Callaway dug up three petrified stinking cedar logs and set them out on display.
One ecologist estimated that there were 600,000 stinking cedars in Florida before the twentieth century.
Minus colossal, Paleolithic carriers, hunted out by early Americans, stinking cedars are restricted to where their golfball seeds fall.
A not-for-profit group of citizens, the Torreya Guardians, have gathered samplings and seeds of stinking cedars and shipped them to over thirty locations around the world.
Every time a person sees a traffic-cone-orange pile of flotations aboard a ferry, or feels the secure styrofoam-like fluff beneath a water-bound seat, or should be saved by one in an unexpected storm or a grounding or a too-tight turn, she should thank Hardy Croom, the first cataloguer of stinking cedars; his wife; his innocent children; and everyone else who went down on Home, for their deaths provided salvation to float upon.
I am here to see the last stinking cedars. There are around two hundred in the park, seventy-three percent diseased and sixty percent antlered by whitetail deer.
From the moment I'm on the trail looking for stinking cedars, I have twenty mosquitoes orbiting my face with the noise of squealing motors.
In addition to being damaged by climate change, deer, and parasites, the stinking cedars suffer their ancient rootstock: The old roots must sprout trunks because the trees do not live long enough to seed.
The stinking cedars do not seem at home amid all this aggression, crowded by gargantuan beech, ash, palm, and shortleaf pine.
* The fantasy is that the stinking cedars will keep blooming saplings from their decrepit rootstock until one seeds.