The Oak

I hiked this morning up to our old oak tree a half-mile from home. Tom and I used to walk to it on many days, and we somehow bestowed upon it a tree of comfort and wisdom. Maybe it’s something in its gnarled state, and certainly because it survived the farmer’s saw and plow all those years ago when so many stately oaks were removed from this landscape. It was always a good hike, up the rolling terrain, pausing at the top to take in the magnificent vista of farmland rolling into the mountains of Oregon’s Coast Range. We enjoyed a tradition of placing our hands on the rough bark – touching the oak – maybe offering a silent prayer or affirmation of the day. Certainly it was a meaningful ritual for us, whatever its meaning was.
 
We began this hike in the days before Kirby arrived, but he has also logged many miles to the oak and back. Today, in his old age, he can’t make the trip, and even if he could he wouldn’t like walking across the prickly wheat stubble. I told him about the hike when I returned today. He seemed ok with it, but didn’t contribute to the dialogue.
 
Today, the window of opportunity to visit the oak is open only briefly. Soon, the fields around it will be plowed again, and walking in the giant clods is a sprained ankle waiting to happen.  We used to walk the valley around it, but it is now fenced off by a 300 acre vineyard. We can’t take back time but we wish we could enjoy walking all of these fields again.
 
On today’s trip, I couldn’t even complete the time-honored tradition of laying hands on the oak. Poison oak completely encircles it to a height of 15 feet up its trunk; the closest I could get was 10 feet away. So I offered a silent blessing for the bent old friend, for the day, for all of the days to come.  The air was clear and light, the sky deep blue, a sometimes rare sky for August.  Voices and diesel engines rose out of the vineyard, and I turned and walked home. It was a great hike.