Charles Darwin and the Phylogeny of State Flowers and State Trees

This is a guest post by Rachel Rodman. Photos by Daniel Murphy.


Every U.S. state has its own set of symbols: an official flower, an official tree, and an official bird. Collectively, these organisms form the stuff of trivia and are traditionally presented in the form of a list.

But, lists…well. As charming as lists can sometimes be, lists are rarely very satisfying.

So I decided to try something different.

I am not, of course, the first person to be unhappy with the eclectic, disordered nature of many biological assemblages. In the 18th century, Linnaeus developed a classification system in order to make sense of that untidiness. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, and so on.

In the 19th century, Darwin set biodiversity into an even more satisfying intellectual framework, outlining a model that linked organisms via descent from a series of common ancestors. And, as early as 1837, he experimented with a tree-like structure, in order to diagram these relationships.

Following Darwin’s lead, I’ve worked to reframe the state flowers and state trees in terms of their evolutionary history (*see the methods section below). And today, in honor of Darwin’s 209th birthday, I am delighted to present the results to you.

Let’s start with the state flowers.

In this tree, Maine’s “white pine cone and tassel” forms the outgroup. Among all the state “flowers,” it is the only gymnosperm—and therefore, in fact, not actually a flower.

Notice, also, that the number of branches in this tree is 39—not 50. Most of this stems from the untidy fact that there is no requirement for each state to select a unique flower. Nebraska and Kentucky, for example, share the goldenrod; North Carolina and Virginia share the dogwood.

With the branch labeled “Rose,” I’ve compressed the tree further. The state flowers of Georgia, Iowa, North Dakota, New York, and Oklahoma are all roses of various sorts; with my data set (*see methods below), however, I was unable to disentangle them. So I kept all five grouped.

This is a rich tree with many intriguing juxtapositions. Several clades, in particular, link geographical regions that are not normally regarded as having a connection. Texas’ bluebonnet, for example, forms a clade with Vermont’s red clover. So, similarly, do New Hampshire’s purple lilac and Wyoming’s Indian paintbrush.

Texas bluebonnet (Lupinus texensis) – the state flower of Texas

The second tree—the tree of state trees—is similarly rewarding. This tree is evenly divided between angiosperms (19 species) and gymnosperms (17 species).

Iowa’s state tree is simply the “oak”—no particular species was singled out. To indicate Iowa’s selection, I set “IA” next to the node representing the common ancestor of the three particular oak species: white oak, red oak, and live oak, which were selected as symbols by other states.

Arkansas’ and North Carolina’s state tree, similarly, is the “pine,”—no particular species specified. I’ve indicated their choice in just the same way, setting “AR” and “NC” next to the node representing the common ancestor of the eight particular pine species chosen to represent other states.

In this tree of trees, as with the tree of flowers, several clades link geographical regions that are not usually linked—at least not politically. Consider, for example, the pairing of New Hampshire’s white birch with Texas’ tree, the pecan.

Another phylogenetic pairing also intrigued me: Pennsylvania’s eastern hemlock and Washington’s western hemlock. It evokes, I think, a pleasing coast-to-coast symmetry: two states, linked via an east-west cross-country bridge, over a distance of 2,500 miles

The corky bark of bur oak (Quercus macrocarpa). Oak is the state tree of Iowa.

In this post, I’ve presented the U.S. state flowers and U.S. state trees in evolutionary framework. The point in doing that was not to denigrate any of the small, human stories that lie behind these symbols—all of the various economic, historical, and legislative vagaries, which led each state to select these particular plants to represent them. (Even more importantly, I have no wish to downplay the interesting nature of any of the environmental factors that led particular plants to flourish and predominate in some states and not others.)

The point, instead, was to suggest that these stories can coexist and be simultaneously appreciated alongside a much larger one: the many million year story of plant evolution.

With Darwin’s big idea—descent with modification—the eclectic gains depth and meaning. And trivia become a story—a grand story, which can be traced back, divergence point by divergence point: rosids from asterids (~120 mya); eudicots from monocots (~160 mya); angiosperms from gymnosperms (~300 mya), and so on and so on.

So today, on Darwin’s 209th, here, I hope, is one of the takeaways:

An evolutionary framework really does make everything—absolutely everything: U.S. state symbols included—more fun, more colorful, more momentous, and more intellectually satisfying.

Thanks, Darwin.


