Tree People

If you watch the red line of buds shimmer and spread in a wave over the forested hills, or smell the scent of rich earth and returning green–the fragrance of a Catskill Spring-ing—you might never imagine the fury of the winter.

In January, the snow lies deep on the hillsides as silent forms wade from tree to tree, the still air broken only by the creaking branches and the drone of the drills. At other times, the sleet and cold rain gild the blue lines with glare ice. Some slopes are so steep that when the ground is slick you have to pull yourself up along the lines, otherwise, you’d slide right down the hillside. These hills, so green and inviting in June, are hard and stern in the winter months. Yet, they still call us back into their depths regardless of the weather.

Even when a summer storm rushes up the valley, loosing lightening bolts among the trees—when the thunder roars among the shale cliffs and the emerald moss drinks in the falling rain—then grown men run like delighted children through the rushing streams—or climb, weary but faithful, through the wind—because summer or winter the hills are always speaking something. If we return often enough the words will come clear, for the trees are timeless but always changing, and those who walk beneath them are changed as well.