The Log Lady from Twin Peaks knew things about wood — or maybe wood knew things about her. Either way, dead trees aren’t really dead. They’re just doing different work: feeding fungi, sheltering birds, letting beetles burrow through their bark. David Lynch is gone now, but forests still whisper the same message. Life never fully leaves; it just changes shape.
Deadwood gets a bad rap. You see a fallen branch, a rotting stump, and the impulse is to tidy up. To clear it away. To make things neat. But the forest doesn’t work like that. What looks like decay, lifeless debris, is actually the forest feeding itself, passing life along in ways too slow for us to notice.
When the wind howls or the snow piles up in heavy drifts, we wonder how anything survives out there. We picture the cold pressing in, the hunger, the exposure. But while we brace ourselves inside, filling kettles and checking the weather report, the animals already know what’s coming. They feel it in the pressure drop, in the way the air changes. A bluetit tucks itself into a tree cavity. A fox curls deep into its den. A pine marten finds the hollow of a fallen log and waits. They know.
A dead tree is never just a dead tree. It’s a thousand tiny transactions, compost on steroids —fungi dissolving wood, beetle larvae tunneling through soft bark, woodpeckers hammering out nest holes. Nutrients return to the soil. The forest inhales what was and exhales what will be.
Some trees die standing, the architecture of the unfinished. They hold their shape, though inside, things are shifting. A hollow trunk becomes a home for bats. Birds carve out doorways. Insects move in. These trees don’t stop being trees just because they’ve stopped growing. They become something else.
Even in water, deadwood has work to do. It slows the rush of a river, keeps soil from washing away, creates quiet pockets where fish can rest. A fallen tree doesn’t ask where it’s needed—it just arrives, and the ecosystem adapts around it.
So if you pass a log soft with moss, if you see a tree collapsing into itself, don’t rush to clear it away, don’t side-eye that rotting log. Let it be. Tip your cap. The forest knows what to do.
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In a city, in a backyard, it’s a different story. A dead limb hanging over a sidewalk or a standing snag near a house isn’t just part of nature’s slow recycling process—it’s a hazard waiting to happen. The trick is knowing when deadwood is a gift and when it’s a risk.
A dead branch on a living tree might snap in a storm. A rotting trunk could give way without warning. That’s why removing deadwood in populated areas is sometimes necessary—not because decay is bad, but because timing and placement matter. The key is doing it right: assessing the situation, using proper techniques, and, for anything risky, calling in an arborist. A careless cut can harm a healthy tree, send a limb crashing the wrong way, or even invite disease by leaving an open wound.
A well-cared-for tree—pruned when needed, given room to grow, protected from pests—is less likely to develop dangerous deadwood in the first place. And when removal is necessary, do it with care. Nature knows what to do with a fallen tree, and so should we.
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After the storm, when the trees shed what they can no longer hold, maybe let some of it stay where it falls. Let deadwood lie — it feeds what comes next. Support Green Sod Ireland and help protect the wild spaces that weather it all.
References :
Trust, W. (n.d.). Deadwood in Woodland – British Habitats – Woodland Trust. Woodland Trust. https://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/trees-woods-and-wildlife/habitats/deadwood/
Gilchrist, N. (2024). Dealing with Deadwood: A Safe Approach for Irish Trees. The Greenbranch. https://www.greenbranch.ie/post/dealing-with-deadwood-a-safe-approach-for-irish-trees
Perkins, D. (2023). Storm Habitat: nurse logs, dens, and more — First Light wildlife habitats. First Light Wildlife Habitats. https://www.firstlighthabitats.com/blog/storm-habitat
Photos by Rory MacCanna: https://www.flickr.com/people/maccannarory/
