The Miracle of Trees
Celebrating Arbor Day 2026
Capturing the world around me has taken me across some of the most beautiful landscapes on Earth. As a geologist, I am naturally drawn to landforms, rocks, minerals, and the full array of geological features that shape our planet. Yet, at times, it is the living world that captures my attention—the remarkable variety of life that grows upon and around these foundations. This collection steps away from geology and animals to focus on something quieter but equally compelling: the miracle of trees. My photo journey in the photos below begins and ends in the wilds of Yellowstone National Park, with a wide and varied world in between.
Winter in Hayden Valley, Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, USA
The lone tree in this scene is a lodgepole pine (Pinus contorta), the most widespread tree across the Yellowstone Plateau. As a geologist, I tend to think of it as a tree well adapted to a volcanic landscape—tolerant of the thin, nutrient-poor soils that blanket much of the Yellowstone Caldera.
Hayden Valley, however, tells a different geologic story. Much of the valley floor is underlain by fine-grained sediments deposited in Ice Age lakes, soils that are often poorly drained and not well suited for tree growth. As a result, trees are largely absent across the open expanse, appearing only in scattered, isolated pockets—most commonly along the margins of the valley, as seen here.
Lodgepole pines growing in dense forests are typically tall and straight, with few lower branches as they compete for light. But a solitary tree like this one, with sunlight reaching all sides, retains branches nearly to the ground.
Lodgepole pine remains one of my favorite trees—resilient, adaptable, and inseparable from the geologic story of Yellowstone.
Notice: All Images © Greg L. Jones, All Rights Reserved– Unauthorized use prohibited
The Arch Tree, Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historical Park, Vermont, USA
This unusual tree grows near the Billings Mansion in Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historical Park, within one of the oldest continuously managed forests in North America. The woodland carries the imprint of early conservation thinking—an intentional landscape shaped as much for beauty as for use.
In the mid-1800s, George Perkins Marsh observed the consequences of deforestation here and abroad, later capturing those lessons in Man and Nature. Inspired by his ideas, Frederick Billings began reforesting these slopes, working with Robert Morris Copeland to create a landscape of winding lines, varied tree plantings, and carefully composed views.
The forest that emerged is not purely native, nor purely ornamental—it is a working forest. More than fifty species, both local and introduced, were planted and tended over generations, with harvesting and renewal carried out side by side. The tradition continues today, sustained by the vision passed down through the Billings and Rockefeller families.
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Cottonwood In Winter, Clark’s Fork Valley, Montana, USA
A lone cottonwood stands in the Clark’s Fork Valley between Belfry, Montana and the Wyoming state line as a winter storm settles in. The Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone River fades into the snowy haze, and the Beartooth Mountains—so prominent on clear days—are completely obscured. This reach of the valley is an active alluvial floodplain built of channel sands and gravels, with finer overbank silts and clays draped across it during seasonal floods. Shallow groundwater is maintained within the meander belt, especially along point bars, abandoned channels, and low terraces. Cottonwoods establish on these young deposits and send roots down to the water table, making them reliable indicators of fluvial surfaces. Here, this tree stands as a sentinel of the floodplain, marking the quiet presence of water just below the surface.
Deer Creek Grove, Sequoia National Monument, California, USA
A giant sequoia (Sequoiadendron giganteum) grows in a small grove along Deer Creek in Giant Sequoia National Monument, part of Sequoia National Forest. Locals say this canyon once held more of these trees, but most were logged—leaving only a remnant grove today. This is one of two giant sequoias I visited and photographed here.
Giant sequoia is the only living species in the genus Sequoiadendron, and one of three “redwoods,” along with Sequoia sempervirens (coast redwood) and Metasequoia glyptostroboides (dawn redwood). These trees are the most massive on Earth and occur naturally only in scattered groves on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada. Some individuals exceed 3,000 years in age; those along Deer Creek are smaller, and likely younger, but no less impressive in their setting.
Tree Tunnel, Terceira, Azores, Portugal
An inviting stretch of highway on the island of Terceira in the Azores is lined with stately London plane trees (Platanus × hispanica). This familiar roadside tree is a hybrid, likely first developed in the 17th century in Spain (or possibly southern France) by crossing the American sycamore (Platanus occidentalis) with the oriental plane (Platanus orientalis).
Introduced to the islands centuries ago, it has become part of the landscape, shading both village streets and rural roads like this one.
Traffic was light enough on this day that I could stop briefly in the middle of the road for a photograph—there’s really no shoulder here to pull off. It’s a good reminder that driving in the rural Azores means always being alert for parked vehicles and tight roadside conditions..