To build these two trees, I relied on a data set from, a website maintained by a team at Temple University. At the “Load a List of Species” option at the bottom of the page, I uploaded two lists of species in .txt format; each time, TimeTree generated a phylogenetic tree, which served as a preliminary outline.

Later, once I’d refined my outlines, I used the “Get Divergence Time For a Pair of Taxa” feature at the top of the page in order to search for divergence time estimates. As I reconstructed my trees in LibreOffice, I used these estimates to make my branch lengths proportional.


Rachel Rodman has a Ph.D. in Arabidopsis genetics and presently aspires to recontextualize all of history, literature, and popular culture in the form of a phylogenetic tree. Won’t you help her?


Botany in Popular Culture: Laura Veirs

I love music for its ability to conjure up emotions, create a mood, and inspire action. The music of Laura Veirs has always inspired me to get out into nature and be more observant of the wild things around me. Her music is rich with emotions, and I feel those, too. However, when I think of her music, I can’t escape images of the natural world and the creatures that inhabit it.

Found within her nature-centric lyrics are, of course, numerous botanical references. After all, plants and their actions make excellent subject matter for all types of art. And with that in mind, Veirs asks rhetorically in the song Rapture, “Doesn’t the tree write great poetry?”

When it comes to botanical references, the song that jumps first to mind is Lonely Angel Dust, starting off right away with these lyrics: “The rose is not afraid to blossom / though it knows its petals must fall / and with its petals fall seeds into soil / Why toil to contain it all? / Why toil at all?” Plants produce seeds in abundance, as mentioned in Shadow Blues: “Thousand seeds from a flower blowing through the night.” And, as in Where Are You Driving?, they’re seeking a suitable spot to plant themselves: “Through clouds of dandelions / seeds sailing out on the wind / hoping you’ll be the one to plant yourself on in.”


Flowers come up often in the songs of Laura Veirs. In White Cherry, “cherry trees take to bloom.” In Nightingale, “her heart a field in bloom.” In Make Something Good, “an organ pipe in a cathedral / that stays in tune through a thousand blooms.” In Sun is King, “innocent as a summer flower.” In Cast a Hook, “with watery cheeks down flowered lanes.” In Life Is Good Blues, “Messages you sent to Mars came from a crown of flowers.” Grass and weeds get a few mentions, too. In Summer Is the Champion, “let’s get dizzy in the grass.” In Life Is Good Blues, “tender green like the shoots of spring / unfurling on the lawn.”

Trees are the real stars, though. Veirs makes frequent references to trees and their various parts. This makes sense, as trees are real forces of nature. So much happens in, on, and around them, and images of the natural world can feel barren without them. First there is their enormousness, as in Black Butterfly, “evergreen boughs above me tower / were singing quiet stories about forgiveness, ” and Don’t Lose Yourself, “we slept in the shadow of a cedar tree.” Then there is their old age, as in Where Are You Driving?, “tangled up in the gnarled tree,” and When You Give Your Heart, “falling through the old oak tree.” There is also their utility, mentioned in Make Something Good, “I wanted to make something sweet / the blood inside a maple tree / the sunlight trapped inside the wood / make something good.” And then, of course, there is the fruit they bear, as in July Flame, “sweet summer peach / high up in the branch / just out of my reach,” and then in Wandering Kind, “a strange July / a storm came down / from the North and pulled out the salt / and it tore out the leaves from the pear tree / my canopy.”

Many of Veirs songs create scenes and tell stories of being in the wilderness among rivers, lakes, mountains, and caves. Chimney Sweeping Man, for example, is a “forest resident” who “walks[s] quiet through the forest like a tiny, quiet forest mouse.” In Snow Camping, Veirs tells a story about sleeping in a snow cave in the forest, where “a thousand snowflakes hovered,” “a distant songbird [was] singing,” and “the weighted trees” were her “only home.” But sometimes those forests burn, which is captured in Drink Deep: “Now the raging of the forest fires end / and all the mammals fled / I smell in the charred darkness / a little green / a little red.” Later in the song: “the fire closed his eyes / tipped his flame hat and slipped through the dire rye / we wandered romantic / we scattered dark branches / with singing green stars as our guide.”

Nature can also be empowering, and Veirs often refers to things in the natural world as metaphors or similes for the human experience. In Cast a Hook, Veirs adamantly asserts, “I’m not dead, not numb, not withering / like a fallen leaf who keeps her green.” This line comes up again in Saltbreakers: “You cannot burn me up / I’m a fallen leaf who keeps her green.” In Lake Swimming, Veirs addresses change and how some of life’s changes may wound us but we can still shine – “shucking free our deadened selves / like snakes and corn do / … / Old butterfly / I’ll dance with you / though our wings may crumble / we can float like ash / broken but the edges still shine.”


