O Christmas tree

“YOU ARE TELLING ME…”
My friend said in disbelief. “THAT YOU; MAN OF THE NORTH, LIVING THOUSANDS OF MILES FROM ANYWHERE, HAVE AN ARTIFICIAL TREE?” I was showing him photos of life in Old Crow during my annual holidays. “An honest to goodness, painted, piece of Chinese imported plastic? You gotta be kidding me. Aren’t you surrounded by thousands of trees? Real ones?” He was right there were trees out there, thousands but there was more to it than that. In my childhood it had seemed simpler. I suspect that most things do.
When I was a kid my Dad and I would venture forth to pick the perfect tree to decorate the house for the festive season. Like most rituals its origins were lost in ancient mystery. What was involved was the donning of the dreaded winter attire; layers of scratchy wool. Wool sweaters, wool socks and hand-made wool mittens. By the time we were ready to go I was bundled up like an Egyptian mummy. We would head down the highway for one of Dad’s hunting spots where “I know there a good one!” he would assure me enthusiastically. We would drive down some icy snow covered country road that had never seen a snowplow. We would wade through drifts up to my chest. We would shake the snow from tree after tree until we found the one we wanted. The amazing thing is that there was actual magic involved. No seriously. For when we picked the tree, flushed with fresh air and brilliant sun the tree appeared perfect. An archetypal Christmas tree perfect in every way; devoid of flaw. However when it arrived in my parent’s living room to be presented to my little brother and the women folk who formed the judge and jury a transformation had taken place. The tree no longer seemed perfect. A bald patch or two appeared, the trunk seemed bent. The top askew. “That…” my Mom would say “is the best you could do?” Now I swear that it looked different when we tied it to the roof rack. Maybe more snow had shaken loose or maybe we had been victims of some state of euphoria brought on by the clear air and the exertion of the chase. In any case there was little doubt this was not the tree we thought we had.
Now if tree hunting in the south had its’ drawbacks the search for the perfect specimen in the boreal forest was another kettle of fish. I remember my first Christmas in the Northwest Territories. I borrowed a snowmobile and toboggan from a trapper friend of mine and set out to comb the hills for the quintessential Christmas tree. I found a beauty. Eight feet tall if it was an inch. I tied it to the toboggan and made a beeline for home. Now I’m sure that to people from the southern hemisphere the snowy hills may appear to be white fluffy clouds of cotton candy. In fact they are frozen hard as cement. When I arrived home I was the proud owner of an eight foot stick. It was nearly bereft of needles and the canvas skirt of the toboggan was full of them. The tree, seared by the forty five below zero cold and the constant pounding of the trail had shed its’ beautiful fir coat (pardon the pun). Hi I’m not only the president of the hair club for bald trees but I’m a member too.
I once cut down my Christmas tree with a rifle. No I didn’t beat it down with the butt. I was driving a winter road in Northern Alberta when I came across the most beautiful tree. There were two small problems first I had no axe. Second the tree was thirty feet tall. I sure wanted that tree; though. It was splendid. It had grown up taller than the trees around it which allowed it to be fuller on all sides. I coveted this tree. I knew if I did not grab it now I would probably never find it again. I searched my truck and racked my brain. Then it hit me. My rifle! If I started on one side of the trunk O could shoot the tree down! As a bonus I could shoot off only the top seven feet or so. I had only the shells in the clip but with a few good shots the top fell just as I planned. It must have been meant to be. As an additional bonus; without even additional shipping and handling, the tree was covered in cones. They looked great when the tree was decorated and people thought I added the cones.
But the further north you go the harder it is to find the perfect tree. Life is hard up here. The arctic is virtually a desert in winter cold and sere. It stunts the trees. They work very hard to cling to life. It takes them many years longer to reach the size that you would drag home and stand in your living room. A Christmas tree sized northern spruce or pine could be one hundred and fifty years old or more. Imagine cutting down anything that old to put up in your living room for a week. Sorry but it just aint happening. Yes I may be surrounded by trees but I would also like to stay that way. I do pick out a tree each year; though. I look for it when I am out walking. I find a nice one; whose imperfections are smothered in snow. I just don’t cut it down. I just watch it where it stands and think of what the Christmas tree once stood for. Originally the evergreen tree was associated with the celebration of the winter solstice not the later Christian celebration which adopted the symbol. It was chosen to represent the time of year when the days would start to get longer and life would return to the hibernating winter world. It was chosen because it was green and full of life when all the trees of the world were brown and apparently lifeless. Now we kill them and drag their carcasses into our living rooms and then throw them out with the trash. My living room may have a plastic tree but my real Christmas tree will still be alive next year and the year after. She may not have the curves of your southern manicured tree farm models; but she looks pretty good for her age. She may be one hundred and fifty but she doesn’t look a day over a hundred and twenty!