Saddle Sore: Witnesses to things nobody else remembers

It’s been through a lot with me — a couple of surgeries, a head injury or two and, in the way we talk about old friends, it has always been there.

I know. It’s only a tree.

But I spend a fair amount of time looking out the window, admiring it and thinking about whatever happens to be crossing my mind that day. There is something about that tree that stirs the imagination. After a few minutes spent gazing at it, I often find myself feeling better about life in general.

Due to the mild and very warm early spring we had, the tree became confused. As did I.

One day in early April, temperatures climbed above 60 degrees and leaves burst from their buds, splashing spring across the crown of that magnificent old tree.

I was delighted.

A week later, the thermometer dipped to 10 degrees one night. Within days, those fresh green leaves had shriveled into brown clumps hanging from the branches.

It’s not like a vegetable garden, something you can cover or otherwise protect against a freeze. There was nothing to do but wait —though, on some level, I felt I should have been able to do more. But there it stood. I’d stare out the window, hoping to see a spark of life, of green. We all do it with something that has gone wrong — maybe it’s not as bad as it seems, maybe it’ll come back. As afternoon faded into dusk, the light played tricks on me. More than once, I thought I spotted a living leaf among the brown ones clinging to the branches.

And then, one morning, there they were. New buds. New leaves.

Even then I was reluctant to celebrate. What if another cold snap arrived? What if this was only a temporary rally before the final surrender?

But it has been more than a week now. The weather forecast calls for warmth, and each day the tree looks a little stronger.

And it’s funny how a challenging situation like that can make one think about other trees that have been important.

Across the road from our Woody Creek house, on the other side of a pond, sat a very small forest of young aspen trees, grouped together on an almost level land bench. To a young boy, it was far enough away from the house to shield a kid from view but close enough to provide security. A hideout in plain sight, my own private forest where once I found a small fawn hidden away in the undergrowth. For years, it was my place to get away from the world, my secret stash. It’s changed, but still there, although I’m too old to be welcome there anymore.

On our western mesa, the Big Mesa, sits a small grove of Gambel oak tucked into one corner of a large pasture. In our youth, my girlfriend and I saddled a couple of horses and rode there one early summer afternoon. We tied the horses in the shade and stretched out in the grass beneath those oaks. It had been a long winter, and for a little while, the outside world seemed very far away. The brilliant green leaves overhead contrasted against an impossibly blue Colorado sky, and life felt about as perfect as it ever would.

That little grove is still there. If you know where to look, you can spot it from the highway across the valley. Thousands of people have driven past it over the years without giving it a second thought. But every time I see it, I remember. Our secret rendezvous.

The tree outside my window appears to have survived. New leaves are everywhere now, and each morning, it seems a little greener than the day before.

Maybe that’s why certain trees stay with us. They become part of the landscape of our lives, witnesses to things nobody else remembers.

Looking at that tree the other day, I couldn’t help but think it had been through a lot with me.

Then again, maybe I’ve been through a lot with it. 

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.