A couple embarked on a 3,900-mile road trip to bring the resilient seedlings to family and friends
By Reporting and photography by Betsy Corcoran
Twilight was filtering through Ohio's leafy Cuyahoga Valley National Park as my husband and I parked our minivan. We then unloaded four potted seedlings onto a cart and hauled them to our campsite.
A man relaxing by a campfire watched with surprise. Who brings their own trees on a camping trip? He got even more confused when I told him what the pots were holding: giant-sequoia babies.
It was the eighth evening on a 3,900-mile road trip from California to Boston. We were delivering seven giant-sequoias babies to people who aimed to plant them in places meaningful to them. Along the way, we met many people who were both curious and charmed by the iconic conifers.
Why were we undertaking this mission? My husband and I had visited California's native sequoias during the dark days of Covid. They captured our imaginations -- a sign of life and resilience in the face of a disease that made everything seem fragile and temporary. And we wanted to share the gift of that spirit with people dear to us, no matter how far we had to travel to do it.
We had made one cross-country road trip years ago, traveling east to west, young newlyweds learning about ourselves. Decades later, we were intrigued to make the journey in reverse, giving something back along the way.
Misdemeanor with a cause
Americans have been enchanted by sequoias since the 1850s, when a guy chasing a bear stumbled across the biggest tree he had ever seen. He wasn't the first to encounter them -- the Yosemite Native tribes called the trees "wawona," like the sound made by the northern spotted owl. Unfortunately, early Euro-American adventurers started chopping down the gargantuan trees and shipping off chunks. It took 40 years and the combined forces of naturalist John Muir, President Benjamin Harrison and the U.S. Cavalry to set up Sequoia National Park so the trees wouldn't be logged out of existence.
More than 130 years later, in the spring of 2021, my husband, George Anders, proposed we visit Sequoia & Kings Canyon National Parks, about five hours from our California home. I figured a little "forest bathing" couldn't hurt during the pandemic.
The sequoias took my breath away. Not just because they towered overhead, the biggest dwarfing a stack of 10 blue whales. Not just because of their longevity, though their heritage dates back to the Jurassic era. Most astonishing to me were their scars: the burned-out crevices, cut deep into the heart of many of the trees, some big enough to ride a horse through. Yet the trees still thrived. Resilience is at the core of sequoias.
Rangers frown on taking even a stick from a national park. Still, I needed a reminder of these groves' peacefulness and strength. I slipped a few of the marshmallow-size sequoia cones into my pocket.
A year later, they released seeds, which I decided to try to germinate. It worked.
Planting a tree involves touching time. You imagine a future in which the tree flourishes, providing shade and oxygen and beauty to people not yet born. That made planting a sequoia an act of radical optimism, something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Fast-forward four years: I had nurtured nine baby giant sequoias that were now outgrowing their large plastic buckets. I planted two in my tiny backyard -- perhaps a bit ambitious given how large these trees could get if they survive, say, 1,000 years. (If they last even 100, they will likely outlast my house.)
But the rest of the trees? I wanted them to go to people who meant something to me.
My brother, Chris Corcoran, who lives outside Boston, loved the idea. He wanted a tree, no questions asked. His enthusiasm inspired me: Why not take a road trip, with trees? As friends heard about our evolving plans, they began raising their hands.
Spreading the roots
There were practical questions to consider, though. Was transporting trees this way legal? And was it a good idea in the first place? After all, invasive species can pose real risks to a native environment.
The answer to the first question turned out to be yes: You can take the trees across state lines, with a bit of red tape. Each plant would need a "phytosanitary certificate" attesting to compliance with the agricultural rules of its destination. The cost: about $50 apiece.
As for the potential harm: All the big environmental questions about invasive species occur when you're planting a large number of trees -- hundreds or more. One tree here or there won't do much damage. Purists say you should only plant native species, but most people have something "ornamental" in their yards that is probably not native.
And, you could argue, the trees need all the help they can get. Sequoias are on the "Red List of Threatened Species" site maintained by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, along with their two cousins, coast redwoods and dawn redwoods.
