Confessions of a Tree Hugger

Well, it will all come out now, so at last I can talk about it. Soon it will be in all the papers, and despite the grief and suffering that my family will be caused, I’m glad in a way that I will no longer have to live a lie.

You see, I am a man who likes trees. Yes, I know what you’re thinking – we all like trees, don’t we. They’re green and pretty, and the parks are full of them. But you don’t understand. I am what is called an arboriphile. To use the common derogatory term for it, I am a tree hugger.

No one really knows how the condition starts. My analyst says some small event in my early childhood may have triggered it. There may also be a genetic predisposition, but that is purely speculative. Even normal kids spend a lot of time climbing trees. Trees serve as hiding places, lookout posts. They are a place to go that grownups cannot follow. But whereas most kids eventually move on to other interests, I did not. Because, you see, I like the feel of bark.

In their early teens, boys begin paying attention to girls, and going out on dates. I did not join them. Instead, I would go off by myself and take long walks in the woods. How the others would taunt me! “Well, if it isn’t Woodsy Owl!” they would say. “Hey, Woodsy, why don’t you join the Boy Scouts?” And so that’s what I did.

Yes, the Boy Scouts was exactly where I belonged. For the first time I began to be aware that I was not alone – there were others like myself. Not only did we learn about the forest, and go on hikes, we even spent the night there. Surrounded by trees! This was getting serious.

Well the Boy Scouts got me through my teenage years. As I matured I learned to better cover my tracks. I went off to college, got married and raised a family. Deep inside, however, I was unchanged. I felt there must be others with a similar inclination, and I was right. I found my kind in the Democratic Party. I became a Green, and I campaigned hard, working for the election of Al Gore. But I was leading two lives, and it was only a matter of time before things caught up with me.

I think the first my wife suspected was the time she found a spot of pine resin on my collar. Shortly afterwards she uncovered my secret book collection. Field Guides. Filled with picture after picture of trees in every aspect – diagrams of their leaves and buds, and bark patterns. Even trees in winter, completely bare! Between the pages were the leaves that I had collected and pressed – souvenirs from each of my encounters, each carefully annotated with the date and place.

How, you ask, could I have been so naïve as to keep such a detailed record? Surely, I must have wanted someone to find me out. And find me out they did. My wife had me followed, and one day I was confronted with incriminating, undeniable photographic evidence – a picture of myself in the arms of an American Elm.

Now I can only ask for help and understanding. I take aversion therapy, learning that trees can be malevolent as well. But it will take time.