Pilotage

The only downside we discovered about moving to southwest Florida at the beginning of winter is that there aren't any Christmas tree farms. Sure, plenty of trees were for sale on corner lots, at plant stores, and by fundraising Lions Clubbers. They're real trees, too, with prickly green needles and sappy trunks. Problem is, we've established a family tradition of cutting our own. Every December in Maryland — and, later, Missouri — we'd go to our favorite commercial tree farm with saw in hand and trudge the fields, looking for that perfectly shaped, height-just-right, straight-trunk evergreen. Of course, each of us picks a different perfect tree; the 7-year-old usually prevails.

It was difficult enough for our son to move to a subtropical climate and abandon all hope of snow over the holidays. We couldn't give up our tree-cutting tradition on top of it.

Enter the family airplane. Like Rudolph and his rosy nose, our Cessna saved the day. Here's the story:

I had to leave the airplane in Kansas City while we moved our belongings and two cars to Florida. In early December I headed back to KC, in part to retrieve the airplane. Before I left, my wife had what she thought was a brilliant idea: "Why don't you cut a tree and bring it back with you in the airplane!" This appeared brilliant to her because she had priced local trees at $35 to $100. Self-harvesting could save us a few bucks. Also, like my son, she wasn't quite ready to let go of the warm and fuzzy feeling that comes with working to get your tree (even though modern commercial tree farms make sure that it's only a little bit of work — they supply the saw, direct you to the choice trees, shake the cut tree to remove loose needles, stuff it in a net, and carry it to your vehicle if need be).

"Sure," I agreed, feeling the warmth and fuzziness welling up inside me.

So that's how I found myself at the Pines and Needles tree farm in north Kansas City on a chilly December Sunday afternoon. The place was due to close in 10 minutes and wouldn't reopen until the following weekend. I'd be long gone by then, so I had to get busy. I borrowed a saw and headed for the nearest stand of dark green trees. In the gathering gloom the field looked as though a logging company without a conscience had swept through — at least half the trees had already been cut. Tiny stumps marked their locations like miniature gravestones. I was feeling neither warm nor fuzzy. Cutting down a Christmas tree is a family project, not something one does alone. But, I had promised my family that I would bring one back. I soldiered on.

My criteria for picking the perfect tree consisted of two items: price (it had to cost less than any tree we could buy off the street in South Florida or this would turn out to be a foolish adventure) and height. The cabin of a 172 is about 8 feet long from the front to the back windshield. But that was not all usable space as far as tree transport goes. I would have to maneuver the tree into the cabin through one of the doors, which open only to the wing strut, or about halfway. Before heading out to the tree farm, I took a tape measure to the cabin and estimated that a 6-foot-tall tree would be about right.

I found my perfect tree over a slight rise, on the edge of the field. It didn't have a tag on it, which meant it was $4 a foot. (The tagged ones were $5 a foot.) I quickly sawed through the spindly trunk and carried it in one hand back to the barn.

The guy in charge stood the tree up against a measuring pole. "Six foot six inches," he declared. "Twenty-four dollars, plus tax." I asked him to shake it hard because it had a long way to travel and wouldn't be placed in water for three days. The woman who took my money asked for my current address to update their mailing list. I told her that we had just moved to Florida. She struck my name from the list, then mentioned that there is one "grower" — commercial Christmas tree farmer — in Florida, but it's in north Florida. I thanked her and took my tree.

Putting the tree in the airplane was a two-pilot operation requiring sophisticated crew resource management. My partner, Greg, and I worked well as a team despite never having practiced the maneuver in a simulator. I had stuffed the netted tree into a large white plastic bag to protect it and myself. It didn't weigh much at all, but it was bulky. We fed the bagged tree into the cabin trunk-first through the passenger-side door. Greg pushed; I steered. It went in without a lot of trouble. The tip had to be bent over to get it past the doorway, but once it was in, the tree stretched out full length and looked quite comfortable.

The long flight was, well, long. The tree rode quietly and, in fact, made the journey more pleasant for me by scenting the cabin with its soft pine breath. At the fuel stops the linemen looked a little askance at what appeared to be a body bag in the cabin. I explained, but their wariness only turned to incredulity. I could hear them thinking: "Now, lemme get this straight. This guy is personally flying a fresh-cut Christmas tree 1,000 miles just so he can save $10 or $15?" I wanted to say that I was bringing the airplane back anyway, that I was upholding a family tradition — and, besides, this was my wife's idea. But I didn't. Instead, whenever I stopped, I fitted foil sunscreens to the insides of the windows so that people couldn't peer inside.

At the destination I endured a final raised-eyebrow look from the guy who parked me, then introduced my wife and son to our Christmas tree. They were thrilled. The tree had survived the flight and the even-more-difficult trip home in the trunk of the car.

That evening I sawed a few inches off the base of the trunk and secured the tree in a stand, and then we decorated it. My wife and I thought it looked a tad diminutive and wanted to set it on a small stand to enhance the perception of height. My small son branded that a silly suggestion; it was the perfect height for him.

Later on, the Gleasons, our friends from down the street, came over to see this hand-cut, hand-flown Missouri tree. They politely ooohed and ahhhed, then asked how much it cost to make the flight. I hesitated, not really wanting to face the numbers. "The fuel was about $210," I finally answered. I could see them struggling to comprehend the logic of our tree strategy. "And where did you get your tree?" I asked, trying to divert attention from ours.

"Wal-Mart," they said. "Spruce. It's about 8 feet tall. Cost 25 bucks."