Uncharted Territories in the World of Coffee
As a passionate coffee enthusiast, I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of pushing the boundaries of conventional brewing methods. While the ubiquitous drip machine and French press have their merits, there’s a whole universe of unconventional techniques waiting to be explored. And let me tell you, the journey has been nothing short of exhilarating!
Recently, I embarked on a wild cider-drinking, apple-exploring mission from Virginia to North Carolina, Alabama, and Georgia. Along the way, I had the privilege of connecting with some of the most revered names in fruit exploration, including Tom Burford, Lee Calhoun, Joyce Neighbors, and Jim Lawson. These fruit aficionados opened my eyes to the rich diversity of Southern apples and the importance of preserving heirloom cultivars.
But the unexpected twist of this trip happened when Jim Lawson shared a tantalizing piece of information. He had sold thousands of old grafted trees to some brothers in Georgia, and these trees had been planted all over a small mountain. Rumor had it that the lower slopes of this mountain were now covered in a veritable seedling apple orchard, a second-generation treasure trove waiting to be discovered.
Enamored with the idea of unearthing this hidden gem, my companion, Pete Halupka, and I set out on a quest to find the elusive orchard. Alas, our excitement was short-lived. It turned out that a megachurch had purchased the property and had long since removed the trees. Feeling dejected, we decided to seek solace in the church’s coffee shop, the closest thing to a pick-me-up snack we could find.
Sips Coffee House turned out to be the unexpected catalyst for a remarkable discovery. As we sipped our coffee, we engaged in conversation with the youth minister behind the counter, a man with a passion for both coffee and Jesus. When we shared our mission to find the wild seedling apple orchard, he had an intriguing suggestion.
“You know, there’s an old estate near here that was traditionally known for its peaches and peach brandy, but they might have apples. It’s called Barnsley Gardens. I’ll connect you with my contact there – she goes by the name Fairy Godmother.”
Intrigued, we decided to follow this lead, and after some quick cell phone research, we discovered that Barnsley Gardens contained a different kind of revival – a gothic revival, designed by none other than the young prodigy Andrew Jackson Downing.
Encountering the Osage Orange Hedge
As we drove through the former estate, now an elite vacation destination, one of the roads caught our eye. It was lined with very old Osage Orange (Maclura pomifera) trees. I had never seen anything like it before, and I wondered why someone would plant so many of these trees along a road.
Osage orange, also known as hedge apple, isn’t something I had spent much time studying in forestry school. Since they don’t produce commercial crops of fruit, they had never really been on my radar. But this chance encounter piqued my curiosity, and I filed the memory away for future exploration.
Fast forward a few years, and a new client contacted me, interested in learning how to recreate the traditional living Osage orange hedge. This was my opportunity to dive deeper into the history and significance of this remarkable tree.
The American Osage Orange Hedge
As I began researching the Osage orange, I noticed that old trees were growing in lines in pastures and woodlands throughout the Mid-Atlantic and Southeastern regions. I knew that their other name, “hedge apple,” meant they must have once been part of an old hedgerow or fencing system, but the question remained: How did farmers turn these trees into hedgerows, and where were they getting their information?
According to my research, for hundreds of years after colonization, and even today, the goal of many wealthy landowners has been to have a landscape that mimics the English garden and countryside. One aspect of the English countryside that many people wanted to implement in the 18th and 19th centuries was the thorn-hedge, overwhelmingly constructed of English hawthorn in its home country.
The problem with using English hawthorn in the US was that it didn’t like the heat, humidity, or fireblight pressure of the Southeastern and Mid-Atlantic climate. Other thorny plants were tried in its place, such as honeylocust, juniper, and trifoliate orange, but they never quite measured up. It wasn’t until Lewis of the Lewis and Clark expedition sent Osage orange seedlings from the Osage tribe in Missouri to Thomas Jefferson that this tree slowly started taking root in the East.
Andrew Jackson Downing, American Hedge-Master
As I delved deeper into the history, I discovered that Andrew Jackson Downing, a prominent 19th-century author, landscape architect, and horticulturist, became the greatest champion of the Osage orange as a hedge plant. Downing wrote a chapter on “American Hedges” in 1847, providing a thorough explanation of how Osage orange in the South and buckthorn in the North were propagated, planted, and cultivated to produce an everlasting fence.
The large, wizened Osage orange trees that remain today are the most successful trees in these old hedges. Over the last 150 years, combined with changes in fencing materials and land use, they have outcompeted and shaded out their counterparts, becoming single trees in a line. These are the lucky ones – many have been lost to development and neglect.
The Second Wave of Osage Orange Plantings
About 90 years later, during the Franklin D. Roosevelt administration, the Works Progress Administration (WPA) planted millions of Osage orange trees throughout the Midwest for windbreaks to reduce soil erosion. These were not managed in the same way Downing had described, and many of the Osage orange hedgerows we see today were likely planted during this era.
According to my research, many outlets in the 19th century complained about Osage orange hedgerows failing because they were poorly planted, with trees in poor health, spaced too far apart, and not cut back and managed as Downing had recommended for effective livestock fencing.
