(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
10 beloved L.A. trees that Angelenos should enjoy — and protect at all costs
There are easily hundreds of truly excellent, some might even say great trees in Los Angeles. Are these 10 the very best? Well, that’s totally subjective. For our story “The greatest trees of Los Angeles,” photographer Devin Yalkin and I transited Los Angeles many times, looking for trees, keeping in mind that the trees we were after, the trees we thought were great, had to be as public as possible. That is, you don’t have to pay to see any of these trees, and they are often beside city streets. All also, in one way or another, tell us a story of our city and what the land was like even before the city was here. They tie us back to its history, its people. These trees have been here a long time. Most of them have been here longer than any of us. We could learn a thing or two from them. So get out there and visit, and go find 10 more of your own.
I talked to arborists, landscape architects, gardeners, historians, activists, tree-heads and more, all to find an answer to my question: Which L.A. trees are the best trees, the ones worth celebrating?
Showing Places
(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Coastal live oak (Quercus agrifolia), Orcutt Ranch
West Hills Tree
The most abundant, iconic, and important native tree in L.A., a single coastal live oak supports hundreds of species, and its acorns once sustained L.A,’s first people. There are many great oaks throughout L.A. — really, any mature oak is fairly excellent and worthy of appreciation, I’d say. The Oak of the Golden Dream, in Santa Clarita, certainly should make any shortlist of the greatest coastal live oaks. And of course, the sprawling and ancient Encino Oak. But alas, that one died in 1998.
The coastal live oak in the back of Orcutt Ranch, in West Hills, is, however, still very much alive, and quite possibly the oldest tree in Los Angeles — a truly awe-inspiring specimen, well worth spending an hour or two beneath while attempting to count the countless number of birds that will come and visit this massive tree, delighting in its hugeness as you do the very same.
The coastal live oak in the back of Orcutt Ranch, in West Hills, is, however, still very much alive, and quite possibly the oldest tree in Los Angeles — a truly awe-inspiring specimen, well worth spending an hour or two beneath while attempting to count the countless number of birds that will come and visit this massive tree, delighting in its hugeness as you do the very same.
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Moreton bay fig (Ficus macrophylla), St. John’s Presbyterian Church
Palms Tree
The first Moreton Bay Figs arrived in Los Angeles in the 1870s. Four ended up around Los Angeles Plaza, as part of a beautification program. Those trees, like this one, were planted in 1875. There are other, equally gargantuan figs, all well over a century old, like the one in front of the Fairmont Miramar in Santa Monica, and the one by the Auto Club building downtown, and the one in Big Tree Park in Glendora, and the one above a mural on the east side of Mid-City’s Prescott School of Enriched Sciences.
This tree, next to St. Johns, was planted well before the St. John’s Presbyterian Church was there, in honor of the original property owner’s firstborn son. It lays claim to being the second largest in California. Then again, the big tree in Big Tree Park, in Glendora, claims to be either the first or second biggest in the state, too. So does the Moreton fig up in Santa Barbara, by the train station. Though, the back cover of Donald R. Hodel’s “Exceptional Trees of Los Angeles” states that the Glendora tree is “the most massive cultivated tree in the greater Los Angeles area” and “the patriarch of them all.” Here is what we all can agree: Moreton Bay figs are very big and very amazing. We are so lucky to have so many.
This tree, next to St. Johns, was planted well before the St. John’s Presbyterian Church was there, in honor of the original property owner’s firstborn son. It lays claim to being the second largest in California. Then again, the big tree in Big Tree Park, in Glendora, claims to be either the first or second biggest in the state, too. So does the Moreton fig up in Santa Barbara, by the train station. Though, the back cover of Donald R. Hodel’s “Exceptional Trees of Los Angeles” states that the Glendora tree is “the most massive cultivated tree in the greater Los Angeles area” and “the patriarch of them all.” Here is what we all can agree: Moreton Bay figs are very big and very amazing. We are so lucky to have so many.
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Floss silk tree (Ceiba speciosa), Yamaguchi Bonsai Nursery
Sawtelle Tree
“The tree planted itself, honestly,” explains Marianne Yamaguchi, whose father founded the nursery that bears the family name in 1949, after he returned from internment at Manzanar, during World War II. Sometime in the mid-1960s, the roots of this silk floss broke free of their 15-gallon container and worked their way into the soil. Nick Araya, the arborist who works on the tree (no easy task with all those spiky thorns and thick crown) likes to point visting arborists toward this specimen, just because it’s so huge and unexpected. With its nearly seven-foot trunk, it’s the largest of its kind in North America. Marianne Yamaguchi feels similarly. “What’s amazing to me,” she says, “is that there are so many people who come into the nursery, say they lived in the neighborhood for years and years, and never noticed this tree before.”
