Letter to a Tree
Letter to a tree at Sue-meg State Park, Trinidad, CA:
I apologize that I’m not sure what kind of tree you are, although I studied many of your brethren in college forestry and botany classes. You remind me of a cypress. You sat, and presumably still reside, near the edge of a bluff and so took on a windswept form. I’m guessing that you are hundreds of years old, judging by the size of the branch that held my brother and me as kids, and the abundance of twists and gnarls in your body. I’m sure you don’t remember us. Untold numbers of people have probably sat on your welcoming limbs, since you’re close to a busy campground in a rather popular state park—which, by the way, has changed names since I first met you.
It was called Patrick’s Point when my family and I camped there. I was about nine, and my brother three years younger. We captured you on a video that my family still treasures: two kids sitting on that limb, watching the sunset, me mindlessly playing a harmonica, your branches stretched over us protectively. I think my dad snuck up on us to capture that moment on camcorder, as he often did when we were growing up. I had long, golden hair and a windbreaker in ‘90s teal. My brother had thick glasses, slightly darker hair, and a color-blocked windbreaker. At least, that’s how I remember it. I haven’t seen the actual video in years, but I know exactly what my dad is talking about when he brings it up in conversation. It’s one of his favorite moments from our childhood. Partly through his influence, it’s one of mine too. He appreciates peaceful moments in nature.
We lived at least a six-hour drive away from you, and I don’t remember coming back to your area during the rest of my childhood. We vacationed in other places: Monterey, San Francisco, Yosemite National Park. They were amazing places, and I’m so glad my parents took us there, but I never forgot the wild stretch of coastline that you sit on. I returned to that part of the state for college. I always felt lucky, and slightly incredulous, that I got to spend those years in proximity to your habitat. While hiking at Patrick’s Point, as it was still named, I tried to find you again because I remembered you having one of the best viewpoints. I’ve always sought out places that allow me to feel small and sheltered while being part of a greater, majestic whole, like a rock in the middle of a river or a reading nook in a bay window jutting out slightly from a house. Come to think of it, your signature branch—strong, parallel to the ground, naturally shaded from the sun, overlooking the sea—would make a great reading spot. But too many years had intervened, and I couldn’t recognize you.
Still, after seven years of living near your geography, your home felt like my second home. As a college student, I didn’t always want to pay the day use fee to visit your park, but I spent many hours on the free beaches and trails in the neighboring town of Trinidad, and all other beaches within 100 miles of you. I can only guess that you love(d) the same things about your home that I did: the peacefulness, the remoteness, the relentless waves reminding you that Earth is alive. Of course, you are far more in touch with natural rhythms than I could ever hope to be. Who knows what wild behavior you’ve seen from the ocean during every season and hour of night? What animals you’ve housed in your branches, and what organisms you encourage to grow among your roots?
I moved away to Oregon, but returned in 2010 to witness a friend’s wedding in a meadow near you. You must know that your land is a spiritual place; you’ve probably seen countless weddings there. I came back again in 2018, this time bringing my husband and our yet-to-be-born son. We must have camped near the same spot my parents brought me to when I was young. Did you recognize me? I felt like I was sharing a little bit of home with my own, new family. I’ll bet that many people take solace in returning there, even if it is decades between visits. Me, I have several good decades left, and I plan to come back sometime and bring my walking-and-talking son.
What most people don’t know is that I plan to complete my circle of life near you as well. Around my fortieth birthday, I made up a will including funeral plans. Your home, now called Sue-meg State Park, is mentioned by name. It’s where I want my ashes to be scattered. Obviously I don’t know the precise spot where that will happen, or even where it’s legal for it to happen. Maybe I will end up mixed into duff on the forest floor. Or I could land in the ocean, whose mist keeps your needles fed with moisture. Somehow, I believe we’ll be in each other’s company again.