How to Establish an Osage Orange Hedge
To properly establish an Osage orange hedge, the first step is propagation. The fruits should be gathered in the latter half of September, cleaned, and stored in equal parts sand in a cool spot. A quart of sand-seed will usually produce around 5,000 plants. Rather than seeding in place, it’s recommended to start the seed in a nursery for a year before planting out.
Alternatively, you can use root cuttings. Select root pieces that are the thickness of your pinky finger and cut them to be 3-4 inches long, with a diagonal cut on the bottom and a flush cut on the top. Plant these cuttings in your nursery for a year, and they will push out vigorous shoots.
For site preparation, in the South, this is usually done in the fall. The final width of the hedge should be 4 feet, so first, use a subsoiler to rip two lines 18 inches deep, 6 inches apart. Then cultivate a 4-foot swath with whatever you have to break up the soil, and cover crop it.
In late winter/early spring, dig your plants out of the nursery and plant them 1 foot apart within the row, with the second row offset by 6 inches. Immediately after planting, cut each plant down to 1 inch or less above the soil surface to encourage multiple shoots and vigor.
The pruning schedule is as follows:
– One year after planting: Cut the whole hedge down to 6 inches.
– Two years after planting: Cut the regrowth down to 18 inches, leaving the initial 6 inches.
– Three years after planting: Calculate 1 foot of growth from the most recent year and cut everything above it, making the hedge 25 inches tall.
– Repeat this process, cutting 1 foot off the most recent growth, until the hedge reaches 5 feet in height, which should be 5 years after planting.
At this point, the base of the hedge should be around 3 feet wide and impenetrable, with the width tapering as the height increases. Maintain the hedge by shaping it twice a year with hedge trimmers, once in June and once in late September.
Sadly, I never implemented this hedgerow system for my client, as the high deer pressure in the area would have required fencing on either side, which was not feasible. However, I still hope to create a small version of these hedges at my own property one day. Imagine a 12-foot Osage orange wall serving as a deer fence – that’s the dream!
Exploring the Wonders of Chestnut Culture in Corsica
My desire to learn about unconventional agricultural practices has taken me on many adventures, including a recent trip to the Castagniccia region of Corsica, the heart of the island’s chestnut forests. As I stood among the ancient chestnut terraces, I was struck by a profound sense of sadness.
The Innkeeper had told me that the forests were “sick from abandonment,” a theme that only became more apparent as I spoke to more people. Due to rural flight, as younger Corsicans move to the coast or mainland France for jobs, the once-vibrant chestnut culture is now struggling. Without human intervention to tend these ancient trees, the ecosystem is succumbing to the encroaching undergrowth.
This experience forced me to confront the futility of my own work and the challenges faced by tree crop cultures around the world. If Corsica, a place where chestnuts are so deeply woven into the cultural identity, is losing its chestnut forests, what hope do other regions have in preserving their tree crop heritage?
As I delved deeper into the history and decline of Corsica’s chestnut forests, a larger picture emerged. The island’s strategic location in the Mediterranean has made it a target of invasion for centuries, leading to periods of Genoese and French rule. Yet through it all, the Corsicans continued to tend the chestnut forests and produce flour, a dietary staple.
It was the Genoese who introduced improved chestnut cultivars, grafting the wild-growing trees to produce the flour-producing varieties that still stand today, some over 800 years old. This ability to make bread from chestnuts supported human resilience on the island’s rugged terrain, fueling the Corsicans’ fight for independence and autonomy.
However, the decline began in the early 20th century, with World War I marking the start of a devastating economic recession and mass exodus from the island. Rural gentrification, as French nationals buy up property, has only exacerbated the problem, pricing out the Corsicans and choking their ability to maintain the chestnut forests.
This is a tale all too familiar to me, as I’ve witnessed similar patterns of rural gentrification and land access issues in my own country. The untended ancient chestnut trees are a stark reminder of the precarious future facing tree crop cultures worldwide, unless we can find ways to support the long-term stewardship of these precious resources.
As I stood among the neglected chestnut terraces, I was hit with a profound realization: If Corsica, a culture whose resilient identity is so deeply rooted in the chestnut, is struggling to maintain its forests, what hope do we have in the United States, where there is little respect for tending old trees unless they have aesthetic value?
My local land grant university has even published pamphlets saying that renovating old orchards and plantings don’t make economic sense, and the trees should be cut down and replaced. They view age as an illness of decline, favoring new plantings over investing in the existing. This mindset is a concerning indicator for the future of tree crop cultures in my own country.
As I continue on my quest to preserve and revive heirloom fruit and nut trees, the lessons from Corsica have reinforced the urgent need for reform. Without securing long-term access to land and supporting the skilled stewardship of these precious resources, the multi-generational future of agroforestry feels more like a movement and less like a way of life.
I stand in solidarity with the Corsican people, and I hope their struggle will serve as a beacon of hope for those of us fighting to recover the abandoned past and secure a resilient, tree-centric future.
