Hall's Tōtara is the mountain cousin of the lowland tōtara – smaller, tougher, more twisted. It looks like a tōtara that has been compressed by the wind, hardened by the frost, shaped by the long, cold winters. It rarely exceeds 15 metres in height, and often it is shorter – a stunted, windswept tree clinging to a rocky ridge. Its trunk is often twisted and gnarled, its bark is thick and corky, its branches are heavy and low.
What makes it special? The adaptation. The lowland tōtara is a tree of the deep soil, the warm valleys, the sheltered gullies. Hall's Tōtara is a tree of the thin soil, the exposed ridges, the cold slopes. Its leaves are smaller and tougher than the lowland tōtara, reducing water loss in the dry mountain air. Its bark is thicker, insulating the tree against the frost. Its roots spread wide and shallow, gripping the thin soil of the mountain slope.
The foliage is similar to the lowland tōtara – small, narrow, sharp-pointed leaves arranged in two rows along the branchlets – but the colour is different. Hall's Tōtara is a paler green, almost grey-green, a colour that blends with the lichens and the rocks. It is a tree that does not want to be noticed.
The fruit is a small, fleshy, red berry, similar to the lowland tōtara but smaller. The tree is dioecious – separate male and female trees. The females produce a crop of berries in autumn, a high-energy food for the birds of the high country – the
kākā, the
kererū, the
bellbird. The birds swallow the berry, digest the flesh, and carry the seed to another ridge.
The wood of Hall's Tōtara is similar to the lowland tōtara – dense, straight-grained, durable – but the trees are smaller, the trunks are twisted, the timber is less valuable. It was used locally for fence posts, for tool handles, for the frames of mountain huts. It is a wood that does not rot, does not crack, does not give up – just like the tree itself.
Biologically, Hall's Tōtara is a slow-burn survivor. It grows slowly – a few millimetres of trunk each year, a few centimetres of height. A tree that is 10 metres tall may be 500 years old. It lives on the edge of the forest, at the limit of what a tree can endure. It does not compete with the rimu and the miro in the deep valley. It finds a ridge, a rocky outcrop, a patch of thin soil, and it holds on.
To stand under a Hall's Tōtara on a windy ridge is to stand under a tree that has seen centuries of storms. The trunk is twisted, the branches are low, the bark is thick and corky. The wind is in the leaves. The snow is on the ground. The tree does not care. It has been here for five hundred years. It will be here for five hundred more.
Hall's Tōtara is not a king. It is not a warrior. It is the hermit of the high country, the one that lives alone on the ridge, the one that endures. It has been here for millennia. It will be here as long as the mountains stand.