I am more in the tree than under it. Poked by sharp needles, butt wet from the snow I must crouch in to reach the trunk. I push, pull, push, pull with a dull, foldable saw that binds easily in the sappy wood. At 9,000 feet, I am sucking wind and my heart is pumping.
All in all, not a great experience.
But after ten years, it is a tradition. Maybe? How many times before it counts as tradition?
Building traditions is a heckuva lot harder than cutting this tree down, mainly because I don’t believe in tradition. I want to believe, but I don’t understand them. They feel meaningless.