I dread this time of year, when summer is drawing to a close and animals are preparing for the coming cold: apple-picking time. There is a lovely crabapple tree in our yard. It is gorgeous in spring, in the first flush of blossom, wearing the softest shade of pink that fades to snowy white as the buds open and call to the bees with their soft scent.

But now, as fall approaches, it is not such an innocent vision. Red apples dot its green mantle, like beacons to the hungry. Shortly after we bought our house, we had a visitation. A black bear breakfasted in the regular apple tree, lunched in the crabapple tree, and then dined in the mountain ash at our back door. I freaked out. A friend took the apple tree to his orchard. The bear destroyed the mountain ash, leaving only the crabapple. Since bears are attracted to the apples, not the tree itself, I determined to remove every last fruit. That worked for a few years, but the tree puts up a fight, and this year was nearly the end for one of us.

Please understand: I love trees. Somewhere I have a picture of a youthful me on a camping trip, hugging a tree. I actually burst into tears when we cut down our first tree here. So, I approached the crabapple tree with all the respect and love possible. I was concerned for its well-being and read up on proper pruning techniques to improve its health. But was this love and concern reciprocated?

No. That tree hates me. It snags at me when I am working in the garden – poking at me with its scraggy branches. At first, I thought it was just carelessness on my part or an accident of the wind. Now I know better.

Apples were bountiful this year. Even though there were more than I knew what to do with, they had to be picked, to prevent bears from endangering my family’s safety. I started with the apples closest to the ground, pulling the branches gently to reach as high as I could. The tree retaliated, slapping my face with leaves, dropping scratchy twigs down my clothing. Then, I brought out a ladder. Stabilizing it is a challenging feat, since the tree was planted on a slope. I placed the ladder carefully near the trunk and climbed into the tree. Stretching, reaching, always conscious of footing and balance, I plucked apples, dropping them into the bag dangling from my arm, stuffing them in pockets when the bag was too tangled in the tree. Then, WHOMP, the ladder crumpled. I can only assume the tree hauled off and kicked it. I held onto the branches and called for my husband. He straightened the ladder and I climbed gingerly down to alter its placement.

By now, I was beyond grumpy, and berated the tree. “Look, I AM going to have those apples. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” I pulled out my secateurs, clipping away crossing sprouts and broken twigs. This did not improve the tree’s mood. Even though I know autumn is not the optimum time for pruning an apple tree, I was not going to be clambering up that ladder again anytime soon, so if I could pick the apples by pruning the branches off to get them, so be it. I brought out my loppers and climbed upward. I spied the target branch, stretching high above my head, reaching for the sun, and loaded with apples. I wrangled the long-handled loppers into position through the tangle of branches and twigs. The tree tried to prevent me from opening them far enough to do their job but my persistence prevailed. THUNK – I severed the branch. It should have fallen straight down, but the tree caught it in its weave of limbs and held it tauntingly just out of my reach. My voice rose as I angrily claimed the branch as mine. Using the loppers, I batted the branch towards my grasp and then, just as I was about to win the Battle of the Branch, CLUNK – the tree dropped it on my head. “STUPID TREE!!!” Defiantly, I pulled the apples from the branch and retreated to the safety of the ground.

Some people are lucky and have lovely and ancient Historically Significant Trees on their land. Well, OK, maybe that is only in Europe and Britain, where they designate trees like the oak Queen Elizabeth I ate lunch under (leaving her green silk shoes behind), or the Scottish yew that may be the oldest living thing in Europe. But, no, I have a tree notable only for its similarity to those in the forest of the Wizard of Oz. I suppose it could be worse. I might have a Harry Potter Whomping Willow.

Happy Halloween!

This article was originally printed in the BERGEN NEWS and is being reprinted with permission.