Solo Trees as Only Children

We’ve all seen them, the individual trees standing tall over their immediate surroundings, nary another tree soul nearby.  The old Oak, a whispering Pine, a lone Cottonwood in the field…are they the ‘only children’ of the tree realm? 

This lone Cottonwood is graced by a smokey backdrop of the Teton Mountains. When I spied that tree I knew I had to write this little ditty soon.

One of my favorite trees is a sea spattered Spruce that nestled in a small groove of ocean side stone.  Its branches growing like the wind often blows.  I named it Little Tree.  To most people, I imagine it would be an overlooked and insignificant specimen.  But to me Little Tree became a little friend with whom I’d share hellos on nice days, and on wintry blustery ones, would whisper words of encouragement.  “This won’t last forever, you’re doing great.  Keep living Little Tree.”  Occasionally we wouldn’t receive much moisture and Little Tree would be thirsty so I shared my water bottle.  The dogs and I visited often.

Because it was in such a small spot of stone, because of its exposure to the elements, I imagine Little Tree was far older than he appeared.  It looked like someone, maybe a dog, had at one point in time attempted to tear off a branch.  And still Little Tree lived on.  Little Tree lives on in my memory, and perhaps still in real time; I hope so. 

I wonder if those kinds of trees, the ones growing outside of the forest, the singleton in the meadow, the lone vertical in a field…do they get lonely?  Do they see their tree friends from afar and wonder how they are doing?  Were they once in a sea of tree, but are now the last remaining?  Or was it a seed dropped from a bird who ate the mouse who was gathering the seeds for Winter one day? 

How did that one tree get to that one spot? 

And then how did it SURVIVE? 

Because, trees, forests, ecosystems need more than just one specimen to thrive.

I’m an only child.  Well, I do have 5 or more ½ siblings, but that’s a story for another day.  I was raised, just me, my mom and dad.  Just us 3.  All my other friends growing up had siblings, at least one, if not more.  It didn’t really strike me that I was odd because of it.  In hindsight however, there was more pressure to be ‘good’ and ‘smart’ but maybe that was just my parents ways and not necessarily because I was a singleton. 

I realized the difference once I moved out and lived with my best friend in a college dorm room.  Why was she eating my food without asking?!?  That was an eye-opener for me.  We were sharing, and I just wasn’t used to it.  Only children get a bad rap.  We’re often considered selfish and self-centered.  Well, that’s probably true—we didn’t have siblings to bounce ideas off of, to compare notes on the parenting, to eat whatever food was in the same fridge.  I would also say highly introspective, but that is also a generalization.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us only children were high achievers, or individuals who struggle with communication.  Opening up to others, unless they strike just the right spark, isn’t easy for me.  I’ve been with the same man for 20+ years and oftentimes I know he’s got no idea what’s brewing in my mind…

Growing up I spent a lot of time solo.  Listening to the radio, dancing to top 40 hits by myself.  Mowing the lawn and tending to my fort in the forest.  Making snow houses near the Pin Cherry and talking with the dogs.  Being alone is normal and necessary for me to recoup my energy.  I prefer some space between thoughts in conversations.  Constant chitter-chatter makes my mind tired.  Maybe that’s how the solo trees feel. Too much noise in the forest.  Maybe that’s why they thrive on their own.

I had thought this thought off-hand, of Solo Trees as Only Children when my family of four went to a place called Craters of the Moon.  It’s an anomaly of a locale, one covered in black lava and charred cinder bits.  To this day, very little grows there as the heat of summer bakes that area to 150F.

Here is the story of what occurred:

Serpent Legend (Ella Clark, Indian Legends of the Northern Rockies, p. 193-194):
“Long, long ago, a huge serpent, miles and miles in length, lay where the channel of the Snake River is now. Though the serpent was never known to harm anyone, people were terrified by it. One spring, after it had lain asleep all winter, it left its bed and went to a large mountain in what is now the Craters of the Moon. There it coiled its immense body around the mountain and sunned itself. After several days, thunder and lightning passed over the mountain and aroused the wrath of the serpent. A second time flashes of lightning played on the mountain, and this time the lightning struck nearby. Angered, the serpent began to tighten its coils around the mountain. Soon the pressure caused the rocks to begin to crumble. Still the serpent tightened its coils. The pressure became so great that the stones began to melt. Fire came from the cracks. Soon liquid rock flowed down the sides of the mountain. The huge serpent, slow in its movements, could not get away from the fire. So, it was killed by the heat, and its body was roasted in the hot rock. At last, the fire burned itself out; the rocks cooled off; the liquid rock became solid again. Today if one visits the spot, he will see ashes and charred bones where the mountain used to be. If he will look closely at the solidified rock, he will see the ribs and bones of the huge serpent, charred and lifeless.”

I attest to seeing serpent shapes within this desolate blackened landscape.

It's said this area is dormant and could return to spewing liquid hot lava again.  Much like Yellowstone, it’s a place of strangeness, of activity not generally seen.  The world is a magical and interesting place and it was at the top of one of these charred cinder mountains that I saw a single Limber Pine.  Stately and holding on with roots exposed to the wind, the snow, and the heat of this high desert region.  There was no other tree nearby on this charcoal hill.  No other tree soul with which this tree could commiserate with.  An only child tree.

Limber Pine at Craters of the Moon.

How many years, decades, centuries (?) has this tree lived here?  Trees growing in harsh conditions are often much older than one thinks.  They grow more slowly, taking their time to reach any sizable girth as they withstand severe weather fluctuations.  When their limbs are groaning from the gusting cold winds of Winter, they don’t have anyone to buffer the cold with.  No reprieve.  They take the brunt and beauty of the world upon their very own shoulders.

That’s how I felt getting sober.

I was a solo tree. 

Battered from messes of my own making.

And I was falling apart and losing limbs for a long time before I realized there was another tree not far away that I could speak with.  That I could share my deepest, darkest thoughts with.  And that other tree, that other person, was the catalyst to begin the healing journey that I continue to tread.  Her name was Dina June.

Sometimes you need to step out of your comfort zone, shift your perspective to see that you’re not really all alone—like I thought that Cottonwood tree was, until I moved northwards, as shown in this photo. There was someone standing in the wings all along. Maybe that smaller tree is a progeny of the taller. Maybe it’s another friend. Maybe it’s someone like Dina June, a random character in the story that dramatically changes the trajectory of a life.

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