The Great Christmas Tree Hunt
An annual tradition for generations
My Christmas trees are not the full, fluffy factory-farmed evergreens from lots that grace greeting cards, hotel lobbies, and homes in Hallmark movies. My Christmas trees are sparse and spindly grown-up versions of Linus’ imperfect but lovable tree in a Charlie Brown Christmas.
As long as I can remember my family has hunted its own Christmas trees in the hills above Cloverdale in Sonoma County, Northern California. The land belongs to my mom’s high school boyfriend, a retired four star marine general who has let our family thin the trees on one of his hills for nearly 70 years.
On the first Sunday in December, three generations of our extended Benedetti-Libarle family (about forty siblings, cousins, and kids) gather saws, tarps, and tick protection, and drive north laden with food and beverages for this annual Christmas tree hunt that resembles a family reunion.
Some years the weather is stormy and we have to lash tarps to the trees to rig an overhang to keep the fire pit and food tables dry; a couple years there were snow flurries; other years it’s sunny and mild.
This year, we drove off from my family compound in Cotati in a dense Tule fog where the temperature was 38 degrees. As our caravan of trucks and SUVs climbed the windy one-lane road up the mountain, we rose above the inversion layer that trapped the cold fog below to find sunny skies, clear air, and the temperature increased 15 degrees. By noon, it was in the low 70s and nobody needed the gloves, layers, and down jackets they had stuffed in their cars.
I brought 10 sheets of fresh focaccia (five plain and five pizza) from our beloved Liguria Bakery in San Francisco’s North Beach. I’ve seen three generations of the same Italian family work at this bakery and I love nothing more than the first bite of tomato sauce and green onions on their “pizza.”
In the mild weather, we quickly set up a fire pit (thought it was so warm, no one needed it), set up banquet tables and covered them with red and white checked tablecloths. Some brought home-cured coppa and blood sausage; others store-bought sliced mortadella, salami, prosciutto, and turkey. My favorite is to slice apart the plain foccacia and stick a pile of mortadella in there. Mmmmm! Homemade chocolate chip and molassses-ginger cookies filled the table next to peanut brittle, gummy bears, and tangerines. My uncle Ken brought his famous Bloody Mary mix and all the fixings. My uncle Jeff brought three gallon jugs of the family red wine. For close to two hours, we all grazed and drank, catching up on each other’s news and talking about plans for the bi-annual family Christmas dinner.
Then, it was time to hunt. Me, Chris, and our twin daughters Fiona and Simone topped off our cups of family wine and headed up the hill. The trees are mostly pines, and some fir.
Layers and layers of leaves cushioned my steps. I saw moss, pine cones, and lots of different mushrooms and fungi. Bunches of mistletoe clung to the branches of dead oak trees. The California oak blight has killed off some many of these beauties in the last twenty years.
How big is too big?
Scale is an issue when you are hunting a mountain tree. A 15-foot tree can look pretty small in the woods next to ones that are forty-feet and higher. And we’ve made that mistake before. My San Francisco ceilings are 10 feet, so I need a tree that is around that height or less. I have learned to also consider the width of the branches. These Sugar Pine (Pinus Lambertiana) mountain trees stretch their branches wide to capture the sun and have big gaps between their rings of branches. Usually the height that’s right for us is a tree that has six to nine growth rings visible in its trunk.
After the hunt, there’s more grazing and finally twenty minutes of goodbyes and then the long winding drive home, praying the tree will remain wrapped in its tarp burrito when we hit cruising speed south on 101.
Each year is a snapshot into my family’s life. I remember hunting trees when my parents and all my uncles and aunts were younger than I am now (not much older than my daughters, in fact!) and my grandparents Dee & Pop were spry. (To be honest, there were some years when Dee used an artificial silver tree or a lot tree completely flocked with fake snow, but she always came for the tree hunt anyway and brought back greens, red berries, and mistletoe.) Now my generation’s grandparents are all gone. My nearly 86-year-old mom is now the oldest in the family. This year she sat by the fire and enjoyed the parade and conversations, rather than hunting trees. But she made it. My kids are the fourth generation to enjoy this tradition, and that warms my heart. This continuity in the face of change as we are born, age, and pass on.
Every year my mountain tree is different, has plenty of room to display my collection of ornaments, and I’m grateful for it and my family. Merry Christmas to all.
So much fun, love & madness! Long may it last.
What a beautiful tradition, Pia. Happy Holidays and hope we can see you guys soon.