The sun drops low in the sky over the lake and casts a golden glow on my trunk and limbs. They are brittle now. My sap has stopped flowing, and the end is near. The years of harsh northern Wisconsin winters, the heavy rains, and the passage of time have taken their toll. I couldn’t muster enough energy to green up this year. I’m just plumb worn out. 

The property owners, Frank and Amy, study my bare limbs. “The Tamarack doesn’t look like it’ll make it,” Frank says.

Amy nods sadly. “How old is it?”

“It was a good-sized tree when my parents bought the cabin in ’65, so it’s probably a hundred years old. It’s been a great tree.”

My tired limbs tingle at the praise. I always enjoyed being useful and remember the first time a ruby-throated hummingbird nested in my branches. The female liked my soft, feathery needles. She built her tiny nest using lichen, moss, and spider silk. And when her chicks hatched, oh, the excitement. They sure were cute little buggers. 

I’m also proud of the fact that my branches provided shade for many folks over the years. Amy would sometimes write under my branches. Many folks enjoyed sitting underneath me while they visited or watched the little ones swim, catch frogs, or tube around the lake. With the fire pit near me, I feel I’ve been a part of the family’s fried fish cookouts with gooey marshmallow roasted S’Mores for dessert. It’s been a great life.

I’ve had a perfect view of the lake’s fourth of July fireworks and I’ve watched the resident eagle catch fish and then bring it to its favorite perch in the nearby dead pine tree. Countless families of mallards, wood ducks, mergansers, and the family’s pet ducks and their special goose have entertained me with their antics. Yes, it’s been a great life.

And not to brag, but I’ve added to their enjoyment with my shape and delicate needles. Over the years, folks admired my cheery, bright lime green color in the spring and my pinkish cones that turned deep red and then a rich brown. I must say, though, that I looked my finest in the fall. My needles turned a brilliant yellow-gold that dazzled and brightened the landscape.

I’ve been a hardy soul, enduring many brutal winters. There were a few harsh years when blizzard after blizzard dumped snow that threatened to bury me, but I survived. Those severe winters made me understand why the Algonquins named me “tamarack” which means wood used for snowshoes. People have also used tamarack wood for fence posts, boat building, and house frames. Owner Frank used his wood lathe to turn four durable napkin rings out of the tamarack stump that used to stand just a few feet away from me.

“I hate to see that old Tamarack go,” Frank says. “I think I’ll save some of the wood and turn a few bowls.”

Amy pats my trunk. “That would be nice. It’s been a special tree. Maybe some of its seeds took root.” She wanders around searching.

Over the years, the wind blew many of my cones about. I, too, hope one of them landed in fertile soil where it opened and dropped my seeds. The moist earth might have allowed it to sprout. That hope sends a feeling of peace flowing from my roots to my trunk and up to my crown.

I’m thankful for the many magnificent sunrises I’ve seen. I’m ready to settle in, now, and soak up my last sunset. Sunrise; sunset. It’s been a great life.