Which Way Tree
Please tell me they didn’t chop up this beautiful oak to match the questionable historic narrative.
Sounding a lot like a dramatization of events, this story claims that Sam Houston and his army fled to the area west of Tomball in north Harris County after the fall of the Alamo in April 1836.
“Near the junction stood a large oak tree with limbs pointing in each direction. One branch pointed northeast to safety beyond the Trinity and Sabine rivers. The other branch pointed to Harrisburg and to war. As his men took a midday rest beneath that tree, Houston must have considered those roads and reviewed his options. As the story goes, Sam supposedly looked at the tree and found his answer.”
Using the word “supposedly,” it says Houston must have weighed his options for his next tactical move and got his answer from…
You guessed it: the TREE!
Certainly seems embellished, but that’s hardly uncommon among stories from this important chapter of Texas lore. Brushing up on my history, I read the fascinating book Forget the Alamo: The Rise and Fall of an American Myth, published in 2021 by Texan authors Bryan Burrough, Chris Tomlinson, and Jason Stanford. As they articulate, story varnishing is nearly standard practice.
After getting blown away by the astounding Beck’s Prime Oaks in the morning as well as the lucky-to-be-alive Kissing Tree, my kid and I hung a right to view a third specimen on the way back home to Dallas from Houston. Not unlike my Pokemon-Go like quest for trees leaving San Antonio, we were growing weary when we shoe-horned in this visit.
In a quaint, fenced in park filled with beautiful pines and stone picnic tables, nestled over in the corner, this large live oak has numerous lumps on the main trunk where limbs have either fallen or perhaps been cut. I can’t tell if the branches are pointing the directions the story claimed. From the scars, it appears that at one time, it had stems pointing in every direction.
Please tell me someone didn’t chop up this beautiful oak to match this questionable narrative.
Kiddo was happy to play around for a few minutes but quickly got bored, both of us ready to be home. Circling the trunk, I snapped stills and an uninformed short video before we made like a tree…
Which Way Tree stands in New Kentucky Park at 21710 FM2920, Hockley, west of Tomball in north Harris County.
Aaaaaand I got the name of the tree wrong
Recommended reading:
'Forget The Alamo' Author Says We Have The Texas Origin Story All Wrong Heard on Fresh Air June 16, 2021
Letters From an American July 7, 2021 by Heather Cox Richardson
Kissing Tree
Though it has been there longer than anything in the vicinity, the moss-laden Kissing Tree looks out of place
We celebrate the early days of love: first dates, first kisses, love songs, engagement parties…
This oak, named because of its “popularity among couples” and for the numerous proposals that occurred under its boughs, is not the only historic tree whose story involves kissing, marriage proposals or schemes to make love remain true.
During the long slog of my divorce, which took almost 2 years, I obsessed on song lyrics, searching for my story of betrayal in song form. (Actually, I still do this). Pay attention to the lyrics of sweet, happy songs; they’re about the beginnings of youthful unions. Not hard to understand why songs about middle age separations do not sell. Even breakup songs rarely include details from decades-long relationships with custody issues, shared pets, mortgages…
(Ok, well I mean, country songs get into it).
Coming directly from lunch under the huge oaks at Beck’s Prime in Houston, winding a path back toward Dallas, my kid and I followed google maps to a gas station and parked a little away from the pumps, easily spotting the Kissing Tree from a distance.
I know I keep saying this, but seeking adventure in travel and repeatedly finding a barely altered version of the exact same places that you see at home anywhere in the U.S. — corporate restaurants, gas stations, dental chains, identical housing developments — it’s disheartening to say the least.
Though it has been there longer than anything in the vicinity, the Kissing Tree looks completely out of place in the scraped away suburban park they barely set aside for this well over 200 year old live oak (Quercus virginiana).
Majestically ancient, simultaneously haggard and robustly full of life, this enormous specimen is like some kind of hobbit tree — out of which you could easily imagine a little gnome might come crawling. Spanish moss drips off of the long branches like dreadlocks. That day, a tarp-like glob of black plastic lay wrapped around a sign requesting that we not park on the grass.
Surrounding it, a homogenized subdivision, almost bereft of natural life, likely built in the last 20 years or so. Newly planted live oaks, pines and elms lined the Bermuda grass covered medians nearby. Temporary buildings grouped over by the gas station have clearly been there a while. No telling how many older trees were plowed down to put up the houses. You can tell they almost took out this incredible old tree to flatten the space for construction.
