COTTONWOOD

Of our senses, we know that smell is most powerful when it comes to evoking memories and emotions. Regardless of when it was or where you might have been, a particular smell can transport you back through time and space. Whatever it was that you were doing that you associate with that smell, you get to go there again. I remember melon patches, cantaloupes and water melons; I was old enough to help in the garden. When I got down to turn a melon, to check it out, see if it was ready; there was a smell that I will forever associate with melons. 

‘Hemiptra’ is the scientific name for an order of insects, true bugs. They include aphids, assassin bugs, cicadas, stink bugs, box elder bugs; there are over 50,000 different species of true bugs. Stink bugs are a family within the order that feed on plants and carry an unmistakable odor. When I was a boy the only time I encountered it was in the garden, close to melon vines. I remember seeing fingernail size bugs, crawling on stems and leaves, on the melons themselves. The smell is potent and pungent but not particularly offensive. Curious as little boys are, I let those bugs crawl on my hands and up my fingers like lady bugs, which are actually beetles, not bugs at all. Then the stink was on me and had I known, I might have come away, turning up my nose and not liking it. But I loved the melons and by association, loved the smell. Sometimes when I go to the farmer’s market, where local growers bring in their fresh produce, straight out of the patch, I catch the scent and it takes me in a heart beat, back to childhood and the melon patch. 

Deer hunting for the first time was a great adventure. It was late October, on BLM land south of Montrose, Colorado. With a borrowed .257 Roberts rifle, two of my friends took me with them on opening day of deer season in 1970. It was important that we be in place at sunrise. They dropped me off on the road and went ahead. Separated by a quarter mile each, we would work our way up the mountain side and meet at the tree line. If one of us got a deer, we would field dress it and drag it back down. The others at the top would be able to see us on the road below. A cool, early morning mist would burn off as soon as the sun came up and I began my assent. The morning would lead me through several open meadows and aspen groves. As the air cleared and daylight prevailed I was climbing, immersed in the power of simply ‘Being there.’ You climb a while then stop, look, listen for a while but truth be known, you need a rest and breathing deep is both a joy and a need. I was having a very real deja vu moment when I became aware of a woodsy smell that I hadn’t noticed before. It was more subtle than stink bugs but evoked a powerful sense of the moment. If I never saw a deer, my day would be fixed in memory forever. 

Poplars are a genus of trees with about 30 different species. In the Rocky Mountains, cottonwoods thrive at lower elevations and aspen flourish as you gain altitude. Young trees have white bark and leaves that shimmer in the light, rustle in even the slightest breeze. Those leaves have a straight, flat edge at the base that is perpendicular to the petiole. The two remaining edges are serrate, converging in a point at the tip. Cottonwoods grow larger, have bigger leaves; but the general shape makes them ‘kissing cousins’.

The next year we moved to a house on the other side of town, with big cottonwood trees up and down the street on both sides. By September the trees had already begun shedding leaves. One morning after a rain, I walked out the door and was blown away by the smell of deer hunting on the mountain side. It didn't take much to figure out the source. When aspen or cottonwood leaves drop in the fall, they still contain wax and oils. All they need is a light rain or heavy dew to bring out a magical, natural, potpourri aroma. Forty five years later I have a 90 ft. cottonwood in my back yard that I can count on, all through late summer and fall to release that awesome combination of chemicals. All it takes is some moisture in the air and the wind to be right. Last night, mid winter, I dreamed about the family of screech owls that lived in the big cottonwood, in front of our house in Montrose. They would line up in the evening, four of them, on a low limb and make noise until the wee hours. I even dreamed the smell of cottonwoods and it woke me up. If you love your smart phone and your hybrid car, but you know not smells and odors that are naturally resplendent, putting technology to shame, changing your life without a battery, then you are incomplete: you have been short changed.