Humanity harbors a compulsion for categorization to help make sense of a complex world. We’re quite good at it, even in the dizzyingly diversified realm of biology. But despite our precisive efforts, handfuls of lifeforms defy neat classification.
Larch trees, or tamaracks, are one such genera of organisms.
Earth is home to as many as 73,000 species of trees, but only about 20 are considered deciduous conifers. Deciduous conifers have needles and form seed-bearing cones, but unlike evergreen trees, they change color before shedding their photosynthesizing apparatus ahead of winter, mirroring the seasonal cycle of leafy, or deciduous, trees.
In the weeks leading up to Halloween, larch — a platypus of the plant kingdom, shifts from green to gold, blasting blazing bolts of brilliant yellow through the otherwise inky canopies of the mountainsides of northwest Montana.
While it may not be the multi-hued autumnal display of the Eastern Seaboard, the turning of the larch is nonetheless a stunning study in contrast and proves a mesmerizing backdrop for hikers and shutterbugs. Regional photographers collectively refer to the spectacle as “Larch Madness,” with the hashtag propagating across visual social media channels in fall.
Ten species of larch grace the globe, two of which are found in Montana’s top left quadrant. Larix lyalli, or alpine larch, generally grow at altitudes over 7,000 feet, with larix occidentalis, or western larch, being the lowland counterpart. Western larch are also the biggest, and Montana is home to what is believed to be the largest larch in the world, a tree named Gus.
Standing 163 feet tall and with a trunk diameter of 7 feet, 3 inches, Gus took root a millennium ago near the banks of the Clearwater River in the Seeley Swan Valley, right around the time when the knights of medieval Europe armored up for the First Crusade.
But some of the most expansive larch stands in the state lie further north, including along the Middle Fork Flathead River, where Glacier National Park meets the Great Bear Wilderness, as well as northwest of Kalispell in the Flathead National Forest, and throughout heavily wooded Lincoln County.
Larch’s hueful transmutation isn’t its only remarkable characteristic. They are both disease resistant and tolerant of fire. Unlike ponderosa or lodgepole, larch is not plagued by a bark beetle, nor is it readily ailed by root rot. Thick bark coupled with a high crown of branches makes mature trees well-equipped to weather lower intensity wildfires. Evidence suggests Gus has survived at least 40 blazes tearing through his grove. And even if larch needles get singed, new needles each spring means they can replace them faster than other conifers.
Despite these advantageous adaptations, western larch have a relatively restricted range when compared to other North American trees, limited to northwest Montana, northern and west central Idaho, parts of Washington, northeastern Oregon, and a southeastern slice of British Columbia. As sun-lovers, larch are held in check by their shade intolerance, so much so they can fail to regenerate in the shadows cast by their own kind. They also require more moisture than other trees and higher quality soil to thrive, while their fresh needles are delicate enough that a late freeze can stunt tree growth.
But perhaps the most peculiar phenomenon associated with the tree is also a favorite larch fact of Michael Reichenberg, a silviculturist for the Flathead National Forest.
“Larch balls. They form along the shores of our lakes in the fall as the trees lose their needles. The waves of the lake can sometimes swirl just right to form the loose needles into balls about the size of an emu egg,” he says. “Super cool to find during a hike.”
This autumn, embrace the chill at the break of day, lace up, fleece up, and treat your eyes to the land of the larch.