You can tell they thought about it.
If it hadn’t lost most of its foliage (like all the other live oaks) from the low temperatures in February, the umbrella of branches would create a secluded environment, perfect for, I guess, making out.
Bringing to mind my own earliest (not all that romantic) experiences of being kissed — my first: on a cruise ship with a group of teenagers watching, next, on my very first date in a movie theater, and a bit later, at a high school drill team hayride — I realized all three shared an uncomfortable public aspect.
As a teen, when my insecurities were extremely amplified, (or have they gotten worse?) I obviously had no idea what I was doing. I suppose seclusion is both desirable and/or potentially dangerous when you’re kissing someone, but the alternative — having an audience — is just weird. Voices in my head were shouting at top volume and high speed. I could not possibly process this confusing, yet fascinating onslaught of new information… aaaaaand others were watching.
Is this ok? Wow. So much saliva! Am I doing this right? Who knew tongues could feel so gigantic? Does this mean he likes me? Is anyone else doing this?
Is the whole group of kids staring at us? (Yes)
Are we going to watch any part of this movie? (No)
Shit. My teacher is right next to us (she would later shame me, of course — and not him)
And maybe somewhere in there — Is this fun? Does this feel good to me? (Kinda yeah)
The tree’s history says there was, thankfully, a grassroots effort to save it when it was threatened with destruction. (Had to have that new Circle K). Calling it the “last reminder of the early settlement years,” they weren’t kidding. Everyone seems to be working as fast as possible to obliterate anything that isn’t recent. Nearby you can pop into My Guns Depot, the Quick Quack Car Wash and I Heart Boba. Hooray for progress.
We didn’t actually see this rather pitiful sign on the other side of the plot of land, but while playing Pokemon Go in tg car, my kid got this screen shot from the location-recognizing video game, letting us know who provisioned the tiny park that saved this amazing tree.
Thank you Commissioner!
I jumped out of the car, filming my first reaction while my kid scampered off towards the trunk. I guess I popped some car snacks (almonds) into my mouth because I’m talk/chewing for a minute. Forgive me :/
Walking under the canopy, I got confused by the record button, believing I was capturing footage; actually hitting the start button when I thought my video was over, you can hear me realize what happened. Obnoxious construction noise from across the street is quite audible in both little movies.
I start second guessing myself watching the videos that take me back to that day. I should’ve stayed longer! I should have made a detailed drawing or just sat and listened to the wind. But there were jack hammers right across the street. Traffic whizzing by. The next time we visit, the new strip mall will be open for business. Though the old oak was astounding, it was not a peaceful setting in which to linger.
My kid enjoyed a break from the car, but his attention span was that of an eleven-year old. Soon we were back on the road heading north with another oak to be tracked down along the way.
Kissing Tree stands in Kissing Tree Park just south of the intersection of T.C. Jester and Louetta in north Harris County. (North of Houston, but south of the Woodlands).
Map It!
See also:
Treaty Oak
Kissing Oak
Beck’s Prime Oaks
Have you ever lowered your expectations on purpose?
Does everyone do this?
Do you automatically prepare for the worst, to set up the possibility of getting pleasantly surprised when it turns out not-so-bad?
Not sure it’s a great idea to publicly acknowledge the weird little ways I operate in daily life, but I tend to forecast negatively. In a mental layer somewhere underneath that, there is a hint of optimism - that it will all turn out fine. But without thinking about it, I default to fear of getting my hopes up and suffering disappointment.
I’m not saying it’s a healthy habit. I even have a little name for it.
I call it: Pessimism as a Defense Mechanism.
When I mentioned to our host at the wonderful Modern B&B that we had come to Houston primarily to seek out trees for my project, she strongly suggested that we visit some she knew about, near a burger place called Beck’s Prime.
You HAVE to see these!
My interest piqued, I was more than a little dubious, wondering if they were worth finding, especially since they aren’t on my list.
However, her other recommendations were excellent, so my kid and I headed there for lunch. Nearing the location, with the inevitable bumbling to pinpoint the exact GPS spot, I caught sight of a group of live oaks and I felt the dismay I had prepared myself for.
Ok yeah. Those are pretty big, but nothing to get excited about.
These turned out to be younger “cousins” to the more gigantic specimens nearby
We found parking near the front entrance and I then glimpsed what our host had urged us to see, which far exceeded anything I might’ve imagined.
