It happens the same every year.

We park the car, unfold ourselves from its confines, grab the saw, and begin our trek.

We march hundreds of feet – nay, miles (OK, not really miles) – into the forest. Emily leads us all about. Here and there. Hither and thither (I can’t believe “thither” is a word.) To and fro.

Hours pass. We stop to examine trees, poke through little groves, measure the needle to branch ratio, and with a brisk shake of our respective heads, move on. Will we never find our tree?

Then, as weariness sets in and the light begins to fade, we begin to loop back around in the direction of the road.

As we near the pavement and sounds of passing vehicles grow louder, we stop. What’s that up ahead? Why yes, that tree looks halfway respectable. Let’s get closer.

And lo and behold, this is the one. A perfect, Charlie-Brown-reminiscent specimen. We cut it down, and our attention redirects to finding our vehicle. And, as with every year, it is there, not twenty feet away from our chosen tree. Tradition prevails.

It reminds me of that quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Life is a journey, not a destination.”

It seems finding the perfect Christmas tree is also a journey, not a destination.

If you live in Colorado and want to experience this journey yourself, click this link for more information about making the trek.

Mom thought the “weird one” would fit our sensibilities best. (She’s right, but we didn’t take this one.)

Proof I too was on this trip! (Also proof  that my shins have produced odd growths. Emily, what did say was in the turkey?)

The first casualty of the trek. A branch punctured Elise’s shoe. It seems nature is fighting back.

It’s a survival thing, due to this. Look at her go!

Timber! (She didn’t yell timber. I somehow feel incomplete.)

We like to make our youngest do all the work. It builds character. Also, she’s the strongest. No really, she could beat me in an arm wrestling match.

The end. (My family is rambunctious.)