I am glad that spring hiking season is finally here. To get out into the woods and fields for hikes changes my viewpoint and always boosts my spirits.
When I go out to my favorite trails it is not always to “go the distance” on one of my well-worn trails in the Virigina hardwood forests. I might only have a spot in mind that is calling me; a favorite tree beside the trail, or a stream that burbles out of the stoney mountain side. Whatever my goal I often stop on the trail and listen to the wind in the upper branches of the trees. Or I will stop to follow a flash of color and try to pick a bird out among the budding branches.
I think of these spots as places that have more clarity in my mind than the surrounding area. However, a passer-by on the trail might glance over at me – and wonder what I am looking at, what has caught my eye. It might be a small flowering tree. It might be a rotted log festooned with fungi.
In each season I have spots that I like to visit. In the spring that spot is no further than 20 steps from the parking lot. There is a pear tree standing next to the farm gate. It is a European Pear (Pyrus communis), a common variety in farmyards of the east and south. The original seedlings had been brought by settlers from their plots in crowded, ancient Europe to be planted on their farms and gardens in the massive and open American continent.
My grandfather had a stand of three trees on his farm for his delight and that of his grandchildren. The memory of those trees and the hard, sweet fruit is brought back by this solitary pear next to the gate.
Each year in the spring I hope to see white blossoms thick on the branches. Each summer I stand in the shade of the tree as I lean on the gate after my hike in the deeper woods. Every fall – in November – I look up into its branches seeking a pear with green speckled skin that I might dislodge with my walking stick. I will wipe it off and enjoy – but that is in the fall. Now it is spring, and I have come out to see this pear tree.
What am I looking for? Is it my younger days, when everyone was here? Was it my grandfather standing and reaching up into his pear tree to pluck a fruit? The pear hung tightly to its branch – like a dried red oak leaf hangs onto its limb through the harshest winter winds.
I see it again, the branch bends slightly as my grandfather pulls on the pear. The pear comes loose, and my grandfather’s hand recoils to his chest as the branch yields its prize. The branch in its turn springs back towards the upper branches of the tree – perhaps glad to release its fruit to the hand that tends the tree. The other pears bobble on their perch. They are not yet quite ripe. When ripe they will fall to the ground and be discovered by wasps that will surprise and scare a little boy.
This spring the pear tree is thick with blossoms. Ladies and their children stand under the tree to have their picture taken among the masses of white blossoms. Birds on their way back north or further up the mountain pause in the branches and rest before rising to continue their journey. Perhaps these same birds will rest on that same branch when they head south for winter – and then perhaps a last pear will still cling to its branch – afraid of the fall – and give a welcome meal to the birds before they rise again and continue south.
Now I have seen the blossoms in the pear tree. I have felt the wind that tumbles a myriad of petals from thousands of white blossoms. I have heard the birds high up on the hidden branches. I know that the tree is lasting and may bear fruit in the fall.
Now I look forward to a spring and summer of hikes and wanderings that will end when the birds fly south as the wind blows cold under the tree and I lean on the gate and enjoy a hard speckled pear.
This pear tree is a place of beauty and comfort and memory.