Looking at Trees

In Western Pennsylvania where I grew up, you do not have to go out of your way to look at trees. Just on the farm my parents owned, a large blue spruce grew on one side of the driveway, and a stand of aspen on the other. In the front yard was a walnut tree, on the hill a black cherry tree, on another hill, three plum trees. Also on our thirty-five acres stood thirty-seven apple trees. (You might understand that as a child I learned to be picky about my fresh fruit. But this post is not about that. This post is about trees.)

Ahem, yes. Trees. I grew up with trees everywhere. Though we had fields and pastures on the farm, they were divided by lines of trees. And the eastern half(ish) of the property was all trees. Real forest, that had been there forever–maples and oaks and elms and beeches and crabapple and choke-cherry and sassafras and–

Trees. I loved them then. Now that I live in Southern Arizona, I love them more.

Trees are so restful. Green and quiet, making the sunlight shimmer, home to birds and bugs and cute furry animals…

I’m luckier now than I’ve been many times. I have mature, beautiful palm trees in my front yard. I have dwarf citrus trees in my back yard. I live across the street (practically) from a park with lots of big trees.

That’s “lots” by Arizona standards. By Pennsylvania standards, that’s a pasture.

So Sunday morning when the roommate asked if I wanted to go look at trees and I agreed, we were so eager it took us thirty-seven minutes from agreement to out the door.

That’s possibly a record for us, by the way. Seriously. Nightclothes to out the door usually takes us much longer. Once it took the three of us (her, me, the kid) three hours to get out of a Las Vegas hotel room. I may or may not have brushed up against felony speeds on the way home, I was so annoyed.* But we did it. Because TREES.

Tucson is fortuitously placed near the Santa Catalina Mountains. Among those wonderful mountains stands Mount Lemmon at 9,171 feet. Not a huge mountain, no, but it’s high enough that the temperature drops thirty degrees on the drive up from Tucson. Which is marvelous. It means we have a ski resort. There’s also an observatory. Several restaurants, a general store that sells fudge…and running water and TREES.

Fifteen minutes from our driveway, we were out of town. Suddenly there’s more green, there are horses, there are mesquite trees.

They’re very nice trees. Just…small.

A sign warns that there is no gas available in Summerhaven (the town on top.) Ignore that at your own peril.

Then you start up the mountain. Big rocks and tight curves, and then the hoodoos begin.

I love hoodoos, man.

Long before you’re done ogling the amazing rocks (please keep your ogling under control if you are driving!), you notice that the washed-out, too-bright blue of the sky has darkened to something properly called blue. The temperature has dropped a couple degrees.

All the car’s windows go down.

There are vistas.

There are pull-outs, so you can get out of the way of that idiot who’s just GOTTA get to the top NOW, if he doesn’t end up in a canyon first. There are brave, brave bicyclists trying their legs against the mountain.

In a car, you can get to Summerhaven in a little over an hour. As we ascend, I chew gum. Housemate eats candied ginger. The limit is 35, and most of the way I wouldn’t dream of going faster. (Some places I could, but I don’t. Contrary to occasional evidence, I don’t like speeding tickets.)

There are patches of trees. Places where, for a minute or two, dappled shade falls across the road. Each drop in temperature is greeted with delight. The air is amazing.

Near the top is the ski resort, and across the road from it is the Iron Door, possibly my favorite restaurant in all the world. If the patio is open, I always sit outside. I don’t care if it’s cold. I don’t care if it’s raining. I have so many pictures of the hummingbirds, and the Stellar’s jay who sometimes comes by.

Sometimes we hike. Sometimes we just go up to breathe. But always we are so, so glad for the repreive from the city, and the chance to just get away.

Where do you run, when you need to get away? (Please include directions. I promise I won’t bother you!)