When you think of maple trees, you probably conjure up an image of sap buckets in the spring or deeply lobed leaves turning scarlet red, bright yellow or flaming orange in the fall. But there’s another kind of maple that, up until recently, long defied my instant recognition of it: the striped maple, or Acer pensylvanicum.
Native to the New England states, south into Georgia, and north into easternmost parts of Canada, the striped maple is small by maple tree standards and grows primarily as an understory tree in our forests. What that means is that most of the other trees nearby tower over it, but none can compare where foliage is concerned.
Measuring just a few feet tall itself, the striped maple is so named, not because of its leaves but because of the narrow silvery stripes that run vertically along its trunk. Its leaves measure up to eight inches across and equally as long. And unlike those of its cousins that sport dazzling colors this time of year, the striped maple’s leaves turn a pale, almost whitish-yellow that seems somewhat incongruous in the autumn landscape.
It’s not a fancy tree, by any means, at least not until you come upon its leaves in their full unfurling in late spring. Then, while they do resemble those of other maples in some respects, what you notice most is their size, which more than triples that of the leaves of the sugar maple or the red maple. The long spaces between their teeth, or dentations, also sets them apart from others. Their texture is silky and slightly fuzzy, and their weight gives them an almost droopy appearance, particularly during dry weather when they lack for moisture.
If it is possible to befriend a tree, then this solitary striped maple is my latest acquisition, and I stop to admire it each time I pass that way. I’ve made a point to stop and visit with it each time I’ve been on that path since last spring and have observed it going through its winter, spring, summer and fall incarnations.
Right now, after all this wind and buffeting about, it’s pretty bare, with only a few stalwart remnants of its former glory clinging to its topmost branches. And for the next several months, but for its striking bark markings, it will be just another low tree withstanding the forces of winter and its wiles. Short of some natural catastrophe to hasten its demise, it will still be there in the spring to usher in the mildness with a great burgeoning of massive foliage that almost seems to be more than it can handle. But handle it all it does, and much to my own enjoyment, each time I pass, which won’t be quite as often now as hunters ply the woods in search of game and the weather keeps me indoors more.
Fortunately, I took pictures, as I so frequently do along my woods walks, and I’ll look upon these often during the next few months, remembering that path and that striped maple and the conversations we had, without either of us ever uttering so much as a word.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@yahoo.com.
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