The botanical references Veirs makes in her songs are not the only things that excite me. Birds, insects, mammals, fish, and worms all find a place in Veirs’ lyrics. This is why, after more than a decade of listening to her songs, I find myself coming back to them again and again. There is a sort of kinship we feel for each other when we share in common a love of the natural world. I find that in the music of Laura Veirs.

More Botany in Popular Culture Posts:

Field Trip: Hoyt Arboretum and Leach Botanical Garden

Thanks to Sierra having a work-related conference to attend, I got the chance to tag along on a mid-July trip to Oregon. My mission while she was busy with her conference was to visit some gardens in Portland. What follows is a mini photo diary of my visits to Hoyt Arboretum and Leach Botanical Garden. Both are places I had never been to before. My visits may have been brief, but they were long enough to earn big thumbs up and a strong recommendation to pay them a visit.

Much of the Hoyt Arboretum is like walking through a dense forest. Here a Scots pine (Pinus sylvestris) marks a fork in the road. To the right is the White Pine Trail, and to the left is the Bristlecone Pine Trail.

Some of the trees are enormous. This western redcedar (Thuja plicata) is getting up there.

Looking up to admire the canopy was one of my favorite parts. Here I am below the canopy of a vine maple (Acer circinatum).

And now I am below the canopy of a tricolor beech (Fagus sylvatica ‘Tricolor’).

Thimbleberry (Rubus parviflorus) was abundant, and the fruits were at various stages of maturity.

There were a few flowers to look at as well. Bumblebees were all over this Douglas spirea (Spiraea douglasii). 

Ocean spray (Holodiscus discolor) was in its prime.

Leach Botanical Garden is considerably smaller than Hoyt Arboretum but is similarly wooded. There is a creek that runs through a small ravine with pathways winding up both sides and gardens to explore throughout.

In wooded areas like this, there are guaranteed to be ferns (and, of course, moss growing over the fern sign).

There were several fruiting shrubs, like this Japanese skimmia (Skimmia japonica).

And this Alaskan blueberry (Vaccininium ovalifolium, syn. V. alaskaense).

Wood sorrel (Oxalis spp.) was abundant and often attractively displayed.

I found this insect hotel in the upper section of the garden. Apparently some major developments are planned for this area. Learn more here.


Have you visited any public gardens this summer? Leave your story and/or recommendation in the comment section below.

What Is a Plant, and Why Should I Care? part four

What Is a Plant?

Part one and two of this series have hopefully answered that.

Why should you care?

Part three offered a pretty convincing answer: “if it wasn’t for [plants], there wouldn’t be much life on this planet to speak of.”

Plants are at the bottom of the food chain and are a principle component of most habitats. They play major roles in nutrient cycling, soil formation, the water cycle, air and water quality, and climate and weather patterns. The examples used in part three of this series to explain the diverse ways that plants provide habitat and food for other organisms apply to humans as well. However, humans have found numerous other uses for plants that are mostly unique to our species – some of which will be discussed here.

But first, some additional thoughts on photosynthesis. Plants photosynthesize thanks to the work accomplished by very early photoautotrophic bacteria that were confined to aquatic environments. These bacteria developed the metabolic processes and cellular components that were later co-opted (via symbiogensis) by early plants. Plants later colonized land, bringing with them the phenomena of photosynthesis and transforming life on earth as we know it. Single-celled organisms started this whole thing, and they continue to rule. That’s just something to keep in mind, since our focus tends to be on large, multi-cellular beings, overlooking all the tiny, less visible beings at work all around us making life possible.

Current representation of the tree of life. Microorganisms clearly dominate. (image credit: nature microbiology)

Current representation of the tree of life. Microorganisms clearly dominate. (image credit: nature microbiology)

Food is likely the first thing that comes to mind when considering what use plants are to humans. The domestication of plants and the development of agriculture are easily among the most important events in human history. Agricultural innovations continue today and are necessary in order to both feed a growing population and reduce our environmental impact. This is why efforts to discover and conserve crop wild relatives are so essential.

