Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
I stood on a volcanic bluff in central Oregon and found a tree clinging to the rock, as if it knew the cost of falling. The ground was basalt and pumice—thin soil, cutting wind, and a sun that takes more than it gives. The tree grew from a fissure, its trunk angled away from the bluff, poured from the same molten past. Its bark was tight and weathered, roots braided into hairline cracks.
I stood on a volcanic bluff in central Oregon and found a tree clinging to the rock, as if it knew the cost of falling. The ground was basalt and pumice—thin soil, cutting wind, and a sun that takes more than it gives. The tree grew from a fissure, its trunk angled away from the bluff, poured from the same molten past. Its bark was tight and weathered, roots braided into hairline cracks.