Two American Flags mark a grave in Herland Forest.

Amy Berman and Andrew Moss always wanted a child. Kai, who they planned to name after the ocean, was supposed to be the result of an embryo transfer. When Amy developed an infection in the placenta and he died, their lives were forever changed.

After undergoing an emergency hysterectomy, which negated the possibility of conceiving again, Amy was in a medically-induced coma for about a week. Andrew, meanwhile, had to determine where and how to bury Kai. Reluctant to purchase a traditional cemetery plot, he was drawn to the ethos of Herland Forest.

“It's in line with, more than anything, just the way that we would have hoped to have raised Kai,” Andrew said. “What we had hoped to pass along to him was and is inspired by the natural world — a closer human connection to the natural world and a more intense awareness of our position in it.”

Nestled atop of a serene hillside in the unincorporated town of Wahkiacus, Washington, is Herland Forest, a nonprofit cemetery. Along this eastern fringe of the Cascadian wilderness, winter blankets the ground with snow as spring brings forth vibrant wildflowers. Walt Patrick, its lead steward, helped Amy and Andrew bury Kai. There, natural burial — a practice where the deceased are interred directly into the ground — eschews embalming and coffins in favor of organic decomposition.

Traditional burial and cremation methods are a heavy burden on the planet. Embalming fluids laden with formaldehyde contaminate soil and groundwater, and the production of caskets consumes valuable resources. According to the Funeral Consumers Alliance, 30 million feet of lumber and 90,000 tons of steel are buried in the U.S. each year. Not to mention, 535 pounds of carbon are released into the atmosphere with a single cremation, which is the equivalent of a 600-mile journey in a gas-powered car. As awareness grows about the environmental impact of conventional end-of-life practices, alternatives, including those of Herland Forest and its counterparts, offer a green and meaningful approach to honoring the dead.

At Herland Forest, natural burials act as a conservation effort. Human remains safeguard the land from development, and those who decide to lay to rest in the cemetery, Patrick said, are the “guardians of the forest.”

In the process, bodies are dressed in biodegradable shrouds and cocooned with wood chips gathered from broken branches and scattered tree bark. Oxygen and water permeate the ground through a drainage pipe, which acts as a conduit for nourishment. It fosters germination where the departed become part of the forest. One grave site, for example, supports 23 baby ponderosa pine trees.

“The body has crucial elements in it that need to go back into the ground so the trees can grow and recreate themselves,” Patrick said. “They're all eager to welcome the new person into the grave.”

Sometimes, the next of kin will request a particular tree on top, such as chokecherries or crabapples. A canopy of native oak, fir and pines also weave a tapestry of color and fragrance, feeding the permaculture ecosystem and local wildlife.

Andrew and Amy recently planted a western serviceberry on Kai’s plot. Its sweet fruit is one of Andrew’s favorites, and over the years, he has convinced Amy to love them, too. They look forward to watching it grow in the stead of their baby who never got the chance.

At 75, Patrick has made arrangements for his own death. He will have a natural burial and return to the land he lovingly stewards. At the bed of his grave, which he prepared in 2016, lies a purple fluorite crystal. In some geological settings, the stone is found alongside gold deposits.

Planning for death, in Patrick’s eyes, is an expression of love. His decision to prepare his own grave was born out of consideration for those he cares about and the practicalities of laying someone to rest during a time of grief. He finds peace in knowing this burden is lifted from their shoulders.

“Confront your mortality,” Patrick said. “It’s there. There’s nothing new and novel about it.”

Walt Patrick stands in front of a temperature-regulated vessel that transforms human remains into soil.

While Herland Forest nurtures this symbiotic relationship between the departed and the land, Patrick oversees another innovative approach to green death care: natural organic reduction, otherwise known as human composting, during which human remains are transformed into soil.

“We take the natural part of the natural organic reduction real seriously,” Patrick said. “We're not doing it in an industrial park or in an industrial warehouse. We're doing it out in the forest, and so the process is dependent upon temperature.”

The process nearly mirrors the cycle that takes place below ground during a natural burial. The deceased are laid into a round above-ground vessel, which is insulated with wood chips and temperature-regulated using a heating pad powered by hydroelectric and solar energy. As the body heats up within the vessel, it will break down over many months, typically until the thermostat reads a temperature below 90 degrees Fahrenheit. Winter yields a slower progression than summer.

