Voices of the valley: How to read a tree

My two grandfathers planted and cultivated an apple orchard of 40 trees for decades. The orchard became an apple forest, where generations of neighbors volunteered and, in late summer, picked sweet and sour apples for tarts and pies. 

In winter, an annual invitation was extended to young parents to prune the trees for growth and airflow. During the seasonal rhythms of thaws, waterings, harvests and prunings, my grandfathers would say, almost in harmony, to the neighbors who worked in the orchard, "First learn how to read an apple tree. Then read the rhythm of the orchard in little stories." 

In 2023, the naturalist Tristan Gooley published "How to Read a Tree." The book's title and my grandfather's greetings recalled my memories of the orchard. My grandfathers would ask, "Do any two trees look alike?" The question returned a thoughtful, almost surprised "No." 

"Each difference becomes a clue, no longer invisible. Each difference adds to the life story of the tree," they would repeat throughout the summers. The quiet conversations my grandfathers shared with the neighbors opened an impartial way to observe the trees and grasses for questions now and in the future. "You can tell the life story of an apple tree, or an idea, or anything else by taking time to see and hear what is in front of you -- not from a name or label." 

As differences became questions in the book, Gooley might say, "Why are those maple and alder trees over there, at the bottom of the hill, and not on the side of a hill?" 

His answers were descriptive: "Maple and adler thrive near a source of water, while spruces, firs and cedars prefer drier soil." 

The most accurate observations in the orchard were made in the present, while the opposite held for analyses, where time to think allowed for clarity. 

Often, a family would "adopt" three or four trees, and one of my grandfathers would, in turn, adopt the family. Over the seasons, neighbors connected with the influence of the surrounding land and weather on the orchard. 

Questions centered on the clarity or scarcity of water, the micro pieces of dirt that covered the trees after a field was plowed in drier months, or the variation in the number and species of insect pests. 

The kids would puzzle over why some plant blooms were called weeds, and other plant blooms a flower? Those individuals who worked in the orchard with my grandfathers for a few or several years often developed an intuition on observations or questions that came from a sense of belonging to the orchard. 

"Intuition," my grandfathers would say, "is an unexplainable way of caring. Your intuition allows for clarity in what you notice in the orchard." 

My grandfathers often remarked that the older children took an interest in watering the trees while the younger adults became interested in pruning for the following year's growth and harvest. Quietly, older adults and grandparents celebrated the orchard as a living field, with gratefulness to the orchard's grasses, flowers, and trees for bringing joy to children and families. 

With broad smiles, my grandfathers advised the orchard's younger members at the end of harvest: "Thank your mothers and grandmothers for the tarts and pies they will bake. Eat as much as you want, and leave enough for others!"

My editor, Ilona Khachaturova, is a talented editor and suggested I add a final paragraph like the one below. I'll let her suggestion complete this week’s column. 

"The orchard became more than a collection of apple trees -- it became a way of seeing, listening and belonging. Each tree held a story, but it was the community that gave those stories meaning. My grandfathers knew that tending to an orchard was never just about the apples. It was about cultivating care, questions, and quiet joy across generations. In learning how to read a tree, we were also learning how to read each other—how to grow a place where every difference mattered, where every season invited us back to notice, to nurture, and to belong. This is the kind of community connection we strive for."

Charles Bickenheuser lives in Plains.