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
'El Pino' bunya-bunya (Araucaria bidwillii)
East Los Angeles Tree
Where does one begin with El Pino Famoso, the icon of East L.A.? You could do worse than to start with “Blood In Blood Out,” Taylor Hackford’s epic that made the tree a star. “That tree is East Los to me,” says one character, newly arrived back in town, as he pulls up to it. And yeah, it is. And yeah, it is nearly impossible to visit El Pino without also witnessing someone in the middle of their own El Pino photo shoot, maybe with a sweet ride parked just so, or at the very least snapping a selfie, then taking in the whole neighborhood from El Pino’s hilltop perch. Long before L.A. was L.A., there were signal trees, similar to El Pino, but often sycamores: trees that marked the landscape, told folks where they were, or where they were headed. El Pino is one of our last remaining signal trees. And certainly among the best.
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Mexican avocado (Persea americana), Atwater
Atwater Village Tree
California Big Trees, a registry run out of the Urban Forest Ecosystems Institute at Cal Poly, lists 212 “big trees” in the state, 158 of which are “national champions” — meaning the specimen is the largest of its kind in the United States. A surprising number — the densest cluster in the state — are in the L.A. area, including the largest Canary Island pine, in Lawndale, and the largest Montezuma cypress, in Kuruvungna Springs.
But this avocado, on a quiet street in Atwater Village, near the L.A. River, is both a national champion and the kind of tree that is central to L.A. history, for in the 1890s, Juan Murrieta began importing great quantities of the fruit from Atlixco, Mexico. One variety Murrieta named after himself, others he named Sharpless and Colorado and Challenge and Dickey. None of these are grown commercially anymore, but they paved the way for huge commercial groves close to the river, in both Atwater and Los Feliz (around Avocado Street, naturally) where plenty of these more- than-a-century-old avocados can still be found today.
But this avocado, on a quiet street in Atwater Village, near the L.A. River, is both a national champion and the kind of tree that is central to L.A. history, for in the 1890s, Juan Murrieta began importing great quantities of the fruit from Atlixco, Mexico. One variety Murrieta named after himself, others he named Sharpless and Colorado and Challenge and Dickey. None of these are grown commercially anymore, but they paved the way for huge commercial groves close to the river, in both Atwater and Los Feliz (around Avocado Street, naturally) where plenty of these more- than-a-century-old avocados can still be found today.
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Jacaranda (Jacaranda mimosifolia), Cahuenga, Franklin and Wilcox triangle
Hollywood Hills Tree
Most street jacarandas in L.A. were planted in the 1950s and 60s, which is likely the case with this one, in the triangle where Caheunga, Franklin, and Wilcox all meet. This tree, while not so old and not so big, is beloved: its maintenance is managed by its neighbors, who, after the tree was mysteriously vandalized, called in an arborist, and the arborist eventually figured out that the tree had been a victim of “corporate vista pruning,” which is another way of saying that it had been cut to give drivers a better view of a nearby billboard.
But people, the arborist told me, obviously care more for trees than they do for billboard advertisements. When we visited, a man named Louis Alfaro approached. He was very worried about what we might be doing to the tree — did we work for the city? Was Devin photographing the site to take down the tree? It was one of the few patches of nice green shade, and there was already so much vandalism around it, Alfaro said. He’d lived in an apartment in the neighborhood for 11 years, and visited the tree almost every day.
But people, the arborist told me, obviously care more for trees than they do for billboard advertisements. When we visited, a man named Louis Alfaro approached. He was very worried about what we might be doing to the tree — did we work for the city? Was Devin photographing the site to take down the tree? It was one of the few patches of nice green shade, and there was already so much vandalism around it, Alfaro said. He’d lived in an apartment in the neighborhood for 11 years, and visited the tree almost every day.
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Rose gum (Angophora costata), the end of Chevy Chase Drive by the L.A. River
Atwater Village Tree
Like many other very large trees in L.A. — the eucalyptuses, the bunya-bunyas, the Moreton Bay figs— this rose gum (a.k.a the rusty gum, apple gum, or Sydney apple gum) comes from Australia. When Devin and I visited, Leon Boroditsky, the principal forester for the city’s parks department, walked out to greet us. His office is just across the street. This tree, he said, “is a eucalypt — a cousin of the eucalyptuses, but from an older family line. One of the cool things about this particular one, and many of the trees we have, is that they’re anonymous — we don’t know who planted them. I feel a real responsibility for the gift that someone gave us, and I feel the responsibility to pay that forward, to do that same thing. Hopefully some of my trees will live this long, and hopefully someday, someone will say ‘Wow, this is a cool tree. I wonder who planted it.’”
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Grapefruit (Citrus × paradisi), Isamu Noguchi Plaza, Japanese American Cultural & Community Center
Downtown L.A. Tree
In 1980, the only remaining citruses of John William Wolfskill’s commercial citrus grove — the first in California — was this grapefruit, which was behind a building on a vacant lot in Little Tokyo. But the lot was soon to become a parking garage, and the tree was slated to be destroyed. Instead, members of the community, alongside the Southern California Gardeners Federation, worked to save the tree, digging it out and transporting it to the then newly built plaza of the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center, where it still stands today, more than 150 years after it was first planted.
