Some stories in nature seem too poetic to be real—like fables written by evolution. The towering redwoods of California are one such story. Standing as giants among trees, they appear serene and invincible. But their stillness hides an ancient, ruthless logic—a deep lesson about the ways of nature.
In 2020, the wildfires that raged through California’s Big Basin Redwoods State Park painted a grim picture. Centuries-old trees, some with trunks as wide as small cars, were charred and stripped bare. Yet many of these same trees, seemingly lifeless, would survive. Not by miracle, but by design. Redwood trees, it turns out, don’t just survive fire—they use it.
The redwoods not only grow tall enough to attract lightning, but also possess an extraordinary resistance to fire. Like lightning rods on tall buildings, these traits reflect nature’s engineering at its finest: a co-evolved strategy where fire isn’t a threat, but an ally in the tree’s survival and regeneration.
The bark of a redwood contains high levels of tannins, natural flame retardants that protect it from intense heat. Unlike other trees that might succumb to flames, redwoods often remain standing, scarred but alive. Their cones—serotinous by design—only open under the intense heat of fire, releasing seeds into a forest floor freshly cleared of competition. Fires not only remove underbrush but enrich the soil with ash and nutrients, creating optimal conditions for germination. A literal definition of being ‘forged in fire.’
Fire, for the redwood, is not an ending. It’s an opening.
But perhaps the most astonishing detail emerged in a paper published in Nature Plants following the 2020 fires. Researchers discovered that even completely defoliated redwoods could rebound. They did so by drawing on energy reserves—sugars created by photosynthesis decades ago. These reserves fueled the growth of dormant buds, some of which had been lying quietly under bark for over a century, waiting for a cue like this. The phenomenon is known as Epicormic growth. Epicormic growth is the development of shoots from dormant buds beneath the bark of a tree or plant, often triggered by stress or damage.
This might sound awe-inspiring, and it is—but it is not benevolence. It’s strategy. The redwoods are not noble survivors; they are ruthless ones. Their entire structure, from bark to bud, is a system designed not just to endure fire but to leverage it for dominance.
In this, they echo the lesson we once explored with cuckoo birds—those parasitic strategists that plant their young in the nests of unsuspecting hosts. Like the redwoods, they too reveal that evolution has no moral compass. It selects what survives, not what seems fair. Nature doesn’t ask what should be done. It simply reinforces what works.
And yet, this story isn’t a celebration of destruction. It’s also a warning. The redwoods evolved with fire, yes—but with fire of a certain kind. Historically, these forests experienced low to moderate intensity burns, often sparked naturally and spaced out over decades. Today, with the human fingerprint heavy on the climate, we’re seeing more intense, more frequent fires—pushed by droughts, temperature rise, and altered landscapes.
Redwoods are resilient, but even resilience has a threshold. Fires that once cleared underbrush now scorch entire root systems. Seedlings once given an open forest floor must now contend with unstable post-fire landscapes. Survival, even for the mighty redwood, is no longer guaranteed.
So, what do these trees teach us? First, that survival often lies in counterintuitive strategies. And second, that even the most robust systems have limits when pushed too far. Nature is neither kind nor cruel—it is adaptive. But it is not immune to the consequences of imbalance.
In the story of redwoods and fire, we see nature’s complexity at its best—but we’re also reminded that when we disrupt the balance, we risk tipping even the most ancient survivors into decline. Understanding nature’s logic is not just about marveling at its design; it’s about recognizing our role in the new story being written.
And that, perhaps, is where the morality comes in—not in nature, but in us.
