Barren Trees

The Off Season

I noticed on a recent visit to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park that I happened to arrive during the off season.  So what’s the “on season?”  Like most national parks, crowds flock to the Great Smokies during the summer because that happens to coincide with the peak vacation season in America.  Not that the national parks have a monopoly on summer, but if you have ever driven through Yellowstone in July, you might find traffic – actual bumper-to-bumper traffic – much like you would see in line for the Matterhorn at Disneyland or along the National Mall in Washington, DC.  Cruises to Alaska, camping in Wisconsin, and road trips to practically everywhere commence as soon as schools conclude.

Between Gatlinburg, Tennessee and Cherokee, North Carolina the highlights don’t end just because Labor Day arrives.  Peak season number two begins when the leaf peepers hit the road and marvel in the rich colors that coat the Appalachian range.  Even the quaint Great Smoky Mountain Railroad increases its fares during October.  Yet, I still prefer to travel during the off season to avoid the crowds, but also to see the other vantage points of the scenery.  And while the landscape probably shimmers and glistens in its winter white, my season of choice fits none of the ideal, pastoral images.  I arrive on the cusp between winter and spring when the snow has melted, but the daffodils have only begun to think about blossoming.

Dormant

Hills and hills flow together along these state lines, much like they hugged the roads in West Virginia (see “Almost Heaven” from July 2012).  The ancient mountains have brought forth innumerous trees, the overwhelming majority of which are deciduous and in the waning winter days show their wear from each hard freeze.  The leaves, deposited months ago and packed against the earth, have long since sapped the color from the branches, and the woodsy colors now, mostly shades of brown, which in the sunlight lose any trace of color, cast grayness over each slope, as well as the next slope, and the slope after that.  Sporadically, a conifer boasts it bits of green among a forest of blandness.

Suddenly I realize, I don’t just belong here, I am here.  How often do I feel like these tall empty trunks, blown and ripped of the leaves I brought forth, the efforts I contributed, the bright color I shared with others?  Even when the autumn arrives, I vary my colors; I adapt and make the changes necessary to keep others engaged.  But like the wintered, weathered trees, I am left dormant, gray, and lifeless.  I wish my spirit had the hardiness of the pines to hang on to my little bit of green, to keep some visible signs of life about me.  Everything I have given has fallen off, been blown off, been stripped and picked off by the forces around me.  And don’t think these lifeless trees inspire me or invigorate me; they simply remind me of myself.  They, too, are standing, not hardly bending against the last huffs and puffs on the northern winds, because they have nothing left to lose, but to wait for a change – a warm wind – to blow their way.  Like me, they wait for something better to come along before they fall to the forest floor forever.

The Idiot Tree

On A Bright Desert Highway

Cool wind in my hair adds to my sense of freedom on the open road and rolling down the windows provides an alternative to a sunroof or a convertible.  Regardless of the outside temperature, I cherish this blowing brush of freedom, which tussles my hair and relaxes my spirit.  In the Florida summers, I confess to abusing the environment and driving with the windows down and the air conditioning fighting against the onslaught of humidity.  I do the same in cooler weather calling on the heater to balance out the two extremes.  Along alternate US Highway 93, the interior man-made warmth and the natural exterior briskness balance the temperature and still allow me to enjoy the blustery sensation.

The distant threat of soft rain along the Great Basin Highway bothers me little, as driving with the windows down both refreshes me and defies the raindrops. The brilliant sun disperses its light from behind the clouds and the basin brush shows little color beyond its shades of tan, brown, and sage, but the light, sandy desert still illuminates the day vibrantly.  My primary vision in this mix of monochromatic autumn scenery stems from the writing I scribed seasons before and thousands of miles southeast of this drive.  Here I am searching for a specific site along a distant desert highway yet to be determined, that will fit the needs of my plot.  The story in progress requires a setting similar to the myriad of low lands hiding in the rolling slopes of eastern Elko County, which changes the partially penned work to a more northerly setting, with higher hills, more curves, and fewer trees than the original idea I conceived.  In fact, in this setting, trees are scarce.

A Burst of Color

When I start on this drive from Ely, the sign at the edge of town promises no gas services for more than one hundred twenty miles and it must be said that Nevada is a state of its word.  Even without the sign, my map confirms the posting, so fueling up before heading out seems obvious.  To attempt to traverse the Steptoe Valley and to continue over the White Horse Pass without a full tank of gas would be the act of an idiot.  This most desolate highway allows me the luxury of self-imposed isolation and I escape for a time from the typical worldly binding in which I usually pass each day, until a lone tree ahead of me, drenched in color, distracts me and reminds me of the everyday world.

I drive onto the shoulder, regardless of the dearth of other vehicles on the road, and cut the engine, the vehicle-generated heat, and the noise of the car.  I stand facing the Idiot Tree, or so the stake in the ground reads, and I circle its base admiring the baseball hats, cowboy boots, compact discs, and personal accoutrements hanging from its branches along a completely deserted stretch of the Lincoln Highway.  Written on one hat, the names of a couple, and on another, a date – could these be the names and dates that commemorate an idiotic, romantic error regretted and crucified on this bark?  The leaves vibrate against the cool breeze but make little sound.  Dozens of other individuals made the pilgrimage to this place, stood in its silence, and pounded nails into the living wood as a testament to foolishness, which seems unidentifiable.  Perhaps the Idiot Tree stands as a landmark of lunacy, or a confessional for casual sins, or a mark of idle drivers.  Perhaps this lone tree is just a place where people run out of gas.