I hadn’t planned it at all. In fact, I was surprised when I looked down and realized how high I had climbed. It just sort of happened. I was visiting my son last week in Texas and I was admiring the magnificent old tree dominating his front yard. No one was around, so…..I took the first step.
The tree had obviously been waiting for me, because its branches seemed to reach down and lift me up, foothold by foothold. In my tree-climbing days, I would have rated this one an easy climber. Now, I will use the category “geriatric climber”. I climbed to a suitable perch and carefully settled myself in. As I leaned against the trunk, I felt secure, at home among its branches, the texture of the rough bark and the woodsy smell, all subtly familiar.
It had been a long time since I had actually climbed a tree; sitting on tree stumps or logs is a reluctant substitute. I had forgotten the allure. I couldn’t remember the last time that I looked at a tree to assess its “climb-ability” instead of what fruit it would bear or how much shade it would provide.
Even in Texas, it is still winter, so the tree had not yet leafed out, thus providing an exquisite panorama of mesquite, prickly pear cacti, as well as the red clay arroyo, the miniature canyon, that meandered just out of reach of the still-brown hilltop lawn. It is definitely easier to see the bigger picture from a tree-top perspective. Prompted by the breeze whispering through the upper branches, I began to reminisce about other trees in my life.
I remember playing around the exposed roots of a row of huge trees growing along a canal bank on my best friend’s farm. These gigantic branching systems provided endless hours of exploration of magical nooks and crannies, each tree’s roots tangling and merging into one seemingly endless wonderland.
During my Dale Evans (Queen of the Cowgirls) period, I “rode” many “happy trails” on my tree horse. There were two trees growing in my front yard that had obligingly produced large lower branches that curved away from the trunk. When “saddled” with old throw rugs, these trees became perfect horses for my friends and me.
Another favorite tree to climb was the apple tree in my grandmother’s yard. From my highest perch I could see over the fence to her vegetable garden, the chicken coop and barn. It also overlooked her flower garden and the grape arbor. This particular tree, however, was also my nemesis. For some reason, it often tempted me to challenge its heights, only to pull out its support when I needed it most. Consequently, like a treed cat, I sometimes had to be “talked down” by whoever would respond to my calls of distress. I was never reluctant to try again, though—just one more branch higher….
Why did I ever stop climbing trees? Picnicking and strolling public, take heed. Do not be startled if you hear a “yoo-hoo” above you. If it is a little grey-haired lady smiling down at you, I mean you no harm. Just look up and wave, or better yet, climb up and join me.
I’ve heard that there is a Tree Climbers of America club. Maybe I should join and help promote this activity among other adults. We could petition the summer Olympics committee to include tree climbing as an Olympic sport. Of course, to suggest such a thing—I may be going out on a limb.
