The Lost Pines region of Texas is where I live; it’s my home. The majesty of a towering pine forest is what attracted me to this place. I loved walking among them at dusk; looking up at the pumpkin sky as the sun streamed into the high branches, which held its unearthly light. There are times when life gives you things and times when it takes them away. Unfortunately, all of my personal pine trees were destroyed in the wildfires of 2011, as were millions of others.
The question is, are they gone forever or were the fires just one of the many ecological events that have threatened the region over the millennia? After all, reportedly pollen records show that loblolly pine trees have been in this area for more than 18,000 years.
The human element cannot be ruled out in determining what kind of forest (if any forest at all) will prevail. The efforts of many to reforest the Lost Pines after the fire have been herculean.
Through the generosity of corporations, non-profits and governmental organizations after the fires, Bastrop State Park and area homeowners were afforded the opportunity to re-plant native loblolly seedlings. Tree Folks of Austin and the Texas A & M Forest Service have done yeoman’s work to make seedlings available to everyone who wanted them. There has been, 
perhaps, no more valiant reforestation effort than Bastrop State Park—supported by hundreds of volunteers from all over the state and beyond. Over 2 million seedlings have been planted over the last five years.
Why is this such a big deal? Why does a plea for help to reforest the Lost Pines result in such a widespread and emotional response from citizens? What makes this place so unique?
For one, our soil is different. Nowhere else in Central Texas do you find sugar sand, sand so fine you have trouble holding it in a closed fist. This acidic soil comes from sandstone and is as old and weathered as to be almost devoid of nutrients. Ash Juniper, common in Texas Hill Country, won’t grow here—but loblolly pine trees love the sand.
For another, the pine trees that grow here are adapted to a warmer, dryer climate. Their needles transpire less because they have fewer “pores” (stomata), roots are thicker and more fibrous and our trees have thicker bark than the east Texas loblollies. The real oddity is how this pine forest came to be here . . . how, exactly, did the Lost Pines become lost?
Searching both legend and scientific accounts, the origin of the Lost Pines region is the subject of some debate; the most prevalent explanation is a dislocation of loblolly pines from the greater east Texas Pineywoods region, caused by the advance and retreat of ancient glaciers. Climatic differences may have, through the process of natural selection, nudged these loblollies to adapt to the dryer conditions found in south central Texas. At any rate, the trees which grow here today are genetically modified, totally separated and cut off from their cousins some 100 miles to the east. There is the issue of progenitor. At least two researchers (Texas A & M University, 2004) hypothesize that the loblolly forests of east Texas are actually descended from the Lost Pines.
No matter how the Lost Pines came to be, the fact is, they are one tough stand of trees!
Early residents, over 400 years ago, carved a highway through them to open a route between Mexico and Louisiana. Since that time, the El Camino Real has been used extensively (and still is in use today). Upon arrival of European settlers, the pine trees provided building materials to establish homesteads, farms and towns. Extensive logging operations began in this region as early as 1838 and continued on through the turn of the century. When the Civilian Conservation Corps came through to build Bastrop and Buescher State Parks in the 1930’s, this place was a near logged-out wasteland.
The CCC re-planted baby pines and they flourished. So, there is precedent for resurgence of the Lost Pines. Truth is, those seedlings provided the generation of trees mostly surrendered to the devastating fires of 2011.
Some have mused that after the fires, the Lost Pines will be truly “lost” forever—the disturbance too severe. They cite the lack of prescribed fire to check the spread of yaupon and other invasive plants, continued effects of development and agriculture, release of exotics into the environment, erosion, pollution and climate change. They point out that the plant and animal populations of the Lost Pines are already irreparably altered from what they were just 200 years ago.
Still, this place is more than meets the eye. Ecologically, there is nuance to the Lost Pines region.
TPWD lists 10 ecosystems (or ecoregions) in Texas. By this account, the Lost Pines are a part of the Post Oak Savanah ecoregion; however, ecologists tell us that any segment of the landscape that includes living (biotic) and non-living (abiotic) components can be considered an ecosystem. A lake is an ecosystem when it is considered in totality as not just water but also nutrients, climate, and all of the life contained within it. A given meadow, marsh or river is likewise an ecosystem. So, then, a disjunctive stand of pine forest can be technically considered an ecosystem.
But there is more going on here than mere geography, soils and climate. This area also supports a rich and diverse community of plants and wildlife, made more interesting by intermingling of species which love pine forests with those which love the post-oak woodlands. There’s a word for this—try to use it in a sentence next week—ecotone. The word is derived from Greek and means “two houses in tension.” The idea of “tension” comes from the stress inherent in populations (plants, animals, microorganisms) at the limit of their tolerance for particular environmental conditions.
So . . . the Lost Pines are an ecotone, where two ecosystems overlap one another. Ecotones may be large or small, and they are found virtually all over the world. Ecotones occur at physical boundaries and may exist along a broad belt or a relatively small area, such as a forest clearing or a marshy area.
When two bordering populations come in contact—such as in an ecotone—they unknowingly influence each other. This is called the edge effect. Living “on the edge” can 
be tougher for some species than others. We wouldn’t expect to find quail and pheasant in a pine forest. Nor would we expect to find pine warblers and Houston Toads in open grassland.
Yet, ecotones are often known for their greater biodiversity, as some communities adapt. Some local species which seem to thrive in ecotonal areas include blue jays, eastern cottontail rabbits, robins and white tail deer. Then, of course, we have species which make themselves at home in both regions, like raccoons and coyotes.
It’s hard to speculate: the sweep of time makes it difficult to know if changes we observe in our lifetime are temporary or permanent. Consider all the extinctions, genetic mutations and selective breeding that have occurred since the first single-celled prokaryotic cells first appeared on earth. Everything is in a constant state of change: the climate, plant and animal communities, mountains and plains-even the major continents.
Because many physical and chemical changes in the environment tend to be continuous, ecological transitions are often difficult to detect or measure. For example, climate and rainfall amounts change steadily across continents and up the slopes of mountains. Because these environmental changes are gradual, communities of plants and animals often mix through wide, continuous transitions, making it difficult to know if the ecotone is merely changing shape, or evolving out of existence.
Is our particular ecotone, then, going away? Are we merely watching, from man’s limited lifespan, the natural process of evolution? Could it be that the wildfires of 2011 really do not carry the ecological force that other ongoing processes already possess to push the Lost Pines out of existence? It’s frustrating sometimes to realize there are no good answers to important questions.