After a decade of hunting Christmas trees, I've learned to cherish many gifts from the forest

For o'er a decennium, apiece nov, we’ve headed w of Calgary to “hunt” Christmas trees on provincial Crown land. One for inside — by the fireplace, dressed with 20 years of collected ornaments — and one for the covered deck, strung with simple white lights to glow in the quiet hum of the city at night. A nod, perhaps, to my Norwegian heritage. 

I’ve been part of the excursion since my stepson was in elementary school. From the beginning, his dad encouraged him to make the final decision on the trees. Were they too skinny? Too wide? Would they be pine or spruce? 

My stepson is 21 now. This year, with great skill, he scouted for upturned branches that wouldn’t crack under the weight of our heavy ornaments and steered us away from fine, feathery branches that would. I noticed that he had developed a real eye for the task: scale, symmetry, how the shape would feel in the room and how the lights would hang just right.

Our family ritual has changed over the years. Once there were dogs barking, little kids laughing, friends with hot chocolate, grandma, pies and a crackling fire. In 2015, we even convinced Milo — my Malamute cross — to jump into the crowded truck with us. He loved outings but hated vehicles of all kinds, somehow gripping the ground with every ounce of strength when we tried to coax him inside. 

That day, he must have known it would be worth it. Instead of bounding through the snow with us, he hunkered down beside the fire on his cosy dog bed, content to watch the ritual unfold from a spot close to the snacks.

Anyone who has met my partner John, knows he brings absolutely everything on these day trips: folding tables, sleds, camping chairs, festive red-and-white napkins and long-handled roasting sticks. After the hotdogs (meat and vegetarian options) we devoured pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream and nutmeg alongside steaming cups of coffee laced with Baileys. One year he even brought jaffle irons; the group baked hot cherry pies over the fire and sprinkled cinnamon on top.

But this year it was just the three of us, so he packed only the saw and the sleds, one tote and a small cooler. Instead of piles of snow or bitter cold, the morning was an average kind of early winter day — mild and bright, with only a trace of snow on the ground. With a permit in hand and our old festive tuques tugged down over our ears, we rolled on beyond the hamlet of Bragg Creek as Christmas carols hummed through the cab of the truck. 

Cars and trucks streamed past us, back toward the city with newly cut Christmas trees strapped to the roofs and stuffed into tailgates. The roadsides were busy with families hunting and chopping. We giggled and exchanged glances when we passed a family using an electric saw, the long, yellow power cord plugged into the car and stretched across the ditch and into the trees. We’d never seen that technique before. 

As we drove farther west, the sky clouded over and snow began to fall — big, puffy, movie-like snowflakes that make everything magical. It was perfection. 

We pulled on our snowpants and boots, jumped out of the truck and spread out across the clearing, calling to one another as we spotted possibilities. We circled back to confer, imagining the tree all lit up in the living room. We listened closely to hear mountain birds while we munched granola and then laughed as we remembered last year’s pileated woodpecker carving out a hole, chips of wood flying in every direction.

Voices echoed from a nearby thicket — our spot was a popular one that day — but no one stopped to talk, and that was OK. We were there for the forest after all, avoiding the crowds of work and school, the networking and the emails.

But this year, a decade on, something had shifted within me. I did a little less hunting and a little more noticing. It was the soft snowfall and the coldness on my cheeks, the yip-yip of a squirrel somewhere back in the trees and the strength of my stepson as he hoisted the tree, the bright white snow softly sifting off the boughs onto his jacket. He carried it out as if it weighed nothing. 

My aching shoulder was quietly relieved, and I was struck by the fact that he stood as tall as his dad. 

The smell of spruce filled my nose. The deep, earthy green of the needles calmed my mind. I became aware of, and admired, the small dens along the forest floor, built by tiny creatures all settled in for winter. I photographed the prickly branches, which seemed to remind me to take care as we made our way through.

About a week later, I came across Margaret Atwood’s poem The Moment. In it, she describes how the natural world doesn’t really belong to us — that we are only visitors who belong to it for a short while. 

And then it clicked.

Each year we returned to this same area, and it felt like visiting an old friend. Together we followed familiar paths, breathed in the crisp air and fell into a rhythm — evergreens, learning and laughter. 

Somewhere between the campfires and the snacks, the rolling hills and soft winter light, something larger has been unfolding. I see now that the land has been the most constant member of our little group. The kids all grew up, friends moved away, the old dog passed, yet the forest remained — giving shape to our time together and quietly nurturing our spirits. It was watching us grow. 

In the end, cutting our Christmas tree became less about what we took and more about what we made together. We didn’t own the place or even the moment. We borrowed them. We warmed our hearts with the day, carried our favourite trees home and built a meaningful custom.

When the holidays end and the Christmas lights are packed away, what remains is a deeper kind of gift: a sense of belonging rooted not in possession, but in tradition — one that the next generation is ready to make its own. 

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Freelance contributor

Kristine Thoreson is a writer and photographer based in Mohkinstsis / Calgary, whose work explores family, place, and the natural landscapes of Alberta.

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