With the urban landscape squeezing in around them — a high rise in one direction, a library and dry cleaners in another AND a brick paved drive-thru path woven around them, it’s a wonder these two gigantic, magical specimens have held up. Like the last two live oaks I visited, they had lost much of their foliage, but yellow-green baby leaves sprouted in recovery from the record low February temperatures just a few weeks prior.
Kiddo aptly called the incredibly looooong stretching branches tentacles; a fresh descriptor word for which I’m always thankful. The intertwining limbs of these two giant octopus-like oaks create an enormous shady canopy. Wooden buttresses hold up the lowest appendages from touching the ground, covered in crispy resurrection ferns yet to show new life.
A little wooden sign stated that they are over 400 years old, which means their seeds would have germinated around the 1620s.
I get this question a lot: How old are the trees?
There aren’t many easy ways to determine age. Variable situations increase or slow growth over the decades, so some with poor conditions may not look as old as those in favorable locations which appear more mature. The definitive way to know for certain is to count the rings, which, of course, would mean cutting it down. We are left with estimates and I’m not sure who calculated this one or how they made their assessment.
We enjoyed lunch on the extensive wooden deck in the dappled shade. This raised platform protects from foot traffic and allows rain to the roots. We spent a long time wandering around taking photos.
I can’t believe they thought a drive-thru was a good idea here, but even with vehicles idling in the to-go lane, there’s a calm, peaceful energy under the canopy not typically associated with fast food. Everyone in the vicinity smiled at us.
Last summer, while sprinting to cram a bunch of tree visits in one day, I jokingly compared my frantic search to the slogan for Pokémon Go — Gotta Catch’Em All! This time my (almost) twelve-year-old played Pokémon Go in real time and the video game recognized our location.
A screenshot of my favorite photos created this thing
Foreboding Joy
It amazes me how often I need a reminder of the same thing I KNOW I have learned before. I joke about placing billboard hints in my driveway or stapling profound quotes to my forehead so it will finally sink in for good.
When I was going through my divorce, my sister suggested I look up (Houstonian) researcher of vulnerability Dr Brene Brown. I’ve since devoured her podcasts and long form interviews on YouTube.
She names the exact defense mechanism I use daily and eloquently defines my negative default as a typical type of “armor” we use in attempt to shield against pain.
Take 6 minutes to hear her break this down with Oprah.
After my marriage fell apart, I more or less stopped working in my garden, which I used to blog about. I lost the urge to cultivate home and made up this tree project for myself, seeking adventure exploring the state that I have called home for most of my life.
Though my lowered expectations worked out for me this time, Brene points out that these habitual mind tricks don’t keep upheaval or loss away from us. It’s kind of heartbreaking to acknowledge how my mind is working behind the scenes to not feel pain again. I’m trying to notice myself lapsing into that protective habit and practicing gratitude in its place, as she recommends.
In the presence of something tremendous and unexpectedly beautiful like this, thankfulness bubbles up on its own.
Pondering the cell structures in every bit of bark, I get mentally cosmic. Just imagine the jillions of events, big and small, that have transpired in 400 years… Or all the myriad steps it took to preserve these massive living things in the middle of the largest city in Texas.
They were a wonderful start to our day of tree visiting. Many thanks to Lisa for encouraging us!
The Beck’s Prime Oaks are located near the corner of Augusta Dr and Westheimer Rd.
2615 Augusta Dr, Houston, TX 77057
Liberty Courthouse Oak
The most interesting thing about this tree wasn’t the tree
Serving as sort of a consolation prize after an aggravating change of plans, the most interesting thing about finding this live oak wasn’t the tree itself.
Hoping to visit Houston’s Museum of Natural Science with my son during Spring Break, I neglected to check their website, which would have told me that it was the free day. This discount opportunity creates an unbelievable traffic surge in the area.
After waiting in an excruciating looooooong line of cars, watching vehicles milling around the already full lot and carloads of people walking up from parking locations unknown, another problem emerged: I desperately needed to pee.
Hearing screaming children, I imagined long crowded lines, high entry fees and covid stress. I finally couldn’t take it any longer and just gave up, pulling away from the line of stalled traffic. We made like a tree — and left (leafed?) to locate a restroom.
Life just doesn’t go according to plan.
Sometimes you’re forced to revise and come up with something else.
It seems stupid now, but at that moment, I was near tears, despite my sweet kiddo’s attempts to chill me out.
