The Pine Tree Riot: A Forgotten Prelude to American Revolution

By Cade Shadowlight

If you've studied American history, you've probably heard about the Boston Tea Party. But have you heard about the Pine Tree Riot?

Though not as well known as the Boston Tea Party, the Pine Tree Riot of 1772 was one of the more important, and earliest, acts of resistance by the American colonists leading up to the Revolutionary War. Like the Boston Tea Party, the Pine Tree Riot was a form of resistance against taxation that the colonists considered unjust. In the case of the Pine Tree Riot, the tax was placed on certain pine trees that the colonists wanted to harvest.

Important Concept: The  colonists realized that it is not possible to have political and personal freedom without also having economic freedom. This is why they kept resisting unjust taxes. 

During the colonial period, white pines (which often grew over 150 feet tall) were used to construct ship masts. This quickly became an important export for the colonists. England realized the importance of these pines  and claimed ownership of all white pines of 24-inch or greater diameter in the colonies (the Mast Preservation Clause in the Massachusetts Charter in 1691). Over time, additional acts were passed reinforcing their claim, and in some areas even reducing the size of the claimed pines to as little as 12-inches in diameter.

A surveyor of the King’s Woods and his deputies worked for the Crown, identifying and marking those pines claimed by the Crown by carving a special arrow symbol into them. In order to harvest those pines, the colonists had to purchase a special royal license, even if the pines were on property owned by the colonists. This created resentment among the colonists, who often would harvest the pines without the license.

Important Concept: Not only was the tax on these pines a form of taxation without representation, the colonists also considered it a violation of their private property rights. 

In New Hampshire, in 1772, the English tried to enforce this tax on mill owners who refused to pay for the royal license. Several mill owners, joined by local townsmen (all with their faces blackened with soot), assaulted the sheriff and deputy sent to arrest one of the mill owners,. They gave them one lash for every tree being contested and ran them out of town through a jeering crowd.

The sheriff later returned with reinforcements, and eventually eight men were charged with rioting, disturbing the peace, and assault. They were found guilty and fined 20 schillings apiece, plus court costs.

Several of the rioters (Timothy Worthley, Jonathan Worthley, and William Dustin) later fought for the American side in the Revolutionary War, and the sheriff (Benjamin Whiting) fought for the British side.

Importance: The Pine Tree Riot was one of the earliest acts of physical resistance against the British by American colonists, and is considered by many historians as inspiring the Boston Tea Party almost two years later.

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Aokigahara: Japan’s Haunting Sea of Trees

The Suicide Forest’s Dark Allure

By Cade Shadowlight

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Aokigahara Forest

Tucked beneath the shadow of Mount Fuji on Japan’s Honshu island, Aokigahara, the “Sea of Trees,” sprawls across 30 square kilometers of gnarled, volcanic wilderness. Born from the molten scars of Fuji’s 864 CE eruption, this forest in Yamanashi Prefecture feels like a world apart. Its twisted roots claw through blackened lava, and the dense canopy swallows sound, creating a suffocating silence that unnerves even the boldest hiker. Just two hours from Tokyo by car or a train ride to Kawaguchiko Station followed by a short drive, Aokigahara lures thrill-seekers to its trails and caves like Narusawa’s icy depths or Fugaku’s wind-carved hollows. But beneath its beauty lies a chilling nickname: the Suicide Forest, a place where shadows whisper of despair and the lost never return.

Why It’s Called the Suicide Forest

Aokigahara’s darkness runs deeper than its roots. Legends paint it as a realm of yūrei—vengeful ghosts who wail through the trees—tied to tales of ubasute, where the elderly were once abandoned to die in its depths, though history blurs the truth. By the 1960s, the forest’s grim reputation took hold, amplified by Seichō Matsumoto’s 1961 novel Nami no Tō, where a character ends their life among the trees. Wataru Tsurumi’s 1993 book The Complete Manual of Suicide sealed its infamy, calling it a “perfect” place to vanish. The forest’s labyrinthine terrain, where compasses spin uselessly due to magnetic volcanic rock, traps wanderers in its eerie grip. Though authorities stopped releasing numbers to curb its allure, past reports haunt: 105 bodies found in 2003, 54 suicides in 2010 out of over 200 attempts. Signs at the forest’s edge plead, “Your life is precious,” but the silence beckons those consumed by despair, drawn to a place where the world fades away.

Creatures of the Shadows

Aokigahara’s spectral reputation extends beyond yūrei to whispered tales of cryptids lurking in its depths — its haunting aura fuels stories of unnatural beings. The konoha-tengu, a bird-like yōkai with wings and a long-nosed, red-faced visage, is said to haunt Japan’s mountain forests, including Aokigahara. These trickster spirits, rooted in Shugendō mysticism, might guide or mislead wanderers, their feather fans stirring unnatural winds through the trees. Some locals speak of shadowy entities — possibly obake — that shapeshift among the vines, watching from the gloom. Others claim sightings of strange, animal-like figures, perhaps linked to the forest’s dense ecosystem or mistaken glimpses of its rare wildlife, like the Japanese mink or dwarf flying squirrel. The forest’s magnetic anomalies and oppressive silence amplify these tales, blurring the line between myth and reality, as if the trees themselves guard secrets too dark to name.

A Cinematic Descent into Darkness

Aokigahara’s spectral pull has bled into cinema, captivating those who crave the macabre. The 2015 film The Sea of Trees, directed by Gus Van Sant, stars Matthew McConaughey as a man lost in the forest’s suffocating embrace, grappling with grief and ghostly encounters. Its somber tone mirrors the forest’s weight. In 2016, The Forest, a horror flick with Natalie Dormer, dives into the supernatural, conjuring yūrei to stalk a woman searching for her sister in the haunted woods. Though criticized for glossing over Japan’s complex relationship with suicide, it leans hard into Aokigahara’s unsettling aura. Documentaries, like Vice’s 2010 short featuring geologist Azusa Hayano patrolling for the lost, and Jhené Aiko’s 2017 track “Jukai,” weave the forest’s darkness into art. Yet, its portrayal hasn’t always been respectful—Logan Paul’s 2017 video, filming a victim, sparked outrage, a reminder of the forest’s real pain beneath its cinematic shadow.

The Abyss and Attempts to Break It

The Suicide Forest’s pull reflects Japan’s struggles with mental health stigma, crushing societal pressures, and economic despair. Its isolating silence offers a grim escape for those who feel invisible. Volunteers and police patrol yearly, and cameras watch entrances, but the forest’s legend grows, fed by media and myth. It’s a stark reminder of a darkness that lingers beyond the trees, urging us to confront the pain driving so many to its depths.

A Paradox of Life and Spirit

Raccoon Dog

Even in its gloom, Aokigahara pulses with life and sacred weight. Asian black bears, Japanese Raccoon Dogs, and flying squirrels prowl its shadows, while birds like the Japanese White-Eye and the Oriental Turtledove flit through ferns and mosses clinging to volcanic stone. Over 60 bird species and plants like Artemisia princeps thrive in this otherworldly ecosystem. Beyond its darkness, the forest holds cultural reverence, tied to Mount Fuji’s spiritual aura in Shinto and Buddhist traditions. Its caves and trails draw those seeking not death, but connection to Japan’s ancient soul. Aokigahara is no mere graveyard—it’s a haunting paradox, where life and loss intertwine in an eternal, eerie dance.

Sources and Photo Credits.

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