Erica Grieg kisses Stampy, a beloved cherry tree that once stood in Washington DC’s Tidal Basin.
Editor’s note: Carol Guzzy is an independent photojournalist. She was previously a staff photographer for The Washington Post and The Miami Herald and is a four-time Pulitzer Prize winner. Opinions expressed here are those of the author. Read more opinion On CNN.
The sunrise on a recent spring day began with soft pastel colors enveloping the iconic cherry blossom tree, affectionately known as Stumpy, in the Tidal Basin in Washington, D.C. The beauty was breathtaking, magical and picturesque, and its serenity comforting to the soul.
In recent years, Stampy has blossomed richly with his little heart, even as his fragile trunk shell weakened by the elements, becoming a symbol of resilience, a miracle among us. He’s a social media celebrity and a lesson in climate change. He has captured our imaginations and inspired all of us who feel hurt. Aren’t we all hurting in some way? We can still blossom and rise above adversity.
Stampy is reflected in Hongxia Chu’s sunglasses.
A woman poses in front of Stampy.
Look at Stampy. A small tree, but mighty. In these difficult times in the world, Stampy has given us hope, something that can unite our divided, partisan nation.
At dawn on Easter Sunday, a ray of light emanated from the Jefferson Memorial above Stampy, like a resurrection. It felt profound and sacred. It was a lesson in slowing down and embracing stillness. I’m a photojournalist. Words like this don’t usually exist in my vocabulary.
His final flowers were a spectacular sight. Fans filed past, most taking photos, some hugging their beloved trees and saying sad goodbyes as restoration work begins. About 300 trees will be removed to make way for a National Park Service-led reconstruction of the seawall.
I spent three months photographing Stampy, and at the end of May, Stampy was cut down.
Most people, including me, called Stampy “he,” some called him “she,” but no one called him “it.” People clearly treated Stampy with respect, and some wrote love messages on the tree as an act of protest against Stampy’s cutting down. Others placed memorial flowers (and one even a bottle of Maker’s Mark) at Stampy’s base. The Stampy mascot even made an appearance at the Cherry Blossom 5K race.
I heard a variety of things from the people I visited. They saw him as an underdog, a symbol of hope, a symbol of democracy. One little girl asked me, “Mommy, why are you killing him?”
One woman said, “When we get older, they always try to cut us off.”
Psychologist Evelyn Sawhill folded a paper crane, tucked it into Stampy’s peeling bark, and whispered, “Don’t be scared,” her face etched with quiet sadness.
She joined me in pondering questions of existence: Do trees have feelings? Do they feel pain? Do they have souls somewhere within this great mystery called life, continuing to move on?
Evelyn believes Stampy felt the love shown to him and our dedication to making sure he wasn’t left alone. “It’s important to give any living creature recognition, comfort, solace and understanding. Those who have done so for Stampy have benefited more than we can imagine… and it’s an honor,” she declared.
A close-up of Stumpy’s weathered trunk.
A cherry blossom blooms from one of Stampy’s branches.
Poet Kahlil Gibran wrote, “Trees are the poems the earth writes in the sky.”
I’ve loved trees since I was a child. I was shy and lonely and would go to the woods behind my house and commune with the trees. They were my friends. So it wasn’t hard for me to empathize with the Stampers.
As a photojournalist, I have documented human inhumanity all too often for decades. Conflict and injustice abound. We are destroying each other and the planet. For me, photographing nature’s spectacular splendor sparked bliss. Until it wasn’t.
I initially intended to write a lovely feature about Stumpy, an ode to trees. But then I got angry.
Stampy’s fate was decided regardless of public sentiment. An overwhelming majority of citizens expressed a desire to preserve Stampy as a national treasure. Petitions were even submitted. Many thought it appropriate to at least give Stampy a chance by transplanting him. “Just give it a try,” we said.
National Park Service spokesman Mike Litterst told local media that Stumpy was in a “death spiral” and would likely die from “transplant shock.” But human predictions can be unreliable. The will to live is a powerful force, and Stumpy has defied the odds for years. While the chances of a tree surviving transplanting are slim, the only certainty is that if you cut Stumpy down, he will 100% die.
Then the petals fell like snow, as if the trees were mourning their final season. The final days were bittersweet and moving. A rainbow appeared, and it was as if nature itself was saying a grand farewell to Stumpy. A flock of geese huddled at the base of his trunk, offering him comfort. We were horrified.
The silence was replaced by the sounds of chainsaws and snapping branches, and sawdust floated in the water instead of flowers.
Even more heartbreaking, the National Park Service began the removal during nesting season, putting the birds and their babies at risk: No ramps or other safety measures had been put in place, Ann Lewis, president of City Wildlife, told me. If the babies didn’t reach dry land within a few hours, they would end up in the water and drown.
A cherry blossom petal rests on the duck’s beak.
The birds are struggling to get over the barriers set up in the Tidal Basin.
Bird footprints in the mud.
Near Stampy we see a goose and its chicks.
Bird biologists tagged the trees containing the nests, and at one point, observers and I were so touched to see the starlings diligently feeding their young that we thanked them for tying orange ribbons to mark them. But no one told us that starlings were an invasive species and shouldn’t be saved. The construction crews who removed them proceeded carefully, respectful of both wildlife and residents.
I watched as workers discovered a starling nest in a freshly felled trunk, only for the workers to mercifully set it aside. Some people are writing to lawmakers to push for legislation to postpone construction projects to protect future nesting birds.
There was another option: I contacted the Smithsonian to inquire about whether I could preserve Stumpy there, but they told me they had already asked the National Park Service and been turned down. That seems short-sighted to me. At least cuttings would propagate in the arboretum, but Stumpy would never come back.
Certainly, some National Park Service employees will have empathy and a sincere desire to protect these precious places. But this story is much larger than the fate of one little tree. This is about our ability to care for and nurture, rather than the many we destroy along the way. This is about honoring the spiritual connectedness of all life. To erase beauty is an insult to the soul. And certainly, many found this misshapen hollow trunk supporting a few branches to be a magnificent work of art.
As Stampy’s final sunrise approached, the birds crowded around his isolated cage. I can imagine them saying goodbye to him. Nature has a complex language that humans have long since forgotten.
Under a veil of secrecy, behind a black chain-link fence, under the harsh midday sun and littered with other fallen trees, Stumpy met his end. Because he was so small, he died in just a few minutes.
A little girl looks over the fence at the spot where Stampy once stood.
A worker prepares to cut down a tree.
We who fought for Stumpy can choose to ignore this and decide we can’t fight City Hall. Or we can stand up to avoid future mistakes. This government organization should work for us, not against us. We can hold the NPS accountable, but unfortunately we can’t get them to care.
In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home.” Our national parks are part of our common home, to be nurtured and protected. No one questions the need to repair the breakwater, just the decision of the National Park Service on how to do it. But many question Stumpy’s fate, a decision made by the National Park Service with little regard for the will of the people. Perhaps the American people need more compassionate stewards for those who truly love our land, our trees, and our wildlife.
Stumpy is gone. I cried as I remembered saying goodbye to my mother, debilitated by Alzheimer’s, on her final night. Our tour guide stopped to comfort me. That may be the most amazing legacy of this beloved tree, its ability to bring strangers together.
Where Beauty once lived there is now a clearing above the water. Maybe a folded paper crane inspired him to fly. I can imagine Stampy, tall and majestic, somewhere over the rainbow, forever in bloom.
I will miss you my love. You were loved.