Somehow I remembered the list made by our impressive host at the Modern B&B and blazed toward her recommendation. After soothing Indian food (and bladder relief), I had a new idea.
With rush hour traffic picking up, it was nearly an hour long drive to Liberty, Texas. Leaving the big city highways for the vast suburban sprawl east of Houston, there was not a minute of visual break from gas stations, fast food and strip malls littering the landscape.
Directions were clear to the courthouse on Sam Houston street, where the Liberty Oak lives, but typical of my bumbling driving style, I managed to make a wrong turn.
All who wander are not lost.
I immediately noticed beautiful older trees in the neighborhood surrounding the courthouse.
Feeling a bit of tension wanting to find the “real” tree, I reluctantly bypassed these non-famous specimens, locating parking around the courthouse exterior.
I gotta say… this one was not a looker on this particular day.
I’ve seen quite a few Quercus virginiana by now and this one just didn’t do much for me.
Seeming a little stark and municipal in front of the limestone courthouse, it didn’t help that the record low temperatures we experienced in February sent evergreen live oaks into stress and they all dropped their leaves (like the Twin Oaks I hunted down a few weeks earlier).
Video is 1 minute and 19 seconds of your precious time
The book photo isn’t much prettier, but you can see it looks more leafy and robust in this Google street cam screenshot from a previous season.
History states that the tree was documented during an 1831 Mexican election to name the area Villa de la Santissima Trinidad de Las Libertad—Town of the Most Holy Trinity of Liberty. Famous Texans: Sam Houston and William Travis later had offices in the courthouse.
The frustratingly written book uses the following paragraph to hand out a gold star for the fact that nearby streets were named for not only Sam and William, but also Mexican Generals: Antonio López de Santa Anna and Martin Perfecto de Cos.
“Successfully reconciling past loyalties, the plaza and courthouse are on Sam Houston Avenue, a block away on either side are streets still named for their old Mexican Leaders: Santa Anna and Cos.”
- Famous Trees of Texas
Yep. That’s all it took to reconcile everything! Are you kidding me??? This kind of oversimplification drives me crazy.
Nearby streets named for Alamo heroes Travis, Crockett, Bowie, Austin and Lamar. Of course I noticed Milam street because another historic tree in San Antonio was named after that guy.
Cos St looks like a misspelling
For what it’s worth, Santa Anna Avenue is a major thoroughfare, U.S. Highway 90, (on which we drove in from Houston), while the road named for General Martin Perfecto de Cos, a block away from the courthouse, is just Cos St. It looks like a misspelling.
Who would see this street sign and know what that meant? I forgot everything I might have sorta learned in 7th grade Texas History class, so I certainly did not.
Resurrection Ferns (Polypodium polypodioides)
In Dallas, where I know most landscape plants well, I tend towards overconfidence when it comes to botanical knowledge. However, I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t recognize the epiphytic ferns covering the limbs. You can hear me stumbling over my words in the video, trying to name them. Ferns? Moss? Ferns.
A frond from this exact plant serves as the logo for the company I work for, but since they aren’t winter hardy farther north, I was unfamiliar with the little fronds. I had it in my head that resurrection fern grew at the base of a redwood tree or something…?
After taking the regulation number of photos, we went tootling around to check out the other neighborhood trees.
One gorgeous oak seemed like an old friend with much more warmth and beauty (even without most of her leaves) nestled next to a lovely home and garden. She was undoubtedly alive in 1831 as well and could probably hear the election hubbub from a block or two away.
I wish my great aunt or grandmother lived here so I could visit
Imagine what it must have looked like walking through a grove of these thick live oaks before any roads or structures were around. Driving through the neighborhood streets, you could almost envision it. Wandering a while seemed to kinda smooth over the earlier defeat, so we hit the road back towards Houston feeling like the day was salvaged.
Big Sam Monument
This 77 foot tall monument is unmissable even at speeds of 75+ per hour.
Have you ever driven by this gleaming white thing?
The 77 foot tall monument is unmissable even at speeds of 75 miles per hour.
Visible from way out yonder along interstate 45, it’s a weird sight blaring out of the highway landscape.
Texans will recognize this retina searing sculpture of the first (and third) president of the Republic of Texas, Sam Houston.
On our way down towards Houston to do some tree hunting on spring break, my son and I had the opportunity to visit this historic statue in Huntsville, Texas, the place of his 1863 death.
