As told by the Boundary Oak Tree

Have you ever heard of a witness tree? These trees are quiet bystanders and living links to some of the most tragic, salient, and inspirational events to shape the United States. I am one of those trees, though I now take a different form. Imagine me, the Boundary Oak, towering 90 feet above the rolling Kentucky horizon. Imagine my leafy crown stretching across 115 feet of open sky, casting welcome shade for all who travel beneath. Imagine wrapping your arms around my mighty trunk, six feet in diameter. That was back in 1976, right before I changed forms. I was approximately 195 years old then, but my story—and importance in American history—began long before.

Thomas Lincoln, the father of Abraham Lincoln, found me at the western corner of the 300-acre Sinking Spring Farm, which he purchased for his growing family in December 1808. I was already 25 to 30 years old, keeping a proud watch as a boundary marker in the farm’s original 1805 survey. In those days, it was quite common for property lines to be marked by trees, boulders, or fence lines, and I did my job well. My height and stature also made me a popular landmark for early travelers making their way across the rugged land.

After purchasing the property, Thomas Lincoln, Nancy Hanks Lincoln, and their infant daughter Sarah moved into a one-room cabin beside the karst window for which Sinking Spring Farm was named. It was in that little cabin that Abraham Lincoln was born on February 12, 1809. I stood less than 150 yards away, sheltering the western boundary with my broad, leafy limbs. Although young Abraham Lincoln would only spend the first two years of his life at Sinking Spring Farm, the surrounding landmarks (like me) would forever stand witness to a turning point in United States history.

Thankfully, I was preserved in photographs, writings, and paintings, but as Abraham Lincoln aged, so did I. Natural causes, like insects, weather, and disease, all took their toll and my health suffered. My decline was recognized as early as the 1920s, but efforts to preserve me ultimately failed. I was reduced to a stump in the 1970s and removed from the ground in 1986.

These days, I rest inside the Abraham Lincoln Birthplace National Historical Park—or, at least, a piece of me does. You can see a beautiful cross-section of my trunk on display inside of the Birthplace Unit Visitor Center. If you’d like to see where I once stood, you can follow the .3-mile Boundary Oak Trail through the woods on the original Sinking Spring Farm property. Like other witness trees before and after me, my story serves as a touchstone for both resilience and loss.