As far as the eye could see, the whitebark pine trees were dead or dying. Below the Wind River's Union Peak, Dr. Jesse Logan, I and a small group of others were exploring the forests to see what whitebark was still healthy, and what had been hit by mountain pine beetle and an introduced disease, white pine blister rust. 

Whitebark pine trees, as small as 6" in diameter, were covered with orange needles from beetle attacks earlier this summer or last.  Others still had green needles, but the bark was shot full of reddish beetle bore holes: standing dead trees.  Only the very young whitebark, too small to be worth the beetles' efforts, were healthy.

Like a weed, the adaptive and aggressive mountain pine beetle was taking advantage of new habitat in whitebark pine forests, thanks to warming winter temperatures that allow it to survive at higher elevations in whitebark pine forests.  (Sheltered by the bark of the trees, the beetle larva produce an anti-freeze like substance that allows them to survive frigid winter temperatures at high elevations.) 

The speed of the beetle outbreak is breathtaking, and the epidemic exacerbates other threats to whitebark pine forests, including blister rust, drought and global warming.  The consequences of losing this unique forest ecosystem will be catastrophic for a variety of wildlife, including Yellowstone grizzlies, which rely on whitebark pine for food and shelter.  That's why we have been working for months on a petition to list whitebark pine (http://docs.nrdc.org/legislation/files/leg_08120801a.pdf), to focus more attention and resources on addressing the threats while there is still more time.

As we traversed the gentle slopes upward, out of the mixed spruce/fir/whitebark forests, and into pure whitebark pine stands, Jesse and I still held out hope.  Indeed, it was hard not to be optimistic on such as stunningly beautiful late August day in the Wind Rivers, one of my favorite places on earth.  The sky was crystal mountain blue, and we were high enough to see four other mountain ranges: the Tetons, the Absarokas, Gros Ventres and Wyoming ranges.  At our feet, late summer flowers were still blooming: white yarrow, aster, blue harebell and yellow potentilla.

I felt happy and grateful to be in the Winds again, and profoundly privileged to be with my friend and colleague Dr. Jesse Logan.  It's not just Jesse's wild enthusiasm for nature, or his immense knowledge of forest ecology. He is great company, curious about all aspects of nature-and a kind and generous soul who care passionately about wilderness and the future of its iconic tree: whitebark pine.  Jesse and I also share the excitement of exploring wild country- and the drive to save it.

The view ahead looked promising: open stands of whitebark pine, much of it green, at 10,500 feet.  And on the ridge above us, there was the gnarled "krummholz" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krummholz)-bent and twisted whitebark, crouching low to the ground as a defense against gale-force alpine winds.

One massive, whitebark pine caught Jesse's and my eye almost simultaneously, and we both gravitated towards it.  It stood alone against a backdrop of rocky knobs-Precambrian granite, some of the oldest rock on earth.  The tree looked more then 5 feet thick in the girth: the kind of whitebark that can easily be over 1,000 years old.  Its needles were green too, and from the distance of several hundred yards, it looked healthy. 

Jesse and I picked up our pace.  I got to it first.  And there they were: tell-tale red bore holes everywhere, like tiny bullets.  Red sawdust lay sprinkled at its feet, like dried blood.  I walked around this giant, clockwise, as Buddhists do around a temple.  Its backside had been blasted by lightening and had weathered to a golden brown.

This tree had survived hundreds and hundreds of years.  It had given shelter to elk, it had fed grizzly bears and squirrels and Clark's nutcrackers and crossbills-and perhaps Sheepeater Indians.  It had been pounded by everything that nature could throw at it: 90 mile per hour winds, lightening, snow, ice and drought.  But it couldn't survive what we humans have thrown at it-the warming of the planet that, in turn, has powered an unprecedented outbreak of mountain pine beetles.

I ran my hand down the fine, now lifeless skin of this mammoth tree, the strip that had become smooth from years of weathering following the lightening strike.  Silent in death as it had been in life.

I heard Jesse's footsteps as he approached the other side of the tree.  I walked around to greet him.  His face stricken, Jesse said nothing.  Grief blew our words away.  Grief for this great tree, for the quiet tragic ending of a magnificent forest.  For the ancient wisdom and wildness we all will have lost, when these forests are gone.