I came home from a weekend of camping to learn that Westmount Park willow had fallen. It was a heavy storm last Tuesday that finally bent the old tree to the breaking point, but by that time its trunk was already stooped nearly to the ground and its bark had been polished by thousands upon thousands of sneakers. When I was a small that willow felt like a kingdom of possibilities hanging high above the ground. Later, as teenagers, we straddled the ...

[caption id="attachment_4691" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Apple leaves, November"][/caption] It's with a tinge of sadness that I write this last Tree Tuesday/Le mardi des arbres. Sad, because I've enjoyed this past year of observing trees through a camera lens, of figuring out my tree language in French, and of having a lively exchange with many Spacing Montreal readers. I've also learned so much about our city by reading fellow SM writers. As some of you may know, I am now writing a weekly column in the Sunday Gazette. The ...

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Amur cork tree/L'arbre liège de Chine"][/caption] TREE WALK THIS SATURDAY ON MOUNT ROYAL: 1 - 5 PM, meet at Georges-Etienne Cartier statue, $15. See here to register. The cork used to seal wine bottles comes from the bark of the cork oak (Quercus subur, chêne de liége) that grows principally in Portugal and in six other countries bordering on the Mediterranean. That tree would not survive  in our climate. But there is another cork tree, that thrives here. Pictured above is the Amur cork tree (Arbre liège de Chine, Phellodendron amurenses) growing in numerous locations in Parc La Fontaine, as well as on Mount Royal. A native of both China and Russia, the tree grows along the banks of the Amur River, one of the last great rivers yet to be dammed and one which forms the border between the two countries. Both China and Russia have tried to exploit commercially the corky bark of this tree but without much success. Certainly to the touch, the bark of the Amur cork tree is spongey but whether the spongey layer is deep enough to be harvested without hurting the live layer of bark cells that produce the cork is another question. When you see this tree, by all means sink your thumbnail into the bark to test the sponginess but don't tree to remove any.

[caption id="attachment_4355" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Chêne châtaignier (Chestnut oak, Quercus montana), Chêne rouge (Red oak, Quercus rubra), Chêne des marais (Pin oak, Quercus palustris)"] [/caption] Pourquoi appele-t-on rouge le chêne rouge? Au contraire de l'idée populaire que ce n'est que les érables et les vinaigriers qui puissent s'habiller en rouge à l'automne, le chêne rouge ...

[caption id="attachment_3991" align="aligncenter" width="249" caption="Truly remarkable: bur oak (Quercus marcrocarpa, Chêne à gros fruits),  (photo: Roger Latour)"] [/caption] Next tree tour: Remarkable trees of a Plateau neighbourhood, this Sunday, 10:30 - 1 pm, meet Parc Jean-Jacques Olier, Drolet, south of Duluth, Metro Sherbrooke, $12. 514-284-7384 or bronwynchester@gmail.com Every since Thomas Pakenham begin writing his books on remarkable trees, there's been a fashion to write on such trees, deemed remarkable usually by their size and/or age. I've never much liked the term, remarkable, mostly because I find all trees remarkable, from the Siberian elm that forces its way up through a crack in a sidewalk to those crazy self-seeded giant cottonwoods that dominate every second Montreal alley. I guess I've been bothered by the elitism in the term. I have to admit, however, that I'm reconsidering this position. After meeting a couple of truly remarkable trees in Côte St-Luc last week, namely the titanesque oak above, and this bitternut hickory below, I'm beginning to think there is a value in noting, prominently, those trees that stand out. In other words, remarking on their exceptional qualities. [caption id="attachment_4011" align="aligncenter" width="320" caption="Bitternut hickory (Carya cordiformis, Caryer cordiforme), 200+ years. Bark of mature tree is grey and looks and feels like stone. (photo:Charles L'Heureux)"][/caption] Of course, exceptional is a relative term. In the case of this oak and hickory, status is a function of their size, age and rareness. At more than 200 years of age, both trees are at least remnants of the agricultural era of Côte St-Luc,which lasted from late 18th century until 1950. [caption id="" align="alignright" width="92" caption="Bur oak leaf and fruit (acorn)."][/caption] [caption id="" align="alignleft" width="124" caption="Detail of bitternut hickory leaf, nut and twig"][/caption] From what I can make out, Côteau St-Luc, as the land was known before 1903, was a mixture of wetland forest and savannah. White oaks, the rounded lobed oaks which include the bur, white and swamp white species, are savannah trees; they like to grow in open, sunny fields. In fact, they're now cultivated in the old tobacco fields of Ontario, to provide wood for the wine casks needed for another crop that replaced tobacco: grapes. In Côte St-Luc, I found two younger bur oaks, mere 60-year-olds, but an acquaintance who grew up in the area tells me there's another ancient one on the Meadowbrook golfcourse, found at the tail end of Côte St-Luc Road. (Try as I might, I didn't get permission to explore that privately owned land.)