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

This First Person article is the experience of Kristine Thoreson, who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. 

For over a decade, each November, we’ve headed west 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.