high tree sun

I don't remember my first time.  I suppose it must have been in that liberal coastal state of Massachusetts, probably with the boy next door in my backyard. 

We're talking tree climbing, of course.

We weren't generally left to our own devices, but I don't think it would have taken us long to recognize the potential of the huge maple.  I have vague memories of our mothers trying to coax us down, but no memory of ever actually descending.  It's all about the trip up, really.

Even before the tree incident, stories had long since been circulating of my two-year-old self being left under the watchful eye of the boy next door's father only to call out to my frantic mother, "I'm up here, Mommy!" when she realized he'd misplaced me.  I'd climbed a ladder next to the house and ended up on the roof in a gallant quest for the Hammock.  Evidently it was a dreadful disappointment to learn that there was no Hammock, but merely an attic.  Small wonder I didn't jump right then.

You'd think climbing is something you'd outgrow.

It isn't.

I don't know why, but to this day I can't pass up an inviting tree.  It's those enticing lower branches that really get me -- it'd be so easy.  So easy I could do it in heels.

That was the same tree as my most catastrophic experience.  Though I maintain it had utterly nothing to do with the heels.  Possible a bit of attention seeking, but not the heels at all.  Anyway, I think I'd already kicked them off by the time I slid.

Maybe I should back up.  Let me set the scene.  Imagine a zoo.  In, say, Washington, D.C.  With three of your closest high school friends.  And some parents in safari hats.  (Thankfully not your parents.)  You've taken a 10-hour road trip to get there.  You've been walking around and even casually hanging out of a few trees already on the trip.  But there you are, just outside the monkey cage, and there's this beautiful tree just full of branches all the way up.  And it goes quite far up.  And is very sturdy.  You might be wearing heels (why you're wearing heels at the zoo is a question for another day, though I'm guessing it's closely related to why you wore a short, black skirt for freshman band night -- it was the only option available, of course).  But the tree is very tall.  And very inviting.  And needs just a little boost to get up to the lowest branch.  What are friends for?

See, I knew you'd climb it, too.  Probably very quickly.  Partially because your audience will lose interest if you don't; partially because you don't really want to get kicked out of the zoo, even if it was free and would make a cool story.  And you'd get to the top and smile and wave and then the boring part would begin -- the descent.

The descent is never as much fun as the ascent.  It's actually a lot slower and the adrenaline is shot.  And nobody's really watching any more any way.  This time, though, a small crowd had gathered, and I felt obliged to give them a good show on the way down.  To me, good equates to fast.  Unfortunately fast, in this instance, equated to misjudging how far down the next foothold was.

I wasn't far off -- probably six inches or so -- but far enough that I had to turn tail and completely, literally hug the tree.  I was fine for all practical purposes, but I got one of the more severe cases of tree burn I've encountered.

It made a great wound.  Especially after it scabbed over I had a blast getting people to try to guess where it came from.  Very, very few were remotely successful.  It's funny, but most people aren't nearly as fond of the guessing game as I am either.

Immediately afterwards, though, I leapt gracefully to the ground and proceeded directly to the butterfly house.  It was somewhere in there that I examined my arm (it is, of course, very poor form to examine wounds straightaway.  It shows a certain -- lack of recklessness.) and decided that, maybe, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to find some soap and water for it.  Gina came along with me and cleaned me up in the ladies' room.

Like most scrape/rug burn-type injuries, it took a little while to show its true colors.  By that night things were so severe (oh, look!  It seems I hugged that tree with both arms!) Susan and Gina were both enlisted to help me get out of my shirt.  It took awhile, but we managed to get it off, a bandage on and pajamas on, too.  Small miracle.  And not once did either of my friends say "I told you so."  Major miracle.

My other tree climbing incidents haven't been so dramatic.  Generally they're fast affairs; very rarely will anyone condescend (or would that be conascend?) to climb with me.  Particular favorites included a roomy tree in (suburban) London, a Calvin tree in a rainstorm and of course Old Trusty, my stand-by regular back home.

I grew up in a small woods, so was surrounded by trees, though very few of them were actually and big and strong enough to be suitable for climbing.  Those that were, though, I made the most of.  But you'd never have guessed that, would you?

It's not just trees, though.  Anything that seems reasonably climbable generally appeals to me.  There was, for instance, a memorable instance with a fence many years later on a date in Boston.  Well, there was a pool on the other side of it.  And can I say, you really haven't lived until you've trespassed in snazzy condo's pools.  (Besides, how can you in good conscience pray, "forgive us our trespasses" if you've never actually trespassed?)

I'm not a big outdoor rock climber (okay, never done it, actually), but I can handle the indoor walls -- preferably with a large gentleman on the other end of the belay.  Now that's just fun.

Rocks, debris, life guard stands, you name it.  Anything can make good climbing material if you just look at it properly.

Enter the Australian trees.

The trees, along with the birds, were some of the first things I noticed when I moved here.  I'm no botanist and have absolutely no affinity for science (I spent most of chemistry class watching Susan draw seas of electrons with octopus octets next to drowning students), but the trees here are really worth noticing.  Kind of like architecture in southern Spain -- you can know nothing and care nothing about architecture but suddenly appreciate it immensely.  Same with the trees here.

There's all types -- which in my unscientificness I'm going to classify as Really, Really Big; Composed Entirely of Stringy Things; Super Pretty; Flowering; Purple; White Barked; and Palm (I think I got one right!).  I'm sure there're more, but those are the ones that stand out the most to me.  Ah, except for the highly Climbable.

Here's the thing that really gets me about Australian trees, though:  they are, technically, WAY more likely to have a koala in them than American trees.  It might be rare, but it happens.  Trust me.  Believe me.  And if you don't, look closely in the upper right branch.  See?

I'd been on a bit of a climbing sabbatical of late (despite loving it, it seems there are certain social situations which don't lend themselves as conveniently to tree climbing as walking through American zoos.  There are certain friends you can tree climb with and certain others who are likely to get entirely too embarrassed.  It's a lot more fun with the latter, though possibly more prudent with the former.  They're the ones who'll actually bandage you up if necessary.).  However, when my mom was out I seized the day of a captive audience (with a camera, no less!) and have been on a small spree ever since.

 
It's fantastic, but I still miss Massachusetts.  Guess you never really forget your first time.