Quagmire, near Otto, Big Horn County, Wyoming, USA
This Kodachrome slide, taken almost 40 years ago on a fishing trip with my dad and son, captures the silhouettes of drowned trees along the margins of Harrington Reservoir. A recent rise in water level had flooded the shoreline, leaving standing deadwood—ghost trees marking the former edge of the lake.
Photographed at sunset with a filter, the scene reduces to dark forms against a fading sky, a quiet moment where wood, water, light, and memory come together.
Mossy Boreal Forest, Terra Nova National Park, Canada
Heartleaf paper birch (?) (Betula cordifolia) grow on a rocky hillside along a costal trail in Terra Nova National Park, Newfoundland, Canada. I didn’t get a good picture of the tree leaves so my identification is tentative but this is a typical scene in the boreal forest in the park near Newman Sound.
Birth of a Nation/ Rebirth of a Forest, Þingvellir National Park; Iceland
A young woodland rises in the heart of Þingvellir National Park, a quiet counterpoint to one of the most profound environmental transformations in the North Atlantic. When settlers first arrived in Iceland over a millennium ago, birch forests and willow scrub covered as much as 40 percent of the land. Within just a few centuries, that cover was largely stripped away—felled for fuel and construction, but more critically, prevented from returning by sustained livestock grazing. What remains today are fragments and efforts at renewal.
The trees at the center of this scene belong to Vínaskógur—the “Forest of Friends.” Planted beginning in 1989 as part of Iceland’s broader land reclamation movement, this ceremonial grove represents both ecological restoration and international goodwill. Each tree, many placed by visiting dignitaries, stands as a small act of healing—of soil, of landscape, and symbolically, of human relationships.
Though modest in scale compared to the forests that once blanketed this region, this stand of trees marks a turning point. It reflects a modern recognition of what was lost and a deliberate effort to restore resilience to a landscape long shaped by human need. Here, in a rift valley better known as the birthplace of Iceland’s Democracy; as the center of much of its historical drama; the place where it declared its Independence, as a place with geologic and tectonic significance, the quieter story is one of return of the natural landscape—slow, intentional, and rooted in both memory and hope.
Volcanic Glow, Halemaëumaëu Crater, Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park, Hawaii, USA.
A õhi’a tree (Metrosidereos polymorpha) silhouetted in the volcanic glow from the Halemaëumaëu Crater in Kilauea Caldera on December 21, 2017. Also called the lehua tree or the õhi’a lehua, it grows readily on lava. They are commonly the first plants to establish themselves on new lava flows. The first trees to reclaim the barren lava.
Azorean Juniper at Lagoa do Capitão, Pico Island, Azores, Portugal
The endemic Azorean juniper (Juniperus brevifolia) grows along the margins of Lagoa do Capitão on the island of Pico. Once more widespread across the archipelago, this species is now considered endangered due to centuries of habitat loss and land use change.
Here, the juniper’s gnarled, wind-shaped branches lend a quiet, almost otherworldly character to the lakeshore—an expression of both climate and isolation in the mid-Atlantic.
Lagoa do Capitão itself occupies a shallow depression formed along a northwest–southeast–trending fault within the São Roque–Piedade Volcanic Complex on Pico’s eastern end. The lake, perched among young volcanic terrains, reflects a landscape where tectonics, volcanism, and ecology intersect—supporting one of the Azores’ last strongholds of native juniper woodland.
Narrowleaf Cottonwoods and other autumn foliage along Tensleep Creek, Tensleep Canyon, Bighorn Mountains, Washakie County, Wyoming, USA
Autumn along Tensleep Creek in the Bighorn Mountains brings a brief but brilliant display as narrowleaf cottonwoods (Populus angustifolia) turn gold along the stream. These trees trace the course of water through the canyon, growing where roots can reach shallow groundwater in the alluvium of an active mountain stream.
Unlike the broader-leaved plains cottonwood, narrowleaf cottonwoods are adapted to cooler, higher-elevation settings. Their slender leaves shimmer in the breeze and, in fall, catch the light against the darker backdrop of conifer-covered slopes and layered canyon walls. Here, rounded stream cobbles mark a channel shaped by seasonal runoff, while the cottonwoods occupy low terraces and banks built by past floods.
In places like this, the trees are more than scenery—they are indicators of an active riparian system, tied to shifting channels, sediment movement, and the steady presence of water in an otherwise semi-arid landscape. Downstream, where the canyon opens toward the basin near Ten Sleep, these narrowleaf cottonwoods often meet their plains relatives, forming natural hybrids that reflect the transition from mountain to basin.
