I was not more than five or six when I first climbed one of the many trees surrounding my family's property. On the way up, nothing had ever felt more natural and as I sat high above to observe the forest around me, I felt both powerful and content. Unfortunately, making my way down was not as easy as climbing up. It was well past supper time when my brothers came looking for me and spotted me clinging to the tree trunk, too scared to make any sort of movements.

After a while of laughter and jeering on their part, they left to fetch father. By the time he sauntered on out of the house, already dressed for bed, I was nearly down. He waited in silence until my feet touched the ground, then proceeded to chastise me--not for risking my health in climbing trees, but for missing dinner and being out past dark. He then forbade anymore tree climbing, and said should I do so again and end up hurting myself, I would see no sympathy from him.

For a while, I listened. However, I often found myself looking out my bedroom window and reliving that thrill I got during the climb, as well as the terror I experienced when I discovered I had to eventually get down. Such a memory might deter most children, but I took it as a challenge and every time I glanced out at the forest on the edge of the property it was as if the trees were egging me on.

I took to scaling the trees when my father was gone on business, which was often. It gave me ample time to get up and down the trees until I found the courage to leap down from one of the lower branches instead of wiggle the rest of the way down the trunk. Eventually, the trees became my safe haven when my elder brothers were bored and sought me out for entertainment. Neither of them ever tried to follow me up into my trees.

One late afternoon, I was feeling especially daring for some reason. I had been trapped inside for most of the day, suffering my asinine studies of etiquette and family history and I was anxious to get out and get some mud on my shoes. I decided to ignore the fact that my father was home for the evening already, and I set out for my trees.

It was a tree I often sought solace with. It was especially tall and had plenty of cover so no one could see me perched on a branch high above the ground. I was comfortable with this tree, and climbing was second nature to me now. So you can imagine my shock when half way up, the branch I was using to pull myself up snapped.

The next thing I knew, I was at the foot of the tree, clutching my arm with  the breath knocked out of me and tears streaming down my face. When I regained some of my senses, I noticed that I was not alone. My father, who had probably been watching me the entire time, stood over me. I continued to sob and try to put together some kind of coherent sentence, and he continued to stand in silence. Finally, once my sobs had subsided into hiccups and sniffles, he spoke up.

"That hurt?"

I nodded feebly.

"Good. Go inside and get cleaned up for dinner." He turned and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back at me with a critical eye. "Do not let me see you crying again."

I did as he said.

Again, most kids would have allowed such an event to keep them away from trees for good. And for a while, I did. It was as if my trees-- my trees-- had betrayed me, I thought. Well, that eventually just pissed me off more and once my wrist had healed I returned to climbing them. I still fell, and every time my father was there to watch me while I struggled with the pain.

I never cried though, not in front of him. I had made the decision to go against what he told me. He was just holding up his end of the bargain. I decided to climb the trees, the falls and resulting injuries were my problem.