My connection to these trees began as they were burning. I lived ninety miles downwind. The smoke filled the air with an eerie orange haze. Ash settled silently on everything as I breathed in the carbon released from limbs, needles, and heartwood.

The western red cedars and Douglas firs lining the banks of the McKenzie River had survived more than two centuries of fierce upriver and downriver winds, as well as flooding and erosion. The 2020 fires raged and smoldered up and down the canyon for thirty-five days. Weeks after the smoke cleared, scorched needles and leaves dropped to the ground, covering the blackened forest floor with a golden brown blanket.

The fierce windstorm accompanying the fire met little resistance. Treetops broke off, plunging into the river. Limbs dangled, connected by tissues charred and crisp, and still the trees stood, a visual legacy of quiet persistence and rooted strength.

STANDING, STILL

Standing before these trees that had withstood so much, I wanted to make portraits that conveyed their dignity and grace. Using tonality to distinguish them from their surroundings, I sought to portray each as an individual survivor who is standing, still.

MOVING, STILL

Forests are sanctuaries of stillness. My heart rate slows when I enter them. My breath deepens. And yet, in reality, forests are always in motion. Trees move water from root to crown. Needles, lichens, and insects—litterfall—drift unnoticed to the forest floor.

Two years post-fire, gravity and decomposition work in harmony to dismantle the blackened sentinels. A limb falls. A treetop snaps. In bits and pieces the structures of these charred trees collapse into the river and are moving, still.

REACHING, STILL

Trees root in the mysteries of the dark soil while growing toward the light above. They have much to teach us about physical and spiritual qualities of light. Looking up to the broken tops and floating clouds I sense that, even in their demise, the trees are reaching, still.

— David Paul Bayles 2023