Plants don’t just feed us though. They house us, clothe us, medicate us, transport us, supply us, teach us, inspire us, and entertain us. Enumerating the untold ways that plants factor in to our daily lives is a monumental task. Rather than tackling that task here, I’ll suggest a few starting points: this Wikipedia page, this BGCI article, this Encylopedia of Life article, and this book by Anna Lewington. Learning about the countless uses humans have found for plants over millennia should inspire admiration for these green organisms. If that admiration leads to conservation, all the better. After all, if the plants go, so do we.

Humans have a long tradition of using plants as medicine. Despite all that we have discovered regarding the medicinal properties of plants, there remains much to be discovered. This one of the many reasons why plant conservation is so important. (photo credit: wikimedia commons)

Humans have a long tradition of using plants as medicine. Despite all that we have discovered regarding the medicinal properties of plants, there remains much to be discovered. This is one of the many reasons why plant conservation is imperative. (photo credit: wikimedia commons)

Gaining an appreciation for the things that plants do for us is increasingly important as our species becomes more urban. Our dense populations tend to push plants and other organisms out, yet we still rely on their “services” for survival. Many of the functions that plants serve out in the wild can be beneficial when incorporated into urban environments. Plants improve air quality, reduce noise pollution, mitigate urban heat islands, help manage storm water runoff, create habitat for urban wildlife, act as a windbreak, reduce soil erosion, and help save energy spent on cooling and heating. Taking advantage of these “ecosystem services” can help our cities become more liveable and sustainable. As the environmental, social, and economic benefits of “urban greening” are better understood, groups like San Francisco’s Friends of the Urban Forest are convening to help cities across the world go green.

The importance of plants as food, medicine, fuel, fiber, housing, habitat, and other resources is clear. Less obvious is the importance of plants in our psychological well being. Numerous studies have demonstrated that simply having plants nearby can offer benefits to one’s mental and physical health. Yet, urbanization and advancements in technology have resulted in humans spending more and more time indoors and living largely sedentary lives. Because of this shift, author Richard Louv and others warn about nature deficit disorder, a term not recognized as an actual condition by the medical community but meant to describe our disconnect with the natural world. A recent article in BBC News adds “nature knowledge deficit” to these warnings – collectively our knowledge about nature is slipping away because we don’t spend enough time in it.

The mounting evidence for the benefits of having nature nearby should be enough for us to want to protect it. However, recognizing that we are a part of that nature rather than apart from it should also be emphasized. The process that plants went through over hundreds of millions of years to move from water to land and then to become what they are today is parallel with the process that we went through. At no point in time did we become separate from this process. We are as natural as the plants. We may need them a bit more than they need us, but we are all part of a bigger picture. Perhaps coming to grips with this reality can help us develop greater compassion for ourselves as well as for the living world around us.

Cedar Confusion

This is a guest post by Jeremiah Sandler. Words by Jeremiah. Photos by Daniel Murphy (except where noted).


What makes a cedar a cedar?

I recently asked this question to a professor of mine because I kept hearing individuals in the field refer to many different species as “cedars”. It was puzzling to me because, being the taxonomy-nerd that I am, most of these plants are in entirely different plant families but still called the same thing. Yes, sometimes common names overlap with one another regionally; avoiding that mix up is the purpose of binomial nomenclature in the first place! So, what gives?! Why are 50+ different species all called cedars?

This professor is a forester, not a botanist. He told me the word “cedar” describes the wood. Turns out, after some research and conversation, that’s all there was to it. As defined by Google, a cedar is:

Any of a number of conifers that typically yield fragrant, durable timber, in particular.

Cedar wood is a natural repellent of moths, is resistant to termites, and is rot resistant. A good choice of outdoor lumber.

I was hoping to find either a phylogenetic or taxonomic answer to what makes a cedar a cedar. I didn’t. Taxonomic relationships between organisms are one of the most exciting parts of biology. Thankfully, some solace was found in the research:

There are true cedars and false cedars.

True cedars are in the family Pinaceae and in the genus Cedrus. Their leaves are short, evergreen needles in clusters. The female cones are upright and fat, between 3 – 4 inches long. Their wood possesses cedar quality, and they are native to the Mediterranean region and the Himalayas.

False cedars are in the family Cupressaceae, mostly in the following genera: Calocedrus, Chamaecyparis, Juniperus, and Thuja. Their leaves are scale-y, fan-like sprays. Female cones are very small, about half an inch long, and remain on the tree long after seed dispersal. The bark is often both reddish and stringy or peely. Their wood possesses cedar quality. It is easy to separate them from true cedars, but less obvious to tell them from one another. These false cedars are native to East Asia and northern North America.

