Bittersweet Woods

I loved the drives down dusty gravel roads on those golden late fall days

I loved the drives down dusty gravel roads on those golden late fall days. The sun shone brightly against the clear azure sky, and the treetops were ablaze with red, yellow and orange leaves. The air was crisp, the colors vivid, and the weather perfect—cool, frosty mornings and warm afternoons, with just a hint of winter in the air.

It was the beautiful, wispy, curly vine with the brilliant red-orange berries and pale orange husks tangled along the fence lines and crawling up the tree trunks in the woods that fascinated me the most. Back then it was more abundant and easier to find. Before fence-to-fence cultivation, roadside spraying, and mowing, you did not have to drive far into the country to find it. It climbed up fence posts, slithered gracefully along old wire and wooden fences, entwined roadside bushes, crawled up tree trunks—along ditches, in fields and woods. You could even spot it from the car as you drove the gravel roads. These were fun trips, in less hurried times, when families still did family things, and our idea of fun was a simple drive to the country. At the end of the day, we returned home to crack the nuts with a hammer on the basement floor while Mom decorated the living room with the beautiful, mystical bittersweet sprigs that we prized so much.

The things of youth give way to the busy-ness of life

Decades ago, native bittersweet grew more abundantly. Each year, it graced our living room--a symbol of the changing seasons. As surely as tulips meant spring, green grass signified summer and Christmas trees winter, bittersweet meant fall.

I was struck that anything so beautiful and graceful could be found in such lowly unpretentious surroundings, or that anything so mysterious was yet so accessible—available to anyone who cared to drive the country roads and collect the treasure. The vine was, like the best things in life, free. For generations, this beautiful and tenacious vine withstood harsh winter, drought, winds, ice, and everything nature could throw at it. It endured everything, it seemed, except the influence of man. In time, it disappeared from the fence posts, barbwire and roadsides.

Once you leave home, time passes, the years fly by and the pace of life accelerates to fast-forward. The things of youth give way to the busy-ness of life. For years, I had not thought much of this beautiful vine that so captivated me as a youth. I had not seen it for decades and assumed that it—like memories of my youth—had faded with time. Now and then I saw the imitation version of the vine in those craft stores where they sell fake versions of every species of plastic vines and flowers imaginable. It was a pathetic imitation of the original, lacking the character, brilliance and delicacy of the real thing. I wondered whether all that remained of this glorious and once prolific plant was the cheap plastic replica that sold for $3.98 a sprig.

The cacophony of life is, in this place, muffled by the wonderful sounds of nature

A few years ago, we built a new home in Wynstone--located in Union County, South Dakota. Our house borders on the Adams Nature Preserve, which had once been a pioneer farm. Behind my house were acres of cottonwood forest, cedars, native prairie grasses, and scrub brush--a woodland preserve where coyotes, deer, foxes, wild turkey and badgers roam undisturbed. Countless wild geese pass through on their yearly trek north and south and songbirds thrive. The cacophony of life is, in this place, muffled by the wonderful sounds of nature. It is an oasis—a serene place where you can charge your spiritual batteries by a simple walk in the woods.

One late fall day, on a walk through the woods, I discovered these woods held a special secret. Peering deep into the woods I noticed it—the wonderful vine with the brilliant red-orange berries hanging in hundreds of clumps scattered over several acres. There, atop small bushes, young trees, and scrub brush I saw a red-orange glow that seemed to illuminate the forest. I had never seen so much in one place. It climbed up cottonwood trunks, it curled around small shrubs; it graced the tops of short trees, and threaded through the branches of the wild cedars as if guided by the hand of a father decorating a Christmas tree. It climbed as high as 30 feet in some places. It crawled along old abandoned fences that no longer divided anything.

If there was a bittersweet Heaven, this was it

That delicate, yet hardy vine with the red-orange berries that so fascinated me as a youth thrived undisturbed in the woods right behind my house. I thanked God for this wonderful surprise. There it was—curling, climbing, decorating, entwining, hanging, threading and thrusting delicate curls with clumps of red-orange berries into the air. If there was a bittersweet Heaven, this was it.

This was the good old American Bittersweet of my youth that we searched for five decades earlier. Unlike its exotic cousin—the invasive Oriental Bittersweet--which chokes a forest with a kudzu-like vengeance, this was different. This vine did not choke the forest or dominate it; rather it complemented the forest, decorated it, and enhanced its beauty. It turns otherwise nondescript shrubs and small trees into works of art; and boring wild cedars into Christmas trees. Here the vine lived in harmony with other plant species. Against the bright white snows of winter, it provided a stark splash of vivid orange red color that lit up otherwise colorless woods. Here, in the midst of the remnants of this old pioneer farm, undisturbed by cultivation, safe from poisonous spray, protected from the blade, the mower, and fire, this vine had prospered for generations.

I stop frequently to study it, observe it, and photograph it. Its beauty is matched only by its tenacity. Its woody vine is tough and can grow to a diameter of 2-3 inches under the right conditions. It climbs in some places over thirty feet high. It clings tenaciously to the earth as well as to the trees and shrubs that host its vines. It is not unusual to see three or four vines wrap themselves around a small tree or shrub. The vine seeks the nearest host then curls delicately around the limbs and small branches until it slowly winds its way to the top. The berry clumps are tough and weather resistant. It is hard to pull a clump off with your hand. In fact, the berries last from fall through winter and into early spring.

It reminds me of a time long past when things were simpler, and we valued the things of nature and the works of God

Some cedars took decades to decorate as evidenced by scores of vines threaded through the limbs like so many strings of Christmas bulbs, reaching even the topmost limbs.

The berry clumps cling in some cases until well into April—lasting in as much as six months. Some berries are eaten by small mammals, birds and even deer. Although deer do not prefer them, they do eat the vine and the berries on occasion—especially during harsh South Dakota winters when forage is limited. By the following spring, only the berry clumps above deer-height remain undisturbed. The rest have been pulled off and eaten. Through harsh winters, temperatures dipping well below zero, strong winds, snow, sleet, and ice storms these brilliant red-orange berries hang on. They last well into the spring when returning robins gorge themselves on the remaining holdouts, which, by then resemble soft, shriveled red peas. I have seen a dozen robins flitting from tree to tree in the early spring when the snow is still on the ground, tugging furiously at the clumps of berries until, at last, they yield. By mid-April the last berries are gone, and the vine prepares for new growth.

By some wonderful quirk of fate, here in South Dakota--in my own backyard--I am surrounded by the colorful, mystical vine of my youth. Here in this place, it still thrives, undisturbed—this indigenous vine that is disappearing many other places. It reminds me of a time long past when things were simpler, and we valued the things of nature and the works of God. Here in South Dakota the vine remains inextricably entwined in the memories of my childhood—bittersweet memories, rekindled in these bittersweet woods.