Trees

I might just clock out of everything else and become an arborist.

While waiting for clothes to dry*, I perused the bookshelves in the largest of our cabins. Trees and Man** caught my eye, and I slipped it off the shelf. Forty-five minutes later, I looked up to realize the dryer was finished. What could I possibly have discovered in this old book to so captivate my attention? Well, I learned the names of all the tree parts, like the phloem, cambium, and xylem, layers in the trunk, how water travels from roots and carbon travels from leaves, how the chemicals in the soil impact the growth and lifespan, and how they can be astonishingly resilient and somewhat fragile. And then a giant scorpion jumped out of the book and attached itself to my face! Just kidding, but I was worried you may have drifted off during that last sentence. I, however, was enthralled.

The following week, I checked out David Sibley’s Guide to Trees from the library and learned about pinnate and palmate leaves, and simple and compound leaves, and how cedars aren’t really cedars but cypresses, and true cedars (like the Cedars of Lebanon) are more like pines, how much diversity a forest can hold and how specimens of a species can look practically identical. Then David Sibley walked into my house, struck me open-handed across my face, snatched his book from my penitent hands, and walked out. Just kidding, but again, trying to keep you awake.

A couple of days ago, I started listening to a podcast called Discovering Forestry, where two guys talk about chainsaws and the weird items they’ve found in trees and how arborists are like forest wizards. And now I want to be an arborist.

I cannot explain my recent and instant fascination with trees. I have been around, under, and in them all my life. I’ve fallen out of my fair share. I had a favorite tree in my childhood yard – a cedar (actually cypress) perfect for climbing, except for the sticky sap that covered my hands.

I have a favorite tree on our property - a solitary Dogwood rising above the meadow, the Platonic ideal of the concept of tree. My evening walks are often arrested by an irresistible impulse to stare at it as I pass. I wonder how old it is, if it has a name, and does it mourn the loss of its brief spring blossoms.

I recently learned of a Dawn Redwood on the property. I knew the tree, but not the species. This bewilderment of bark and branch bears cones and needles like an evergreen, but burns red in the fall and drops needles in winter like an indecisive deciduous. How and for what reason does this variety exist and captivate me?

Before I read a few chapters of Trees and Man while drying clothes, I had no real interest in learning about trees. Now I’m not safe behind the wheel, as my attention may be diverted at any moment by a new or abnormal arboreal sighting. I am fascinated by this awakening. I do not understand it. Will I truly pursue certified arborist’s status? Maybe. Will I grow like a cypress in my amazement as these common figures of our natural world? For certain.

* The generator at our house is not powerful enough to run our clothes dryer, so we drive up to the big cabin, or lodge, to dry our clothes. A solution is forthcoming, I hope.

** It’s an old book and should be retitled, Trees and Humans.

Images: 1) The Dogwood. 2) The Dawn Redwood. Both photographed March 29, 2026