Trees

I climbed a tree the other day in Riverside Park. I was walking down a wooded path in the early evening after work and a particular tree caught my attention. It was quite like most of the other trees alongside the path, but this one had a series of twisted knots on the trunk, as if it had changed directions a few times in its youth, shooting up one way and then twisting awkwardly to pursue yet another upward path.

I stopped to look at the tree and the longer I looked, the more the knots appeared to be a perfect set of stairs, one leading to the next.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had climbed a tree, however, like riding a bike, it’s something you never forget how to do, and as I put one foot on the lowest knot, each subsequent foothold and handhold seemed preordained. It was like following a set of instructions laid out step by step and before long I found myself high up in the leafy foliage, looking out over the promenade.

I felt a little stupid at first, hoping no one had seen me. I mean, what’s a 54-year-old man doing climbing a tree anyway? However, as I sat in a nook supported by a bevy of long limbs looking down on the path below and out across the promenade to the river, I began to feel more relaxed. In fact, it wasn’t long before I was wondering how I could possibly have gone this long without climbing a tree.

I spent a lot of time in trees when I was a kid. It was one of my all-time favorite things to do. I even presented a plan to my mother once in which I proposed to sleep out in a tree all night.

My brother, sisters and I had a treehouse my father had helped us to construct, but my plan was more extreme. I proposed to lash myself to the trunk of my favorite birch tree, high up in the leaves, bringing with me a knapsack (which I could hang nearby on some shorter limbs) containing a flashlight, some books if I wanted to read before sleeping, some snacks, of course, and a small pocketknife to guard against any inquisitive raccoons, birds or squirrels. Before falling asleep, I would tie myself to the trunk, safely supported and immune to the powers of gravity.

Not unexpectedly, my mother refused to grant her permission. I kept trying though, refining my plan, but the closest I could get was her approval to let me sleep in the treehouse with a friend. That fell through, however, when my friend got scared by all the night noises and we had to climb down in the dark in our jammies and sleep on the bunk beds in my room.

Many years later, I found myself in a tree yet again, on the Fourth of July, 1976, watching an international fleet of tall-masted sailing ships passing along the Hudson River in honor of America’s Bicentennial.

I was in Riverside Park, along with thousands of other New Yorkers gathered to watch the Op Sail festivities. The crowd was thick and the best viewing locations had long since been taken. I was beginning to get frustrated, yet I suddenly realized the answer was simply to climb a tree. So, with the six-pack of beer I had brought as sustenance, I located a tree nearby and hauled myself up.

Perched above the crowd, able finally to see the ships and drink in peace, every so often I would drop an empty beer can, like an acorn, to the ground below. Little did I know that in exactly two year’s time I would be sitting in an AA meeting celebrating day one of what has turned into a lifetime of sobriety.

Having got myself up into the tree, I did have a momentary flash of panic when I considered how I was going to get back down. Looking out over the path and realizing that the sun was beginning to set over the river, I considered some of my options.

Unlike my descent in 1976 when I pretty much just tumbled out of the tree like a sack of apples long after the crowd had dispersed and all the beers were gone, landing in a crumpled heap on the ground, grateful for the numbness the beer had provided, I considered my 54-year-old bones quite carefully.

Watching a nimble squirrel a few trees away navigate the maze of branches, bouncing from one limb to another, one tree to another, I thought of trying to swing down, Tarzan-like. That idea was quickly supplanted by the thought of simply shinnying my way out along a low-lying limb until my weight tipped it down and I could simply drop softly to the ground. That idea soon dissipated, too, as I could hear in my mind a snap and loud crashing rather than the elastic dipping down I desired.

So, in the end, I simply went back down the way I had climbed up, each foothold leading to the next, each step leading safely downward until I was once again on terra firma.

Proceeding on along the pathway toward home, I made a mental note of the tree’s location, vowing to return again soon. Like me, the tree had survived its youth, unconventionally twisted, perhaps, yet no less majestic among its branches than any of the park’s other trees.

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