This kind family offered to take our photo (during a pandemic, when we had little contact with strangers).
Twin Oaks
Would you trespass to get a better look at a tree?
Please respect private property when viewing these trees.
Sitting in my car with the window down and my mind racing, I stared at the little fence in front of the house. I had driven two hours to get here, but was just grasping that this was not a public space. This was someone’s home.
Just a few weeks after the crazy Texas winter storm, with record breaking low temperatures that ravaged Texas landscapes, I took off to hunt down the Twin Oaks.
Driving south from Dallas sipping Topo Chico, I savored my Spotify playlist at top volume, appreciating the sense of perspective that comes from getting my eyes on the horizon, moving away from the city weekend traffic. The calming effect is noticeable as the billboards thin out and open spaces, grasslands and occasional groups of animals take their place.
Hamilton County Courthouse
Motoring through the thriving town of Hico (Texans pronounce this high-coe), folks in masks wandered around rejuvenated buildings, restaurants and antique stores. Not far down the road, my destination: Hamilton, seemed a stark contrast, like a land that time had forgotten.
The word that came to my mind was: dilapidated.
There is a nice court house in the town square, but the other businesses looked faded or closed.
Following GPS through town, I turned and started to enter what looked like a residential driveway.
This can’t be right…??
I pulled over to look up the Famous Trees of Texas web page on my phone, thankful to get a cell signal in the small town.
Ohhhhhh. This one is on private property.
You can deduct the amount of planning that occurred beforehand.
With trepidation I drove down the long gravel driveway, surrounded by shrubs creating an enclosure, leading to a circular drive in front of an older blue house with white trim. The Twin Oaks were visible, behind a low metal fence. I deliberated whether or not I should go any further.
Should I just stay in my car???
Or could I get close enough to take a few photos? Do I need permission?
Were people watching me from inside the house wondering what the heck I was doing in their driveway?
I considered going up to the door of the house, but after a morning alone and a quiet drive, the idea was unappealing.
I imagined cheerful elderly folks answering the door, “Oh yes! We get visitors all the time wanting to see the old trees.”
Hmmmm Really?
How many people even know they’re here? I know how much I dislike solicitors knocking on my door.
I thought about Noska, the tattoo artist whom I stumbled upon, in a wild coincidence, when trying to locate the tree called Old Baldy south of Austin. He’s hunted these trees for years from the same book. He told me he had spoken to landowners and jumped fences.
At that moment, I felt like he was brave and I was a chickenshit.
I did not want to go up to that door. I was still just sitting there mind-spiraling in my vehicle!
My imagination swerved into another scenario of some confused old woman with a walker chair answering the door, wondering what in the world was some random stranger doing knocking on the door? Musty smells came to mind and images of the nursing homes where I had visited my declining grandmother as a child.
I couldn’t do it.
Knowing that several of these historic trees don’t allow visitors at all, I finally decided that showing respect meant it was best to stay on the outside of the fence. Turning on my phone video and leaving my car running, I anxiously tip-toed over to get a look at the historical markers, nervously whispering to myself. These metal signs seemed to validate the excursion. This place holds significance, instead of being just some half-baked idea in my overthinking head.
This little marker tells the most concise version of possibly the worst Friday night ever.
A guy sets off on a mule to attend a dance in a neighboring town….
That right there just sounds so miserable. All alone, seeking company, with nothing but a mule to reach your goal.
But it went steeply downhill from there.
Wandering along at a mules pace, Indians ambushed him. He tried using the animal as protection from their arrows, but alone and outnumbered, he didn’t stand much of a chance, nor did the mule, whose wounds were mortal. Running to the Twin Oaks for cover, the story claims he wounded the chief with his rifle, scattering the the others, but he barely survived. An arrow was removed from his spine, then he died a few weeks later.
The first edition book includes a rambling account of how some little girls discovered him and how other men went out to avenge his death, to no avail. Dropped in the 2015 version, the emphasis is placed squarely on the bravery of the white man against the savages. In fact, the reason this whole incident was considered historically important, was that he was the last man killed by Indians in Hamilton county.
This tale is told with a clear bias.
In 1970, when this account was published, you might hope that perhaps we’d have begun to acknowledge the deep complications inherent in U.S. history with native Americans, but the tone, like several others in the book, was more akin to an old cowboy movie.
Since their name sounds like that of an apartment complex, the title Siamese Twin Oaks might’ve been a more descriptive one for these live oaks, whose conjoined trunks sprouted in two directions from the same spot, typical of the genus.
