Nature

Trees as Signposts

There are events and places that mark a life’s journey. And for me, there are notable trees.

From my childhood: The oak with the giant burl belly protruding over hens and chicks planted by my grandmother, adjacent to her flower garden. I’d later learn that wood crafters often pay exorbitant prices for burls like that, but fortunately, even when the farmhouse burned down, the oak stood strong and intact. And the maples and oaks of my elementary school playground, with gnarled root systems above ground creating our make-believe kitchens.

From my teen years: The trees in the front yard that didn’t survive the storm. The bountiful deciduous trees of color in autumn at Buzzard’s Roost – a place I frequented to watch the sunset over the lake.

From college: The maples that lined the Mississippi River also framed my favorite riverside park, which was the spot for every type of activity: picnics and photos, games and naps, studying, listening to music and watching the moon rise.

From the summer in the Philippines: those glorious Mountain Ashes with their bright orange berries.

From my move to independence and life out West: a thousand conifers welcomed me – especially the pines of Riverside State Park along the rushing Spokane River.

From that roadtrip to the Washington coast: the ancient cedars holding countless secrets in Olympic National Park, and the famous hanging tree on the beach at Kalaloch.

From my first trip down Hwy 101 and through the Redwoods: all the members of the Avenue of the Giants who sealed in me a sense of awe for stretching trunks that bound together centuries of changes in weather and humanity.

And then I began hugging trees. Listening for inner life, sniffing for words to describe unique scents, inhaling deeply for the cleansing air to refresh my airways. Nowadays, on every walk or hike, I look for the tree that needs a hug the most. Sometimes I name them. Like Ferrel and Sybil, pines in my neighborhood woods named for my grandmothers. Or like Winter, the scraggly tree of unknown heritage that I pass twice a day on my commute, whose bare branches in January hold tightly to hoar frost against a pale sky.

I’m growing a catalogue of trees I’ve been blessed to plant with The Lands Council, and I’m naming them, too. Himley honors a special teacher at a park; Roger and Linda are growing their roots at Turnbull Wildlife Refuge; Toki is replacing one of many trees felled by a storm at Audubon Park. There are many more – and that’s a different story.

For now, I’m hoping these images and memories spark an interest among readers to look more at the trees around us – those that are healthy, those threatened, those already fallen – and join the next opportunity to ensure we have trees around to serve our children and their children, too. The trees are our future.

The burl of my childhood, and the pines named for my grandmothers.

The Grand Canyon may be a sight to behold, but so are the scraggly trees holding tight to rock.

Untold numbers of family photos feature this lovely icon of Finch Arboretum (Spokane).

This tree in the highlands of Belize is considered by the Mayan to be sacred.

There is, perhaps, no greater majesty on earth than the mighty Redwood. (And no better place to camp than among their trunks!)

Me. Pausing. Planting. Hugging.

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