The Man in the Trees

Arborist Alec Baxt sees Baton Rouge’s live oaks as animated, enduring neighbors

by

Knowing Nature

I met arborist Alec Baxt three years ago at the base of an old camellia—he, hanging on a rope, hand-pruning high within the tree; me, frantically passing by. That rushed summer exchange began both one of my most cherished camaraderies and the beginning of my arboricultural tomfoolery.

A Brooklyn native and the owner of Lively Oak Conservation Tree Care & Consulting, Baxt skips back and forth between the big city and Southern Louisiana, working on trees in both worlds for months at a time. There is an air about Baxt that suggests he is not one of us, exactly. Perhaps it's that his main form of transportation is a bicycle with a small trailer of arborist tools in tow. Or maybe it’s the way, at the end of each day, he lines tiny bundles of plant debris neatly by the roadside. (Assuredly, this is how one must act when hauling said debris through narrow brownstone homes out to the Brooklyn streets?) Or perhaps it's the inherent curiosity, and often bemused confusion, in his eyes and words when intermingling with us Southern Louisianans. Regardless, he and his modes of operation stand out on the streets of Baton Rouge.

I have been fortunate to work alongside Baxt most weeks of this past year. Different from any arborist I have interacted with, Baxt really does not want to cut your trees down. Though I have indeed seen him fell a tree, his passion lies in fine pruning, tree health assessment, community education, and good conversations held about and beneath trees. 

I have learned much about trees from Baxt, but our conversations almost always end up addressing other aspects of life. A theme we often return to is just how differently two minds can see the same thing within the landscape—the distinct perspective of a gal who discovered the natural world alone in rural Louisiana, versus that of Baxt, who came to his love of trees in one of the busiest cities in the world.

Baxt is an incredibly well-spoken human, so instead of paraphrasing his words, let me share a recent written exchange between us. 

Do you feel you observe our native trees differently than the locals? Let’s discuss the live oak, in particular. 

AB: Somehow, I feel like I really do know [the trees here], maybe in part because what’s special about them contrasts so significantly with what I’m used to in the Northeast. I am absolutely captivated [by] and obsessed [with] them, and feel real kinship with them. They represent an intersection of some really interesting traits. 

For starters, they’re evergreen, so they photosynthesize any time that the weather isn’t too extreme. They’re evergreen in the subtropics, which means the part of the year that’s “growable” is quite long. And then, they’re evergreen in the subtropics with the tendency to sprout new growth all along their big old branches. So, they are often absolutely covered from top to bottom in leaves that can photosynthesize any time conditions are favorable in a climate when conditions are almost always favorable. The combination of these three traits mean live oaks photosynthesize a lot more than trees I’m used to. 

"An extraordinary thing about southern live oaks is that they grow quite quickly and have wood that is highly rot resistant, super strong, can produce huge masts of acorns, and be incredibly long-lived. They seem to be able to do all things simultaneously."

If you grew up around live oaks, it might be hard to appreciate just how much energy they capture relative to other species and how uniquely positioned they are to kick ass. If you’re an oak in the northeast, you have tough decisions to make. You’re going to be leafless for a good chunk of the year, and that means you have to make some trade-offs. Do you direct energy into flowering and fruiting, into growth, into defense, into storage to get started next year? You’re probably going to either live fast and die young, or be well-defended and stick around for a while, but take your sweet time getting there. An extraordinary thing about southern live oaks is that they grow quite quickly and have wood that is highly rot resistant, super strong, can produce huge masts of acorns, and be incredibly long-lived. They seem to be able to do all things simultaneously.

Lastly, because the wood is so tough and so long-lived and so prone to suckering, the trees have an architectural plasticity that’s unlike anything else I’ve seen. A branch might grow in one direction for twenty-five years. Then, maybe a neighboring tree dies or something else changes with light conditions, and now some of the suckers that had been shaded are getting more light and can head in a completely different direction. Some of them might get big and wander off for another hundred years, and then there will be another big change in the growing environment around the tree, and new growth might head off in yet another direction. The toughness of the wood, the suckering, and the long life span all allow for astounding forms that wouldn’t happen in other trees. 

I love these trees so much, it pains me every time I see the interior of one totally gutted, or trenching or heavy machinery use around them. They feel so animated and idiosyncratic to me. I can’t help but anthropomorphize [them] and feel like they deserve better.

How does Lively Oak differ from other tree businesses in Louisiana and NYC? 

AB: How we work reflects who we are as people and what we value. I suspect that a good number of people in the industry see trees as inanimate objects. Either they’re missing some fundamental understanding about how trees work, or they are willing to ignore best management practices and harm trees. I don’t know which of those is more tragic. I don’t think that every tree is sacred, but I do think that living things are generally special and warrant careful consideration. They’re not just commodities. So, sometimes I labor over how to best care for trees while also meeting whatever other objectives are in the mix. I spend a lot of time on education with clients and the broader community, either to support people’s care and curiosity, or in cases where a client’s initial idea runs counter to best management practices. I occasionally use selective refusal as a way to protect my own integrity, but also as a way to shock someone into thinking differently about their tree. To express that someone’s tree is so special that I would rather walk away than do what they’re proposing—I’ve seen that kind of refusal turn someone's perspective from tree-resentment to pride and appreciation, and ultimately good stewardship.

"I suspect that a good number of people in the industry see trees as inanimate objects. Either they’re missing some fundamental understanding about how trees work, or they are willing to ignore best management practices and harm trees. I don’t know which of those is more tragic."

I try to see the interactions that happen around trees and tree care as opportunities for connection, rather than thinking of myself purely as a consultant or laborer interacting with a client. Usually that manifests as just trying to be interested in people, learning about them, having fun and interesting conversations, but it can include leaning into challenging conversations as well. In Baton Rouge, I had a conversation with a client who shared what it’s like being Black while living on former plantation land. People share love and loss, hobbies and travel. And I share accordingly. I find it all very life-affirming. 

I’ve ended up staying for meals with clients and routinely get emails and texts from former clients just sharing status updates on their trees or even photos of cool trees they come across in their travels. I got two of those messages this week. When meaningful social interaction is happening, I think people are more open to connecting deeply with their trees and natural systems as a whole. And that can move in the opposite direction as well—while discussing how to care for trees, we might be more open to connecting deeply with each other. So, I express a lot of my personality, care, curiosity, and aspirations through work in a way that might be unusual. Work isn’t siloed for me.

I might also operate a bit differently from other arborists in the area simply because I view the whole Southern Louisiana landscape as an outsider. The immediacy of the area’s history feels so poignant to me. 

[Read this: "5 Reasons to Plant a Tree: Don't overthink it, just dig the hole."] 

Any quick advice as to how people can best take care of their trees?

AB: [The] number one [thing] is to take care of soil. Wrecking soil is a great way to kill a tree without even trying. Squishing all the air out of a soil is like making someone breathe in and out of a plastic bag; it’s rotten, suffocating air, and it weakens trees. Things we might think of as pest problems are often soil problems. A tree—because we’ve driven over or parked under it and compacted the soil—will struggle and become more vulnerable to pests and diseases. One pass of a vehicle is all it takes to wreck soil structure, especially when soils are wet. 

And I am biased, but find good care. The best arborists I know absolutely love trees. They’re creative thinkers, lifelong learners, and operate in a community of likeminded people so that they have a peer group to pose questions to and learn from. If you love your trees, get them serviced by someone who loves trees at least as much as you do. 

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