Spared by fire, tree is extolled by hikers

I’d heard about the lone surviving tree on the edge of the big burn, the jugs of water hanging from its branches to drip-feed the roots, and the notebook with entries from intrepid hikers who have made their way to the spectacular overlook.

And so I parked near the Hollywood sign and set out along the Hollyridge Trail, eager to find the tree and to leaf through the inspired musings of its visitors.

I couldn’t have picked a better day than Thursday. A Canadian storm was making its way toward Southern California, and the piercing sky was scraped clean in anticipation.

Before long, Santa Monica Bay shimmered in the distance, and Santa Catalina Island looked like a sleeping cat. Downtown Long Beach was a small bouquet, and I could see beyond the San Fernando Valley all the way to the Tehachapis. Millions of people were out pushing through another day, none of them as lucky or as blissfully alone as I.

But could I make it over two sizable outcroppings to Cahuenga Peak, elevation 1,820 feet, and beyond?

I’m no mountain climber, and the drop-off made me dizzy. Down the north face, a funeral procession was under way at Forest Lawn. One misstep and I could have rolled into the open grave ahead of the hearse.

Luckily, the hurdles weren’t as tough as they appeared, and I soon found myself up on the spine of Cahuenga Peak, with thick chaparral rolling down to Lake Hollywood on one side and nothing but charred terrain on the other. The Barham fire in March -- which preceded the Griffith Park inferno by six weeks -- had made it to the top of the mountain. Everything in its path, except the lone tree I was trying to reach, had been reduced to ash.

I came to the top of a rise, and there it was a few hundred yards ahead of me, a sprig of green standing bravely between heaven and hell.

With several one-gallon water jugs hanging from its branches, the lone pine looked like a popcorn tree. Some of the jugs had water in them, and I guess the idea is that condensation makes for a slow drip. The well-intentioned irrigation project might have made more sense just after the fire, but something tells me a 20-foot-tall, mature tree in the middle of nowhere has roots deep enough to find water.

But, hey, I didn’t want to spoil a good story about man climbing into the heavens in the service of nature. Besides, I was more interested in the poetry inspired by this rare sanctuary, so I reached for the plastic bag hanging from a branch. Inside were two notebooks, and I almost felt like I was opening a time capsule.

Out fell two business cards. One for Jose Homero Areliz of El Carrusel Bakery in Van Nuys, and one from Nick Caruso of Fly Rite Tattoo in Brooklyn. I’m not sure if these two friends of the earth were doing a little marketing or looking for dates.

One of the first entries in the notebook, on May 1, was a screed against someone named Ellie for carving her name in the tree.

“It’s not good that you have done this! In the future, take a photo,” said the note, which was signed The Friends of the Tree.

“No se escribe en el arbol!” another message implored, adding, in English: “Have some sense!”

I checked the tree and indeed, Ellie had carved her name on a branch. Sap ran from the cuts like yellow tears.

“Dear Tree,” Luis and Friends wrote on May 5. “Thanks for still being here to give us pleasure.”

Thirteen days later, a contemplative Rob Shillingford observed that “a beautiful tragedy always leaves one to tell the story.” I’m not sure what was troubling Rob, but his angry last line suggests he might be an actor who didn’t get a callback. He said of the tree, “It is unique and alone and strong in this god-forsaken town.”

One frequent visitor either hikes a lot or is living on the mountain as a wood nymph.

“I’m back again!” Aurora wrote on May 23 at 9:52 a.m. “Brought you some water.”

More than a few visitors addressed the tree of life as if it had survived the fire to prove God’s love.

“This is my church,” wrote Susan. “I feel like I’m receiving a special blessing each time I come.”

And guess who returned on May 27.

“I’m here today reflecting on yesterday and planning for a better tomorrow,” Aurora scribbled.

“What a lucky tree!” wrote Louise Thomas of Anchorage, who apparently hadn’t read all the tributes the poor pine has endured. It’s abundantly clear that no descendant of Walt Whitman has made the journey. Take, for instance, the June 1 entry from Tyke Johnson.

“GO TREE! We wub yew!”

Oxygen depletion, perhaps?

“Tree of Life! You stand tall against the fire on the mountain,” wrote Lee, who traveled from Pittsburgh to prove that literacy can be overrated.

But not everyone lost their sense of humor on the climb.

“Dear tree,” wrote Erik from New York, “if I were chocolate, I’d eat myself right now.”

“Hey,” wrote Dan from New York, “so I figured I’d marry the girl who came to the tree and read this.” He even left his phone number.

You out there, Aurora? Dan left his phone number for you.

On Sept. 14, Brian visited the tree to deliver some news.

“After feeling such anxiety and stress, a run to this tree always helps me to put life into perspective. Thank you Griffith Park and thank you tree!! I’m going to move to Indonesia for a while. Thanks for helping make that decision.”

A visitor named CH seemed a bit more laid-back than Brian.

“It’s a perplexing dichotomy -- chaos and order/hot and cool/destruction and creation. I must contemplate further. After I smoke some weed w/my dogs,” CH wrote. Wouldn’t you know the one who got closest to poetry was a doper.

But the prize for wry commentary goes to the unsigned writer of this entry:

“Dear tree, I love you, but I’m not ‘in love with you.’ ”

Before leaving, I made my own entry. The first reader who can tell me what it was will win a baby, nonnative pine tree like the one on the peak, water jugs not included.

Be forewarned, though. That mountain is on private property and not part of Griffith Park. Once owned by Howard Hughes, who wanted to build a love nest for Ginger Rogers, the tree and 138 acres around it are now owned by Chicago investors.

Before those nudniks put a sausage stand up there -- or luxury estates, as has been proposed, if you can believe such an atrocity -- I promise to chain myself to the tree. But rather than actually build, I’m guessing the owners might be using the threat to turn a tidy profit. Be sure to watch this space for an update on the city’s attempts to buy back the land and make it part of Griffith Park.

In the meantime, I hereby appoint Aurora the official tree fairy and ask her to protect it from fire, drought, Ellie, Chicagoans and all manner of wild beasts. I trust that she needs no further instruction.

And if you’re not married, Aurora, I talked with Dan from New York. He’s moved to Northridge and he awaits your call.

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