NEBRASKAland Magazine is dedicated to outstanding photography and informative writing with an engaging mix of articles and photos highlighting Nebraska’s outdoor activities, parklands, wildlife, history and people.
Issue link: http://mag.outdoornebraska.gov/i/604047
56 NEBRASKAland • DECEMBER 2015 T he first tree I ever loved was a white pine, or Pinus strobus, that grew next to our front porch. Branches canopied out to shade our terraced front garden, and the tree grew taller every year – 50 feet tall, taller than my house, taller than the power lines, taller than anything else in our South Omaha neighborhood. When I was little, I couldn't reach the branches. I'd drag a bucket next to its crackled trunk and jump, hands clasping for a good hold on a long limb. Legs kicking and body squirming, I'd monkey onto a branch, showering twigs and needles to the ground. Older, I learned to jump alone and pull myself into the tree's embrace with just my arms. Always, I would stand a moment on the bottom limb, looking up. Soft, flat needles would brush against my face and tickle my ears. The evenly spaced branches invited me to climb higher. Sometimes I'd climb as far as I could, branches bending under my weight until they were too spindly to support me. Every summer from third grade on, I was lucky enough to spend a week at Hummel Day Camp. I learned the difference between a red oak (pointy leaves ... like a pin ... pins are like needles ... needles draw blood ... blood is red) and a white oak (leaves are rounded, like they are broken ... brrrrroken …"brrr" means cold … cold means snow ... snow is white). Counselors taught us to identify all kinds of trees native to Nebraska. To this day I recognize catalpas, cottonwoods, elms, gingkoes, magnolias, locusts, birches, lindens, ashes, and a forest of other trees. I know that hawthorn berries are delicious snacks for turkeys and that you can't brew coffee with pods from a Kentucky coffeetree. I know that the cottonwood is Nebraska's state tree now, but it used to be the elm. I never wanted to leave. After that first glorious week, I sought out trees wherever I could find them. I convinced myself that any collection of at least 10 trees was "woods" and 30 trees was a "forest." It's what any city kid enchanted by trees must do. Forests are magical places, and I wanted to know them intimately. Hanscom Park had enough trees to meet my requirements. I'd ride my bike down the winding road through its center and speed across the grass to the "forest" on the northeastern edge. The foliage was thick enough to block out Park Avenue, so I was on the lookout for deer and woodchucks. I never saw any. Dewey Park was a disappointment as well. Sure, the thicket of trees could hide me from the tennis players, but no matter how hard I tried to make it "woods," it was just not the real deal. To my delight, my family started vacationing annually in Black River Forest outside of Hatfield, Wisconsin. This wasn't a child's wish for woods, this was miles and miles and miles of forest. Real animals – porcupines and bears and owls – called this wild place home. The trees stretched their leafy arms in every direction from our cabin. We spotted a deer as we drove the winding path toward the cabin. It froze on the side of the road, then in a flick of white, it disappeared into the wood. This love affair with trees continued into my adult life. Our last family trip to Hatfield was two decades ago, but I've been ordered to neighboring Fort McCoy for military training several times. Each trip, I pack a lunch and wander around the tree line, greeting the pines, oaks and aspens like old friends. When we started house hunting, my husband wanted a two-car garage and a finished basement. I wanted a big yard and mature trees. Finally, we found a home in Omaha's Florence neighborhood. My house is great, with huge windows, a big kitchen and tons of closet space. But honestly, the best thing about it is the backyard. Finally, I have woods. I would have been happy with a couple of tall trees to shade the yard, but I got so much more than that. All around, pines and ashes and maples reach toward the sky and circle our house. The fence between my yard and my neighbors is lined with mulberry and ash trees. The backyard ends in woods so thick I can't see any of the houses to the north. Sitting on my patio, it is easy to believe that there are no other houses around. This isn't just a copse of trees, it is a wood. Our first morning in our new home, I stood in the kitchen making bacon and eggs. Movement outside caught my eye, and I nearly dropped the spatula. There, five feet from my window, stood a deer. I froze. I could make out individual spots on her long neck, and her dark eyes had the longest lashes. She looked at me and went back to her own breakfast, munching on leaves. I know now that three deer call the woods behind our house their home. One of them looks like something out of a hunting magazine. His antlers are amazing. The other is young, smaller than the doe. When we got dogs, I was afraid their smell would keep the deer at bay, but it hasn't. Yesterday the young one stood on my patio and ate petunias out of a big, blue, clay pot. The other two stood by the fence, eating leaves. When they go, it is nothing more than a flash of white through the woods, and a rustling of branches. But they don't go far. This is their home. ■ Wishing for Woods By Stephanie J. Cleary A lifelong obsession with trees.