I met a tree thirty years ago. The meeting made quite an impression on me.

I met a tree thirty years ago just off a trail.

I met a tree thirty years ago just off the Lynn Peak trail in North Vancouver, British Columbia. I met this tree near the Blimp Lookout. The tree was not visible from the trail and you had to descend and walk through the forest for a few minutes to find this particular tree.

In most respects, this tree was not unusual. Its trunk was straight, solid, and healthy, much like its neighbors in this grove on the way to Lynn Peak.

There was one feature of this tree that was unique and worthy of shaping a memory that has lasted for decades. Partway up the trunk was a ring of rope. There was a single knot in this accessory, with a short stub of frayed rope emerging from the knot. The end of the stub of rope had been cut. The rope rested in a significant depression worn around the tree trunk. No other tree in this patch of forest showed any signs of interaction with humans.

I remember meeting this tree because it was a suicide tree.

At the time of this meeting with the tree, I was a member of the North Shore Rescue Team—an elite search and rescue team based in North Vancouver. This team specialized in conducting search and rescue missions in alpine and wilderness environments.

One day, I received a call asking if I would help with a special mission. A man came into town and requested the rescue team guide him to the site where his son had died by suicide some time ago. I agreed to help, and arrangements were made for me to meet him in the parking lot of Lynn Headwaters Park a few days later.

I cannot remember much about the fellow except he wore worn hiking boots and proper outdoor clothing. He had done a fair bit of hiking in his past, but he was older now and I wasn’t sure how often he ventured into the outdoors. He was pleasant and polite, but we didn’t talk much as we made our way up the Lynn Peak trail. He was in front and I followed while pointing out which way we should go at various spots. We took a lot of breaks as we ascended, as he was breathing hard most of the way.

Along the way, he told me it was important for him to visit the location of his son’s suicide if we could find it. He didn’t tell me anything about his son or the reasons for the suicide, and I didn’t ask.

We walked uphill for a couple of hours and then when we got close to the Blimp Lookout, I radioed the base and reported our location. The team had recorded the coordinates of the tree we were looking for when the body of the man’s son was cut down from the tree and recovered.

A helicopter was at the base of the mountain and was dispatched to fly to the tree coordinates. The plan was that the helicopter would hover over the tree and mark the location. It only took a few minutes for the machine to arrive near our location. As the helicopter hovered over the tree’s location, a team member threw down an unraveling roll of flagging tape. I had my compass at the ready and was able to take a bearing to where the flagging tape was dropped. Once I advised the helicopter I had my bearing, the helicopter left the scene.

My companion and I traveled on the compass bearing for a short while and we found both the flagging tape and the tree. The father took a camera out of his pack and snapped a series of photographs. He started with some shots that attempted to capture the entire tree from a distance and then moved closer to take pictures of the rope from a variety of angles. Then he took a couple shots of several cigarette butts scattered near the base of the tree. His son was a smoker and he spent some time smoking before ending his life. I counted seven cigarette butts on the ground.

When the father finished taking photos, he put the camera back into his pack and turned to me.

“Could you give me a few moments alone?” He asked.

“Sure, there’s no rush to get back.”

I headed back upslope toward the trail but rested in a spot where I could discreetly keep an eye on the father. He was my responsibility on this outing.

Initially, he just looked at the tree and didn’t move. He was deep in thought. There was no need to move.

After a while, he put one hand on the tree and leaned toward the trunk. At that moment, he hunched forward with his back to me and swayed back and forth. I couldn’t hear him, but I could tell he was sobbing. His head kept bobbing up and down, but he never moved his hand off the tree. I think he kept his hand just below the ring of rope. He cried for a long time, and I did my best not to watch. Instead, I looked at treetops swaying in a slight breeze and focused on the sounds of a few birds passing through the area. The birds were not very loud so the forest was very quiet.

I am not sure how long I sat on the forest floor and watched a father grieving over his deceased son. I did have a sense that it was a long time.

Eventually, the father started walking toward me and I stood up and walked toward him. His eyes were wet and he was sniffling a bit.

“Thank you. We can go now,” was all he said.

“Okay, let’s head up this way and get back on the trail.”

When we got back to the trail, we both looked down toward where the tree was. We didn’t say anything, but I suspect the father was saying a final goodbye to his son and I was saying goodbye to a particular tree.

As on the way up, the father led the way down and I pointed out some turns we had to make. We made good time on our descent and when we got to the parking lot, we said our goodbyes and went to cars in different parts of the parking lot.

“Thank you for helping me with this.”

“You’re welcome.”

When I reported the end of the task later that day, I learned that the father would head back to his home in eastern Canada the next day. I suspect he would never come back to the tree in the future.

While I don’t remember much about the father and his son, I do remember the tree with great clarity. I recall the texture of the bark, the colors of the trunk, and that ring of rope resting in a depression around the trunk. I can picture the cut and frayed stub of rope coming off the knot in the rope. I remember the gentle breeze encountered in that small patch of forest that made the frayed strands of rope twitch back and forth.

Over the past thirty years, there have been occasions when I think about that tree. I have never visited again. There have been a couple of occasions where the memory of that tree causes me to take a deep breath and sigh. On a couple of other occasions, I think about the tree and the father’s sadness, and I have a short cry for no apparent reason.

I don’t know if the tree still exists. It has been thirty years since I met the tree. It may have blown down, a fire may have consumed it, but I would like to think the tree is still alive and standing in silence in a little forest grove.

Standing where it has survived for decades, with a ring of rope around its trunk.

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