky to help spruce up a small mountain-top cemetery. Unlike many of the area’s old, remotely-located graveyards, this one is regularly maintained. A group meets once or twice a year to mow and rake, straighten any leaning marker stones, and make sure the fence surrounding the half-acre plot is in good order.
If the Licking River isn’t up, higher-clearance vehicles can make it across the ford and up the hill to the gate.
My great-great grandfather is buried here. His father is buried on another hillside you can see across the river—a quarter mile as the crow flies. And about the same distance in the other direction, but down in the valley, rests the family patriarch.
John McGuire was born in 1756 in Ireland and came to America as a boy. He fought in both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, and rode with Gen. George Rogers Clark.
This cemetery is on land he once owned. There’s a giant old bur oak just beyond one of its perimeter corners.
That granddaddy oak was certainly here when my great, great, great, great, grandfather John walked and worked this land—and his son, grandson, and the subsequent generations that followed—including my grandfather and father. All would have known this huge old oak tree.
On that cemetery clean-up day, I moseyed over and sat awhile under its massive branches, pondering the fact of being the seventh direct-line McGuire to rest in its shade and feel the old tree’s rough bark against my back.
I won’t try to tell you the thoughts and feelings that swirled through me.
When I came upon the granddaddy bur oak in that Preble County hilltop woods, something clicked. I ambled over to its massive base, doffed my hat, gave the sturdy bole a friendly pat, then sat and felt rough bark’s solid embrace.
Hello, granddaddy…
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
