I have finally, finally conquered my own tree.
That, as may or may not be obvious, is the tree from Manuel's backyard, I suppose my backyard for the time being. It exhibits the same frustrating morphology as every goddamned tree in this city, which is to say it's very difficult to climb. A massively stupid decision, as it strikes me, a decision that I suspect is of human making, both because trees can't make decisions and because it involves violence against plants. Most frustrating of all is that someone decided that all trees should be shaved up to the eighth foot or so, which is just high enough to be out of reach but just low enough to be tantalizingly possible. Like the fire escapes in Brooklyn, I just want to climb every single one. And why not? What better way to enjoy a city than from ten feet in the air? Ensconced in a loose shell of fuzzy foliage, high enough to smell every bakery in a five-kilometer radius, giddy and personable from the slight adrenal high of ascent, recreational tree climbing ought to be a celebrated urban passtime, not an oddball eccentricity.
What I need is some way to climb those trees that they do not intend. What I need is a plan. What I need is a hardware store. To arms, my dendrophyllic brothers! Let's go buy ropes and gloves and shit!
So now, equipment purchased, how am I going to go about actually climbing this beast? If Stephan were here, he would no doubt have been frustrated by my lack of planning. I would have been frustrated by his unwillingness to get to action, and in the end my lack of progress would have vindicated his misgivings. However, Stephan was not here, so I can pretend like climbing the tree was a huge success from start to finish, made possible both by my determination and my inborn genius. Faithful readers, however, will not need me to tell them that this is all bullshit.
My broad-strokes plan was this: tie some knots in the rope every few feet or so, hook the carabiner over one end and throw the whole thing over one of the branches. Then haul my ass up in dat tree. Yes, I know what you're thinking: this is one of those famous, Tarakajian two-step plans, the kind that boils down to this basic formula:
That, as may or may not be obvious, is the tree from Manuel's backyard, I suppose my backyard for the time being. It exhibits the same frustrating morphology as every goddamned tree in this city, which is to say it's very difficult to climb. A massively stupid decision, as it strikes me, a decision that I suspect is of human making, both because trees can't make decisions and because it involves violence against plants. Most frustrating of all is that someone decided that all trees should be shaved up to the eighth foot or so, which is just high enough to be out of reach but just low enough to be tantalizingly possible. Like the fire escapes in Brooklyn, I just want to climb every single one. And why not? What better way to enjoy a city than from ten feet in the air? Ensconced in a loose shell of fuzzy foliage, high enough to smell every bakery in a five-kilometer radius, giddy and personable from the slight adrenal high of ascent, recreational tree climbing ought to be a celebrated urban passtime, not an oddball eccentricity.
What I need is some way to climb those trees that they do not intend. What I need is a plan. What I need is a hardware store. To arms, my dendrophyllic brothers! Let's go buy ropes and gloves and shit!
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| The bare essentials |
My broad-strokes plan was this: tie some knots in the rope every few feet or so, hook the carabiner over one end and throw the whole thing over one of the branches. Then haul my ass up in dat tree. Yes, I know what you're thinking: this is one of those famous, Tarakajian two-step plans, the kind that boils down to this basic formula:
- Do basically nothing
- Everything will be fine
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