Sabal Palms, Honeymoon Key State Park, Pinellas County, Florida, USA
Sabal Palms (Sabal palmetto) or Cabbage Palms crowd the beach along the bay in Honeymoon Key State Park, Florida.
It’s a cabbage palm—but is it really a tree? Should it even be included in a group of pictures of trees? Well, that depends on who you ask. It certainly looks like a tree, and this particular species can grow up to 80 feet tall. Two states, Florida and South Carolina, even claim it as their state tree. If it looks like a duck and stands like a duck…well, it must be a duck—er, tree.
My cousin Albert used to say, “If you want to tell a race car from a pretender, look under the hood.” The same idea works here. When you look “under the hood” of a palm, you quickly see they’re biologically and anatomically very different from most trees.
In a typical tree, water and nutrients move through a pretty orderly setup. Start at the outside and work your way in and you’ll pass through a series of layers, each doing its part. There’s the bark on the outside doing the protecting, then a very thin band of phloem carrying sugars made in the leaves. Just inside that is the cambium—a paper-thin growth layer that keeps adding new wood year after year, which is why trees get wider with age. The bulk of the trunk is xylem, the wood itself, moving water upward and laying down those annual rings that give a tree both its strength and its history.
Palms are put together in a completely different way. If you’ve ever looked at a cross-section of a palm trunk, you know right away you’re not dealing with a “typical” tree.
For starters, palms don’t really have bark. What looks like bark is just dried, leftover tissue from old fronds—you could call it a pseudobark. They also don’t get wider as they age because there’s no cambium quietly adding new layers each year. No cambium means no growth rings and no steady thickening of the trunk.
Instead, the whole plumbing system—the xylem and phloem—is scattered in bundles throughout the trunk. It’s a bit like the stringy fibers in a celery stalk. In between those bundles palms have a tough, fibrous rod-like tissue called sclerenchyma. (One of the few things I remember from my botany class in college). These fibers give the trunk its strength letting the palm stand tall without the layered support structure we’re used to seeing in most trees.
From a biological standpoint, palms fall into the monocots—the same crowd as corn, grasses, lilies, celery and onions. Most of what we usually think of as trees, along with shrubs and other woody plants, are dicots.
So, are palm trees really trees?
Depends on how you look at it.
But biologically…no. However in difrence to the great States of Florida and South Carolina and because of the sabal palms tree-like stature, I include them here.
Red Fall Colors, Central Park, New York City, New York, USA
A streetlamp in Central Park casts a warm glow that picks up the brilliant reds of a maple in peak autumn color. I’m always struck by the diversity of trees—and the sheer scale of this park—set right in the middle of the largest city in the United States. It’s easily my favorite place in New York City, especially in the fall when the colors are at their best.
Black Forest, Terceira Island, Azores, Portugal
A dim, almost eery stillness settles over this grove of Japanese cedar (Cryptomeria japonica), known locally as the “Black Forest.” The tall, straight trunks rise in tight ranks, their dense canopy filtering the island’s ever-present moisture into a cool, shadowed understory. It’s a beautiful place—quiet, ordered, and almost otherworldly.
But this forest also tells a story of change. Introduced to the Azores in the 19th century, Japanese cedar found the islands’ humid, temperate climate much to its liking. It grows quickly here—often reaching 35 to 45 meters (115–148 feet)—and has become the backbone of the local timber industry, harvested on cycles of about 30 years.
In the process, however, much of the native laurel forest—once rich with endemic species—has been replaced by these uniform stands. What was once a diverse, layered ecosystem has, in many places, given way to a managed landscape shaped by human needs.
I was brought to this spot by Juca, my Azorean photo guide, who counts it among his favorite places to photograph. Standing here, it’s easy to understand the draw—the interplay of light and shadow, the rhythm of the trunks—but it also invites a moment to reflect on how landscapes evolve, and on what is gained and what is lost along the way.
Yellowstone Lake Outlet, Fishing Bridge, Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, USA
Dusk settles over the forest along the outlet of Yellowstone Lake, just north of Fishing Bridge in Yellowstone National Park, after a beautiful late October day. The faint honking of Canada geese drifts across the water, mixing with the soft rush of wind through the trees—a fitting soundtrack for sundown. You can feel the cold of night coming on.
Only a handful of visitors remain in the park now, a welcome quiet after the rush of summer. In just a couple of days, most roads will close. Winter is on its way, ready to take over the landscape and its soundscape. Before long, the trees will pull on their overcoats of snow for at least as long as the winds allow.
Notice: All Images © Greg L. Jones, All Rights Reserved — Unauthorized use prohibited