What Happened When I Decided to Get My Tree From the Mountains on Christmas Eve

It’s Christmas Eve a few years back and I’m shopping for presents for my wife and kids in a Flying J truck stop near Idaho Falls, Idaho, choosing among an array of camo hoodies, American eagle-themed insulated cups, Duck Dynasty ball caps, saw-back hunting knives, and heavy-duty jumper cables. Poor holiday planning has put me in a jam. . .

It’s ten at night and six degrees when I reach the alpine forest. With my high beams switched on, all alone on the dark road, I cruise along and look for a good spot to park on the shoulder and launch my hunt. No spot appears much better than any other, so I pull off at random and search inside my car for gloves or mittens and a winter hat.

No luck; I didn’t need them in California. I decide this is fine because I shouldn’t be out long. I unfold the saw and zip up my light coat and step out into the powdery new snow. It’s packed flat near the car, but once I enter the woods it reaches almost to my knees.

The profusion of suitable trees I expected isn’t evident at first. Some are the proper height but lack girth. Others have girth but are only three feet tall. Most are ten feet tall, or taller, and block the pale trickle of moonlight as I trudge on.

Up ahead, I discern a promising candidate, but when I walk up beside it and examine it, I discover it has no boughs on its backside. Luckily, there’s a nicer one further on, so I head off in its direction. By now I’m suppressing shivers, and my sneakers – canvas; I put them on when I left Malibu — are icy stiff and hard to lift. And the tree turns out to be ugly. Hideous. (Read more from “What Happened When I Decided to Get My Tree From the Mountains on Christmas Eve” HERE)

Delete Facebook, Delete Twitter, Follow Restoring Liberty and Joe Miller at gab HERE.