I couldn’t do away with the umbrella term “cedar.” Every naturalist can agree that one of the most pleasurable things while outdoors looking at plants is identifying them. I have set a new objective to correctly identify and differentiate between all of the cedars and false cedars, rather than simply calling them cedars. I guess I’m just fussy like that.

How a Plant Could Just Kill a Man, part one

Plants have killed plenty of people. When plants are implicated in the death of a human, we typically think of plant poisonings. Rightly so since their are a slew of poisonous plants with the potential to kill. However, oftentimes plants kill (or seriously injure) people without employing toxic substances. One of the best examples of this is falling plant parts. Gravity couples with sheer coincidence and/or human error, and tragedy ensues. In an episode entitled Killer Plants of the now defunct podcast, Caustic Soda, the hosts present some of these distressing scenarios. What follows is a summary of the plants that made their list.

Branches falling from trees, whether dead or alive, can cause some serious damage. Trees in the genus Eucalyptus, commonly known as gum trees, are one group to be particularly wary of. There are more than 700 species of Eucalyptus, most of which occur in Australia. Not all are large trees, but those that are can be massive, reaching from 100 to 200 feet and taller. Eucalyptus trees regularly shed branches, often unexpectedly, leading to serious injury or death to anyone who may find themselves on the ground below. Shedding branches is likely a strategy for conserving water during hot, dry summers, and it is common enough that Australian parks departments issue safety advisories to avoid parking or camping below the trees. Even arborists don’t take their chances with these unpredictable trees.

Red River Gum Tree Eucalyptus camaldulensis - photo credit: wikimedia commons

River red gum (Eucalyptus camaldulensis) – photo credit: wikimedia commons

Of course, eucalyptus trees are not the only trees that drop their branches without warning. A falling branch in Yosemite National Park claimed two victims last summer, for example; and falling branches have claimed the lives of a great deal of forest workers, wildland firefighters, and other forest visitors. This happens frequently enough that the branches in question have been given the ominous name widowmakers, and the U.S. Department of Labor lists them as one of many “potential hazards” in the logging industry. What are the chances of being killed by a falling tree? The Ranger’s Blog set out to answer that question and, to set your mind at ease, determined that the chances are pretty slim.

What about other falling plants? Saguaro cactus, for example. Carnegiea gigantea is a tree-like, columnar cactus native to the Sonoran Desert. It is a very slow growing and long-lived species that generally reaches around 40 feet tall but can potentially grow much taller. Saguaros are considered tree-like for their tall stature and branching habit, although not all saguaros develop branches. Some saguaro branches (or “arms”) can be quite large and considerably heavy. In 1982, an Arizona man discovered this when he and a friend were out shooting saguaros. Stupidly, the man repeatedly shot at the arm of an enormous cactus. Ultimately the arm split off and landed on the man, crushing him to death. Of course, saguaros don’t have to be shot at to fall on you. Another Arizona man was fixing a water leak in a Yuma subdivision when a sixteen foot tall saguaro toppled over on him. The man was crushed but lived to tell about it.

Saguaro cactus (Carnegiea gigantea) - photo credit: wikimedia commons

Saguaro cactus (Carnegiea gigantea) – photo credit: wikimedia commons

Palm trees drop things on people, too. One tragic example involves a man in Los Angeles standing below a Canary Island date palm (Phoenix canariensis) waiting for a ride to a funeral. The 2000 pound crown of the palm tree split and fell, pinning the man to the ground. Bystanders were unable to remove the crown, and the man died.

The coconut palm (Cocos nucifera) has an additional deadly weapon – its fruit. While the number of deaths by coconut are often exaggerated, they do occasionally occur. Injuries by coconut are more frequent, so precaution around the trees should be taken. After all, coconut palms can reach heights of 80 feet or more, and mature coconuts can weigh more than three pounds (considerably more when they are wet). A falling coconut is something to be mindful of, an observation that led Dr. Peter Barss to study coconut related injuries in Papa New Guinea over a period of 4 years. His research was published in 1984 in the Journal of Trauma and was later taken out of context and used to make the claim that coconuts kill significantly more people per year than sharks. Publicity spawned by this urban myth helped Barss earn an Ig Noble Prize in 2001. Concerns about coconut related injuries also led officials in India to order the removal of coconut palms around the Gandhi Museum in preparations for President Barack Obama’s 2010 visit.