"The sequoias' ancestors used to be much more widespread throughout the Northern Hemisphere," says Wendy Baxter, co-founder of the nonprofit Ancient Forest Society and a canopy scientist, who scales trees to see how they are doing. Giant-sequoia fossils have been found in Nevada, Colorado, South Dakota and other Western states. "But over time, as a result of climatic changes, their range really contracted," she says.
Baxter's organization helps create seed libraries to support reforestation. Since the 1850s, in fact, people have shared seeds and raised sequoias in places as far-flung as Scotland, France and New Zealand.
Baxter herself is a fan of growing sequoias -- not really migrating whole forests, but she's fine with planting one or two. "Anything that connects people with nature and trees is a positive thing," she says.
Sequoias natively are found in small patches in California's Northern Sierra mountains, typically at elevations greater than 5,000 feet. Their thick bark helps make them especially resistant to insects and fire (which contributes to their lifespan), but they crave water. Mature sequoias, namely ones that are hundreds of years old, can consume hundreds of gallons of water a day during dry summer days.
The oldest transplanted sequoias date to the 1850s or so. The biggest of those trees is about 160 feet tall and less than 7 feet in diameter. They have done best in environments that are sunny, cooler (winter snows are fine) and, of course, near water. We did pick people who live proximate to water. And everyone promised to water the saplings faithfully while they are still small and their roots are beginning to reach out.
Have trees, will smile
Plans in place, George and I strapped our seven sequoias into a Pacifica minivan, whose 47 inches of vertical space were just enough to accommodate the tallest of our seven potted seedlings. At 8:30 a.m. on a Tuesday, we took to the road.
Traveling with trees is a bit like traveling with puppies, minus the poop bags. We overnighted in places where we could take the trees out of the van, water them and give them a couple of hours of light. Whenever we glanced in the rear view mirror, we could see the trees gently waving their tiny branches in sync with the motion of the van.
We soon discovered the best way to elicit a smile from, say, a weary convenience-store attendant or waiter was to casually mention that we were traveling with.seven. Baby. Giant. Sequoias.
Our destinations included family and friends in places as diverse as Salt Lake City, Oconomowoc, Wis., Chicago, Maryland, and the Eastern seaboard: Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts.
In Salt Lake City, one recipient, George's cousin, quickly learned that some neighbors were also raising the giant trees. "Maybe," she said, "owning a sequoia is like walking a dog. It introduces you to all sorts of people you might not meet otherwise."
Six days into the journey, the arid dryness of the West yielded to the extravagant green of the Great Lakes states, where we delivered a sequoia to our niece in Oconomowoc and to a friend who plans to plant his sequoia next spring in northern Michigan. Our niece and her husband have a toddler who is nearly 2 years old; raising a giant sequoia didn't seem scarier than trying to raise a child. Our friend with plans for Michigan loved the long view: "What appeals to me is the length of the project. Thirty years, 40 -- or a thousand, for a sequoia! It's like touching immortality."
Next came the Maryland shore, to see my long-ago boss and his wife. For years, he has planted White Oaks acorns each year, a tradition he started years ago when his family owned Virginia farmland. The oldest of those trees are now 30 feet high. Over time, he has added maples, redbuds and others, which have become gifts for family and friends. I liked to think of us adding to this horticultural community.
A special homecoming
In the final leg of our journey, we headed up the East Coast to deliver the last three sequoias. First up is my hometown, Newtown, Conn., where my best friend has retired with her husband. Bringing a sequoia to Newtown -- site of the Sandy Hook attack on schoolchildren -- resonates deeply. I'm not sure anyone in Newtown will ever fully recover from the aftermath of that brutal assault. But the town, like a sequoia, carries on.
Another tree went to friends in Providence -- archaeologists who, as one said, take the long view and are good at digging. Perfect for sequoias. Finally, we reached our last destination, the one that got the trip rolling in the first place: Concord, Mass., home to Thoreau's Walden Pond and the bridge where the first shots of the Revolution were fired. My brother and his wife live in a wooded section of town, where a dawn redwood is already flourishing on their property.