Our Christmas Tree Hunt

When I was young we used to spend every Thanksgiving at our family ranch in Southern Utah. At high altitude, it was often colder and snowier than home. The day after Thanksgiving, all we young cousins would pile sleeping bags in the back of someone's pickup truck, climb in (oh, times have changed. . .) and head up to the top of Boulder Mountain to hunt for the perfect Christmas tree.

 Malan with cousin Bronwen

I remember crunching up hills through knee-deep snow, tucking my nose down into my coat to warm it. I remember bright sun on sparkling snow drifts, long shadows from thick groves of bare Quaking Aspens interspersed with an occasional evergreen.

 It was no easy task to find a tree to please everyone. Not tall enough, not fat enough, too fat, too lopsided. But really, the thrill of the hunt was most of the fun. And when we finally found "the one. . ." it was like Christmas had finally begun, and all the excitement and anticipation of the season was wrapped up in that tree, and we'd carry it with us down the mountain and all the way home.

And the smell! Oh, the smell of fresh cut pine. To smell it now takes me right back to Thanksgiving on Boulder Mountain in my childhood. I treasure those memories.

 I'm trying to make some new ones with our own little family. Our tree hunt was in Virginia, not Utah, and on grass instead of snow, but I hope my babies will feel that same excitement about the traditions we're creating.

I think they will.