Following this stage, the remaining bones intermingled with the compost are removed and reduced to a fine powder. The resulting soil’s texture is refined by a wood chipper. It’s then transferred into a large barrel and heated to 131 degrees Fahrenheit for an additional three days to pasteurize. A sample is sent to a state-certified soil laboratory for testing. Scientists will look for zinc, mercury, selenium and potential contaminants, like E. coli, before ensuring the soil's quality and safety. Once the process is complete, descendants will receive up to 355 gallons of soil.

“We all do this,” Patrick said, “because we have a calling to care for life and its forms.”

Return Home, located in Auburn, Washington, a suburb 30 miles south of Seattle, specializes in natural organic reduction. Inside the facility, rectangular metal vessels stack three tiers high. The scenery resembles that of a Costco, yet vibrant sliding panels painted with trees soften the surroundings, as do the mementos adorning each vessel. Some feature photos and letters. Fresh bouquets rest atop others. One is decorated with a collection of “PAW Patrol” stuffed animals.

Walt Patrick opens a barrel of soil waiting to be returned to a descendant.

“We’re really passionate about the experience,” Smith said, “and the rationalizations that have been developed around the process.”

While the process is different than the one at Herland Forest, the objective remains the same: to transform human remains to soil.

Katrina Spade, the founder of Recompose, another human composting facility in Seattle, shares Smith and Patrick’s fervor for returning life to nature.

“We think of composting as a craft,” Spade said. “It is a science. It is an art. There’s engineering to it.”

Spade founded Recompose before natural organic reduction was certified as a legitimate end-of-life option in Washington. By advocating for legalization of the process, she not only sought to offer a sustainable and eco-friendly alternative to traditional burial and cremation methods but to provide people with autonomy over their bodies.

Only eight states in the U.S. recognize human composting as a legal afterlife choice. Washington was the first to do so in 2019, followed by Colorado and Oregon in 2021. According to the National Funeral Directors Association, approximately 60% of Americans are interested in exploring green funeral options, yet 95% of the population still opts for traditional burial or cremation.

In spite of these numbers, Spade is resolute in her vision for the future of natural organic reduction. She sees it becoming the default.

“If that was the case, we’d be saving millions of tons of carbon every year, and we’d be aligning, in such a different way, the fact of our mortality with the health of the planet,” Spade said. “There’s so much potential to reconnect us to nature, especially when we face the end of our lives.”

Operational and logistical complexities, however, loom large in eco-funeralisms' path to scalability. Patrick said that finding individuals willing to do this unconventional work poses a challenge. At Herland Forest, he’s content operating just five composting vessels.

“I worry about when I meet somebody, do they smell death on me?” he said. “That death smell lingers. Only a certain number of people want to be involved in that.”

As a nonprofit cemetery, Herland Forest faces hurdles in recruiting and retaining staff. The practical considerations of upscaling operations are daunting, and Patrick finds meaning in the intimate scale of his work.

“No growth will kill you, but too fast growth will kill you, too,” he said. “It's called cancer, and I don't want to see cancer take over what we're doing here.”

Patrick is passionate about the ethics underlying what he does, where the commodification of grief can take precedence over honoring the deceased with dignity. He loses sleep over the lack of space for authentic mourning in an environment driven by finances and efficiency.

“One of the problems in my mind with the death care industry is that there's no place for grief,” Patrick said. “It's all about, ‘Time is money. Get people in. Get as much money as you can and move on to the next one.’”

Due to the traumatic nature of Amy and Andrew’s loss, they needed time and space to process, which Herland Forest provided them both.

“The solitude out there is amazing,” Andrew said. “It helps for us to situate grief and situate loss and situate all the existential questions that come to mind when you're thinking about losing somebody.”

The couple has camped beside Kai’s grave several times, and will continue to do so. They have a newfound interest in the continuity of Herland Forest. Andrew wants to visit all the graves.

“I view the place and the interaction with the place and everything that comes from it as an offshoot of Kai,” Andrew said. “There is meaning in that, especially for a child that never got to interact with the world.”

returning to nature

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