The Tree That Kept Time: Ludwig Leichhardt’s Last Garden

On This Day
This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:

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October 23, 1813

It was on this day in 1813, as autumn leaves were turning in Prussia, that Friedrich Wilhelm Ludwig Leichhardt was born.

And oh, what a reminder his story is of how the love of plants can lead us on the most extraordinary journeys.

You see, darlings, while most botanists of his era were content to study plants in carefully maintained gardens, Leichhardt felt called to the wild places. He was drawn to Australia - that vast, mysterious continent where plants defied everything European botanists thought they knew about the natural world.

As the poet Rilke wrote:

And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been.

Leichhardt embodied this spirit of discovery, venturing into landscapes that European eyes had never seen, documenting plants that had never been classified in Western science.

But here's the part that moves me to tears, dear friends.

In 1848, Leichhardt set out on what should have been his masterwork - an east-to-west crossing of the Australian continent. He carried with him the tools of his botanical trade: pressing papers, specimen containers, and a heart full of wonder. He walked into the vast Australian interior... and vanished.

For 160 years, his fate remained one of botany's greatest mysteries.

And then... in 2006, they found something extraordinary: a small brass nameplate, attached to a burnt shotgun, cradled in the arms of an ancient boab tree.

Now, these boab trees, Adansonia gregorii, are among the longest-living organisms on Earth. Some live for more than 1,500 years. They're known to Aboriginal Australians as "mother trees" - providers of food, water, and shelter.

How fitting that it was such a tree that kept Leichhardt's story safe all those years.

You know, dear friends, every time I think of that nameplate in that tree, I'm reminded of why we garden. We plant things not just for ourselves, but for the future. Every seed we sow, every tree we plant, carries forward our hopes, our stories, our love of the natural world.

When you're in your garden tomorrow morning, perhaps planting bulbs for spring or collecting seeds for next year, remember Leichhardt. Remember how he looked at plants not as decorative objects, but as stories waiting to be told. Each plant in your garden has its own tale - of evolution, of survival, of adaptation.

Like those Aboriginal mother trees that witnessed Leichhardt's last journey, our gardens are keepers of stories. They hold memories of seasons past, of plantings that flourished and those that failed, of the birds and insects that made homes in their branches.

And isn't there something profoundly moving about that?

That long after we're gone, the trees we plant might still be standing, still providing shelter, still keeping safe the stories of those who loved them?

As the sun sets on another October day, I think of Leichhardt, forever walking through the Australian wilderness, forever documenting the plants he loved so dearly.

And I think of that patient boab tree, keeping his story safe until the right moment to share it with the world.

Perhaps that's what we're all doing in our gardens - creating stories that will outlive us, planting beauty that will bloom long after we're gone.

As you tend your garden this week, remember: you're not just growing plants, you're growing possibilities, you're growing stories, you're growing hope.

Ludwig Leichhardt
Ludwig Leichhardt

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