Hunting for Christmas Trees in the Wild Blue Yonder

So we officially got our asses kicked by a tree yesterday.

At 2 p.m., my husband, Tenzin, and I sprung the kids out of school so we could head up the mountain to cut down our Christmas tree. Tenzin is working every weekend until Christmas, so we figured this was the best solution. Get up there before the sun set, cut down the tree, get home, decorate, and all’s well…

But you know how sometimes you can just feel that things aren’t going to go as planned? Yeah.

When we got up to our usual spot, the snow plows had built a berm in front of the road. So we ended up just pulling off to the side of the highway and foraging in a completely new part of the forrest. This would’ve been fine if there were any trees worth a damn for ten square miles.

We all started out in great spirits. Actually, to be fair, no one ever lost their minds and turned into whining pieces of goo. And I’m fairly certain my husband stayed upbeat throughout the entire adventure because he knew that if he showed any sign of weakness, I’d kill him.

We began by falling down a disturbingly steep slope while carrying an ax and power saw.

Then came the crusty snow that children could walk on but adults fell through (at one point, Tenzin and I were crawling on our hands and knees because we were sick of getting stuck up to our thighs). And then, of course, there were no trees.

Let me clarify that. There were trees. There just weren’t any good trees. There were dead trees. And trees with branches on only one side. And trees that were thirty feet tall.

At some point, when I realized this was going to get ugly, I pointed out that the farther we walked in, the farther we’d have to carry a tree out. But sometimes my husband doesn’t hear very well when he’s on a mission.

When everyone finally did succumb to the fact that we needed to choose a tree, my daughter, Elfie, chose some crazy specimen that was able to make it through the approval process (I’m still not sure how). And this is when Tenzin decided the kids needed a lesson in how to chop things down with an ax.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m an incredibly. Patient. Person.

When the actual tree-cutting-down process finally began, it turns out the joke was on us. Because the saw we brought — the “cuts through nails” saw — basically looked like an emery board trying to cut through a petrified Slim Jim. We eventually had to wrap a rope around the top of the tree and have the kids and me pull on it while Tenzin attacked the trunk with our pathetically dull ax.

By this time, the sun was almost down, and we still had to make it back to the car. And, yes, turns out we’d walked a long way in.

I’m pretty sure our son, Newt, thought my husband and I were going to keel over dead several times. He kept asking if we were okay. And carrying my end of the tree for me. And saying he was sorry we had to go through all of this. Clearly the poor kid thinks his parents are nowhere near Ma and Pa Ingalls.

When we got home, the tree continued to give us the finger — first by making it hard to cut off the end of the trunk (What the hell was this thing made out of? That metal in Wolverine’s claws?) and then by showing us what a crap-ass choice we’d made by being as aesthetically unpleasing as possible. Let’s just say I’m glad we always put our tree in the corner, don’t put a lot of pressure on ourselves to have the perfect home, and are big fans of A Charlie Brown Christmas.

And decorating? It was like trying to hug a sappy porcupine.

Next year, we may just give up on this wild tree business and get one that comes from a nice tree farm. I hear they’re bred to be a lot tamer.