Following a relatively slow day, a collection of potential options brought a flurry of activity roughly 15 feet down an embankment on an offshoot of U.S. Forest Road 21 deep in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.
“This one!”
“No, this one!”
“This one is perfect!”
When I set out early Sunday morning with two photographers from The Chronicle, The Reflector’s sister paper, to find the perfect office Christmas tree, we remembered nearly everything.
Saw? Check. Permit? Check. Winter clothing? Yes. Extra supplies in case of an emergency? Absolutely.
Before we left, we purchased a harvest permit at recreation.gov for $7.50 and printed a map from https://gp.fs2c.usda.gov/gp/#mainSection that showed where harvest was allowed.
As we looked for the perfect tree, though, there was something we’d forgotten, something that made us question every tree we came across and could ultimately negate the whole journey.
Before leaving the office, we heard horror stories of years past of the trees that seemed perfect at first, only to lose their needles within days of their display in our newsroom. To avoid a similar fate, we were given a simple trick that would allow us to avoid a similar fate, though it came of little help deep into the woods, far away from any cell phone service.
“Was it straight needles or curved needles we wanted to avoid?” photographer Ridley Hudson asked to shrugs from photographer Kody Christen and me.
While the grouping of trees included many potential suitors, we hoped to avoid a tree that would shed its needles nearly immediately, thus losing most of its Christmas magic before the calendar flipped to December.
When the assignment was presented during a weekly news budget meeting, I jumped at the opportunity. I’ve certainly had less exciting assignments, though I couldn’t help but think that the excursion borders on light hazing.
The site outside Packwood we ultimately picked was perfect. While we had looked elsewhere in the forest, a lack of potential trees did not present much choice and the dreary weather did not create the Hallmark aesthetic Ridley desired for photos and video.
We kept driving, eager to find a roughly 6-foot-tall tree to showcase. As we drove deeper into the woods, we found ourselves on narrower and narrower backroads, with some on the edge of 30-foot embankments.
Born and raised in the Seattle suburbs, cutting down our own tree meant driving a mere 15 minutes from our house, so the opportunity to cut down a tree in roughly 2 feet of snow presented quite an adventure.
Hours into the search, with no tree secured as the early fall sunset inched ever closer, we stopped in an area that seemed promising.
Along the way, we had driven past many potential options, though the rugged terrain and thick brush made it difficult to know for sure.
We found ourselves deep in the forest, socks soaked from a day trudging through the snow. Some of the damage was admittedly self-inflicted, as several of the stops to look for a tree devolved almost immediately into prolonged snowball fights.
As we scoured the opening, several of the trees caught our eyes. While we measured our ceilings beforehand, we didn’t bring a tape measure on our journey, which left us to eyeball every tree to determine whether it would fit in our office.
Still, the trees showed potential, and we found several suitors.
We ultimately settled on one that had “the look” and began to cut. A city boy, I managed to break the saw twice, though we were ultimately successful. While we were all quite pleased with the look, a friend who saw a photo of the tree immediately compared it to the tree from “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”
While I can’t deny the resemblance, I remain proud of the tree we ultimately selected.
Following the obligatory pictures with our prize, we strapped to the back of our truck and began an approximately two-hour journey back to The Chronicle’s office.
There, we quickly secured the tree in a tree stand and cut the tree’s tip so that it didn’t poke through the ceiling tiles.
It was only then, as the three of us marveled at the tree, I remembered that I’m slightly allergic to Christmas trees, my eyes itching as I gazed upon our work.
While nobody on our excursion would identify themselves as a tree expert, our selection drew positive reviews from our coworkers. As of writing this article, the needles also remain on the tree’s limbs, skirting my fear that the tree would lose nearly all of its magic nearly instantly.
Regardless of whether the needles last through the Christmas season or not, we will make sure to pass along the warning to the next reporter who goes on a hunt for the office tree.
Whether they remember the cautionary tale or not, though, remains unknown.