Hirokazu Kosaka, the master artist in residence at the JACCC, has been the tree’s caretaker for about 40 years. “I know the tree very well,” he says. He was there for its transplanting. “You know, after the Japanese Americans were interned, most of the men became gardeners here in Southern California. In the 1950s and ‘60s, there were 28,000 Japanese American gardeners here. They recognized the importance of this tree, and they moved it. It was in good shape then, abundant with fruit.”
Kosaka recalls delivering more than 100 grapefruits to retired people in the community the first few seasons it was in the plaza. “But now, you know, the tree is dying.” He bandaged it, to help prevent its dry bark from getting more sunburned during the last drought. This winter it has had no blooms and no fruit. The tree has a sister, on First Street North, and that one is still producing, but remains under threat by possible development.
Hirokazu Kosaka, the master artist in residence at the JACCC, has been the tree’s caretaker for about 40 years. “I know the tree very well,” he says. He was there for its transplanting. “You know, after the Japanese Americans were interned, most of the men became gardeners here in Southern California. In the 1950s and ‘60s, there were 28,000 Japanese American gardeners here. They recognized the importance of this tree, and they moved it. It was in good shape then, abundant with fruit.”
Kosaka recalls delivering more than 100 grapefruits to retired people in the community the first few seasons it was in the plaza. “But now, you know, the tree is dying.” He bandaged it, to help prevent its dry bark from getting more sunburned during the last drought. This winter it has had no blooms and no fruit. The tree has a sister, on First Street North, and that one is still producing, but remains under threat by possible development.
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Camphor tree (Cinnamomum camphora), Evergreen Cemetery
Boyle Heights Tree
Just down the hill from El Pino is Evergreen Cemetery, the oldest cemetery in Los Angeles, and the final resting place of what I’d argue is the most amazing mix of old Angelenos you could ever hope to find. Hugo Zacchini, the most famous human cannonball, is here. So is Biddy Mason, the enslaved woman who became a midwife, real estate entrepreneur, nurse, philanthropist and co-founder of the First African Methodist Episcopal Church. (She also owned the land on which the Japanese American Cultural and Community Center, its plaza, and the grapefruit tree now stand). The Rinzai Zen monk Nyogen Senzaki, who helped bring Zen Buddhism to America, is at Evergreen too. And there are some wonderful trees. This camphor, which began dying after years of drought, has been brought back by last year’s wet winter. It is particularly striking: death and rebirth amid the tombstones.
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(Devin Oktar Yalkin / For The Times)
Western (or California) sycamore, Platanus racemosa
Griffith Park Tree
Matthew Teutimez, a biologist and member of the Kizh Kitc Gabrieleños tribe, explained to me why it is that sycamores are so special, “a particularly special tree to symbolize locations for ancient people here in Southern California,” he said. “So much of our landscape is low-growing scrub, and back before the buildings, looking out on the horizon, you’d see the topography, the hills, the mountains, the tree canopies. But the way sycamores grow, they grow to be singular, next to water, growing up like a beacon.”
The trees were markers of significant locations, Teutimez said: villages, mostly. And later: burial grounds. “The fact that it’s a hardwood, too, means sycamores provide us with a whole other slew of gifts: They were utilized in the funeral pyre, they were the wood that sends you on to the next part of existence, so part of them becomes part of you.” Also for music. “Many folks have a misunderstanding that every Native American group had drums, but we didn’t have drums in Southern California, because we didn’t have the animal skins for drums,” Teutimez continued. “But what we did have was sycamore. And what you can do with sycamore is an instrument made out of two sycamore bowls. You make two bowls out of the wood of two different diameters. The big bowl, you fill with water, and the smaller bowl goes down into water, making a little round dome. You get a soft mallet, and bang on it, and the reverbrance out into the water is like a bass drum, a guttural, whomp whooomp whooomp.”
The tree’s uses go even beyond all this: “It can even take care of you in the spring,” said Teutimez. “Its new leaves are some of the most soft velvety and strong material you could ask for, if you’re ever out of toilet paper.”
The trees were markers of significant locations, Teutimez said: villages, mostly. And later: burial grounds. “The fact that it’s a hardwood, too, means sycamores provide us with a whole other slew of gifts: They were utilized in the funeral pyre, they were the wood that sends you on to the next part of existence, so part of them becomes part of you.” Also for music. “Many folks have a misunderstanding that every Native American group had drums, but we didn’t have drums in Southern California, because we didn’t have the animal skins for drums,” Teutimez continued. “But what we did have was sycamore. And what you can do with sycamore is an instrument made out of two sycamore bowls. You make two bowls out of the wood of two different diameters. The big bowl, you fill with water, and the smaller bowl goes down into water, making a little round dome. You get a soft mallet, and bang on it, and the reverbrance out into the water is like a bass drum, a guttural, whomp whooomp whooomp.”
The tree’s uses go even beyond all this: “It can even take care of you in the spring,” said Teutimez. “Its new leaves are some of the most soft velvety and strong material you could ask for, if you’re ever out of toilet paper.”
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