Back in Australia, the towering bunya pine (Araucaria bidwillii) has its equivalent to the coconut in its massive cone. Measuring around a foot long and weighing in at 20+ pounds, these cones make living near bunya pines an act that is “not for the faint hearted.” When the cones are falling, they warrant warnings from the Australian government to keep away from these 90 foot tall trees. This harrowing feature puts bunya pines on a list of infamous plants in Australia with the potential to kill.

Bunya pine cone (Araucaria bidwillii) - photo credit:

Seed cone of bunya pine (Araucaria bidwillii) – photo credit:

The Moon Trees

On January 31, 1971, Apollo 14 left Earth and headed for the Moon. It was the eighth manned Apollo mission and the third to land on the Moon. On board were three astronauts – Alan Shepard, Edgar Mitchell, and Stuart Roosa. Joining the astronauts were about 500 tree seeds that were given to Roosa by Ed Cliff, the Chief of the Forest Service at the time. While Shepard and Mitchell explored the surface of the Moon, Roosa and the seeds hovered above it in the spacecraft. After Shepard had hit a couple of golf balls and Roosa had circled the Moon 34 times, the crew rejoined and headed back to Earth.

Roosa’s collection of tree seeds consisted of 5 species – Douglas fir, redwood, loblolly pine, sycamore, and sweetgum. Upon returning to Earth, Roosa handed the seeds back over to the Forest Service. They were then planted at Forest Service stations in Mississippi and California. Some of the seedlings were planted adjacent to trees grown from seeds that had remained on Earth in order to conduct a comparison study. The other seedlings were available for dissemination.

Official Moon Tree Emblem

Official Moon Tree Emblem

Around this time (1976-77), America was celebrating its bicentennial, so many of the trees were planted in commemoration of this event. A loblolly pine was planted at the White House. A sycamore was planted in Washington Square in Philadelphia. Valley Forge got a Moon Tree, and so did Brazil, Japan, and Switzerland. Moon Trees were planted at various parks and institutions in many states throughout the country. In fact, there were so many requests for Moon Trees that several rooted cuttings of the original seedlings had to be produced.

Unfortunately, in the frenzy of shipping out Moon Trees, a complete record of where and when the trees were planted was not maintained, and so it remains unclear where all the trees are today and how many of them are surviving. When NASA employee, Dave Williams, became aware of Moon Trees, he embarked on a quest to compile a list of them. His webpage contains the short list of trees he has been able to confirm and document so far.

According to Williams’ list, Idaho received two Moon Trees. A sycamore was planted at University of Idaho in Moscow, and a loblolly pine was planted at Lowell Elementary in Boise. The sycamore perished sometime within the last decade. The loblolly pine remains…but perhaps not for long.

Loblolly pine (Pinus taeda) at Lowell Elementary in Boise, Idaho - one of many Moon Trees planted in the late 1970's.

Loblolly pine (Pinus taeda) at Lowell Elementary in Boise, Idaho – one of many Moon Trees planted in the 1970’s.

And this is how I came to learn about Moon Trees. This fall, local news reported on efforts being made to save Boise’s Moon Tree. The soil around it is compacted, it’s not getting enough water, and it has become infested with a pest insect. When community members learned of its potential demise, they resolved to save it. Money was raised to pay for the water it requires, and a local tree company volunteered to assist with necessary treatments. Its future remains uncertain; however, this renewed awareness and attention may be just what it needs to survive.

Upon learning about Boise’s Moon Tree, I decided to pay it a visit. After all, not only is it in my hometown, but it is also in my neighborhood, just a short walk from my house. It was pretty obvious right away which tree was the Moon Tree as its trunk is completely covered in oozing sap – a sure sign of infection. It is also located in a spot that doesn’t appear to be receiving any supplemental irrigation. The stresses caused by compacted soil and dehydration left it vulnerable to attack.

But maybe it wasn’t the best tree for the site to begin with. Loblolly pine (Pinus taeda) is native to the southeastern United States where it is commonly found growing in acidic, wet soils – a stark contrast to the dry, alkaline soils of the Treasure Valley. Still, it is Idaho’s only known remaining Moon Tree – a tree whose seed went to space, circled the moon, and was brought back to Earth where it was planted in celebration of the 200th anniversary of this nation. It is worth saving, with the hope being that it will inspire not only a connection to the natural world but also to the broader universe which all living beings call home.

Read more about Moon Trees:

Houston, We Have Moon Trees

A Race Against Time to Find Apollo 14’s Lost Voyagers

In Search of Moon Trees