Musing: Fallen Giant: Requiem for a Walnut Tree

Just beyond the fence enclosing our backyard, a black walnut tree once stood sentinel, its sprawling canopy a testament to nature’s grandeur. Nearly 100 feet tall, the silent guardian weathered countless storms before Hurricane Helene arrived to rewrite our landscape.

During autumn days, the air filled with the percussive symphony of falling walnuts. They’d rain down like nature’s own drumroll, each thick shell striking the earth with a resounding thud.

Roscoe found endless entertainment in this arboreal spectacle. His furry feet carried him from spot to spot, chasing the sound of each impact. His tail wagged with excitement as he zigzagged across the yard in a joyous dance.

On quieter days, he sat, gaze fixed upward, waiting for the next walnut to make its descent. Sometimes, lost in concentration, he’d be surprised by a straggler bouncing off his back. I threatened to purchase a canine hardhat and strap it to his head for his own safety.

Little did we know that these carefree moments would soon become nothing but precious memories, frozen in time by nature’s fury and carrying the weight of something irretrievably lost.

Three weeks ago, Hurricane Helene arrived with a fury. The night erupted with the sounds of exploding transformers. Torrential rain driven by howling winds slapped against the house. Trees, pushed to their limits, swayed violently in the howling winds.

We retreated to the relative safety of our basement. Only one of the four walls is above ground. That wall of windows provided a terrifying view of the storm’s wrath.

We watched helplessly as trees surrendered to Helene’s relentless assault. Some were uprooted entirely, their massive root systems exposed like the veins of the earth itself. Others, too sturdy to be pulled from the ground, simply snapped in half, their splintering trunks a cacophonous counterpoint to the storm’s roar.

In all the chaos, we never heard our beloved walnut tree fall. After the storm abated, we ventured upstairs into darkness. The once-towering giant now lay draped across our roof, its branches obscuring the rear windows of our home, plunging us into an eerie twilight.

We didn’t yet know about the death and destruction throughout Asheville and the region. People living near the rivers evacuated based on the flood predictions from the days before, but things turned out far worse than expected. Rivers and creeks rose to heights never witnessed. Worse than 2004. Worse than 1916. Even worse than the historical estimates from back in 1791.

Without electricity or cell service or the ability to leave our neighborhood because fallen trees blocked the roads, we knew none of that. We knew only what surrounded us. The stench of natural gas floated through the air from a ruptured line a half block away. Houses bore gaping wounds where trees had punctured roofs, allowing the relentless rain to pour in.

The landscape was a labyrinth of fallen trees, a graveyard of timber. Hundreds of trees lay scattered across just a few blocks, their tangled limbs creating obstacles that turned simple walks into treacherous expeditions.

As we surveyed the damage in our own backyard, a conflicting sense of devastation and gratitude struck us. Our walnut, in its last act, had somehow fallen in the most graceful way possible.

Well, it could have fallen away from the house. Let’s call what happened the second most graceful way possible.

The tree came to rest with the lower trunk leaning on the wooden fence (but not shattering it), the middle trunk resting on the roof of our backyard pavilion (but not crushing it), and the top resting on the roof (but not puncturing it). Branches scraped against the windows, but didn’t crack a single one. It even missed the chimneys on both the pavilion and house, not even leaving a dent in either cap.

We cut through the lower branches so we could open the back door. With the fence still standing, the dogs could safely explore the backyard. Roscoe, to his delight, found a carpet of walnuts on the ground.

On the second day, we found a local tree crew working nearby. They said they were focused on removing trees on houses and I assured them I qualified. They arrived early the next morning ready to dismantle our fallen sentinel with machinery and manpower—a five-person crew, a lift to reach high into the air, a skid steer with a tree grapple for carrying the thick trunk to the streets, and well-tuned chainsaws.

They methodically reduced our walnut tree to manageable pieces. Each cut of the chainsaw felt like a requiem, a last goodbye to a silent friend that had provided shade, joy, and a sense of permanence in our ever-changing world. The massive root ball, now exposed and reaching taller than any of us, stood as a monument to the tree’s long life and its violent end.

As the crew worked, I couldn’t help but reflect on the broader symbolism of our walnut’s fall. It, of course, was only a tree, nothing compared to the people who lost their lives, homes, or businesses. We know how blessed we are.

Yet, that gap in our tree line represents the loss of something we took for granted. The tree that had seemed immovable, a fixture of our daily lives, has been reduced to a pile of debris at the curb waiting to be hauled away. It mirrors the way Helene uprooted lives across the region, toppling the illusion of stability we all cling to.

The absence of our walnut’s familiar silhouette is a daily reminder of how quickly the seemingly permanent can vanish. The extra sunlight streaming into our once-shaded yard feels almost intrusive, a brightness we’re not yet ready to embrace.

We still find walnuts scattered about the yard, not yet unearthed from the mud by the squirrels rebuilding their winter stores. Roscoe no longer sits expectantly, watching for falling walnuts. Even he knows we will never again see that giant swaying in the breeze, never again hear the satisfying ‘thunk’ of walnuts on grass that once marked the rhythm of our autumns.

Yet, as I watch Roscoe sniff curiously at a half-buried walnut, I’m reminded of nature’s resilience. Perhaps some of these nuts are already taking root nearby, ready to grow into the giants of tomorrow, just as our community is already rebuilding its future — different, changed, but ever persistent.