TRV Stewardship Council

Exploring the ancient roots, unique pollinators, and cultural legacy of Appalachia’s wild magnolia trees

Long before flowering plants filled the world with color, magnolias were already blooming. With fossil records dating back over 95 million years, magnolias are among the oldest flowering plants on Earth—true survivors of deep time, with thick, leathery petals built for endurance.

In the forests of Appalachia, these ancient trees still thrive. The southern Appalachian Mountains—rich with misty ridges and biodiverse hollows—are home to native magnolia species like the cucumber tree (Magnolia acuminata), sweetbay (Magnolia virginiana), and umbrella magnolia (Magnolia tripetala). These are not the manicured magnolias of Southern gardens; they’re wild, often scraggly, and deeply rooted in the region’s ecological story.

Old Soul Travelers

Magnolias evolved during a time before bees, so they formed a relationship with some of the earliest insect pollinators: beetles. These ancient insects—such as sap beetles and scarabs—aren’t gentle like bees. They crawl and chew their way through blossoms, which is why magnolias developed thick, durable petals to withstand damage.

This early form of pollination, known as cantharophily, still occurs today in the shady coves and streambanks of Appalachia. The magnolias’ strong, citrusy fragrance and creamy-white blooms remain perfectly suited to attracting beetles, just as they have for millions of years.

Rooted in Time

For generations, Appalachian communities have lived quietly among these trees, often unaware of their prehistoric lineage. Their blooms signal the changing seasons; their bark and leaves were once used in folk medicine and Indigenous healing practices. Sweetbay and other species were valued for treating coughs, fevers, and digestive issues—practices rooted in the deep relationship between people and place.

Today, primitive magnolias remind us not only of the beauty of Appalachia but also of the planet’s ancient rhythms. In a fast-changing world, they are living relics—proof that endurance, adaptation, and quiet strength are their own kind of wonder.

how TVA shaped not only power, but place

In a time when the land was worn and weary — its forests thinned, its rivers muddy with sorrow — the Tennessee Valley Authority came not just with wires and turbines, but with a vision: that the land itself was worth saving, and that people deserved more than power — they deserved beauty.

TVA was born in the heart of the Depression, forged in the urgency of need. But from the beginning, it saw farther than the flick of a switch. To bring prosperity, it wasn’t enough to dam a river. The hills had to be healed. The soil, taught to stay. And the people, given not just tools to work — but places to breathe.

So alongside dams and generators, TVA built parks. They set aside wild places not to be mined or plowed, but to be walked, fished, camped, and loved. Norris Lake, born behind a wall of concrete, quickly became a jewel.  Its deep, clear waters are lined with trees, and later hiking and biking trails. Pickwick, Guntersville, Douglas, and more followed. Lakes carved by purpose, but framed in care. Around them, TVA planted trees, restored forests, and let the wilderness return.

CCC boys, once digging trenches, were soon building picnic shelters, laying stone steps down to the water, and shaping public lands where families could gather. These were not elite resorts. They were places for the people — all people — where a boy from a mill town could fish at dawn, and a grandmother could spread a quilt in the shade.

TVA hired artists to paint, architects to design beautiful but humble structures, and ecologists to learn the language of the land. Trails were blazed where erosion once ruled. Overlook towers rose where forests had been clear-cut. Birds returned. Waters ran cleaner. Children learned to swim in lakes that had not existed a decade before.

Electricity lit homes — but parks lit imaginations. And when the workweek was done, those same linesmen and laborers brought their families to these new lakeshores to rest beneath TVA-built shelters, eat cornbread from waxed paper, and watch the light fade across a river they’d helped tame.

Today, long after the turbines were first spun, the TVA’s quietest legacy remains its land: the protected coves, the silent trails, the ridges left wild. Nearly 300,000 acres of public lands, open to all. It wasn’t an accident. It was a choice.

For power.
For prosperity.
For beauty.
For rest.
For the people.