You can see from the book photos that they used to look more alike. The main trunk of one twin was recently chopped off leaving a long, leaning stump with some scraggly branches sprouting along the edge of the cut. The so-called twins no longer resemble each other at all. They looked especially weird since dropping most of their foliage during “Snowmagedon,” as did all live oaks in Texas.
From the limited vantage point outside the fence, I snapped a few photos, but felt a constant tension as though I were trespassing.
The little video I took has the only record of an odd detail which was a complete surprise at the moment: A MULE(!!) standing off in the distance behind barbed wire.
I whispered hello, calling her a donkey. I honestly don’t know the difference.
Was this coincidence???
Now I’m wondering… Wait.
Are these people really into the historic tale behind these oaks? Enough so that they kept a mule as a prop to go along with the account of the guy riding off to the dance??
But the mule was killed!? My racing thoughts backflipped, reconsidering making contact with people in the house.
Why didn’t I get any still photos of the mule/donkey?
As I quickly documented the twins, she started BRAYING quite loudly, snapping me to attention from my internal Spirograph. Sounding like something from a children’s book, or county music sing-along show, it’s really an incredible sound for a city person with very little animal knowledge to experience:
Haawww Hee Hawwww HEE HAAwww!!!
Was she a guard mule? Did she think I might feed her? I hadn’t noticed a group of sheep until then, but they decided the mule was on to something and they started up. BAAAAAAH! MEHHHHH!
This certainly seemed like my cue to leave, but I felt so stupid just taking off after being there only a few minutes. Whyyyyyy do I ALWAYS feel like I’m doing it wrong? This is not an assignment. Its MY project!! It’s ok to leave.
Except it’s a let-down. There’s all this anticipation, mapping, forcing myself out the door on a lazy Saturday, realizing I have to get things checked on my car before I can go, driving two hours… I finally get here and it’s downright awkward.
But I did it. I hadn’t visited a tree since my birthday, so I kinda got back on the mule, so to speak.
Driving away, my brain tingling with adrenaline, everything seemed vaguely interesting and I wasn’t ready for the adventure to be over. Wandering the town roads, I spotted a magnificent Redbud (Cercis canadensis) in full bloom. On this gloomy day in mid March, it called out to be photographed. With the rest of the landscape so trashed by the storm, its dazzling colors stood out as the only thing of beauty in the vicinity. Tiny flowers covered the leafless branches splaying out in all directions.
The built up mental pressure lifted and I noticed how much more relaxed I felt shooting this tree without the nerve-wracking discomfort of being watched.
Coming down from self inflicted stress, I stopped again to shoot two leafless, but statuesque live oaks near a small cemetery. They appeared older and more twin-like than the Twin Oaks. Almost every area where a tree might have a name or documentation, there are stately anonymous cousins nearby.
After that, I turned and headed back up the main road towards the highway.
Founders Oak
Walking up to an unusually gigantic and oddly sprawling tree like this is definitely the kind of experience I hoped for when I started this project.
Photo by Johnette Alter
So, after I realized that the closest trees to my San Antonio birthday weekend destination were not exactly in the vicinity, I had to take a chance on cramming the rest of the visits into the drive home on Sunday.
Navigating I-35 towards Dallas, none of the stops were major detours, so I got my mind set on seeing them all, hoping my dear and patient friends would go along with it.
Google coordinates led us to a Landa Park on the Comal river, which is fed by natural springs, in New Braunfels, Texas.
Hopping out of the car, we spotted several big trees in the distance and started walking towards them before getting confused by another. It didn’t take long to notice a stone plaza type thing around an enormous and gratifying tree, larger than all the decoys.
Undoubtedly benefiting from the nearby river, this massive Texas Live Oak (Quercus fusiformus) leans away from the water and has nearly fallen over, but continues stretching and growing toward the sky. Large limestone brick pillars were built to support two huge trunks from further falling, but they seem to be slowly crumbling under the weight. A protective wall, added in the 80s, and iron fencing keeps most of the public from climbing on the tempting low branches.
Just wow.
Walking up to an unusually gigantic and oddly sprawling tree like this is definitely the kind of experience I hoped for when I started this project. There’s nothing like seeing a monstrously huge piece of nature to make me and my concerns feel really small. I never get enough of this feeling that instantly generates a visceral understanding of where I fit in the cosmos, which is most certainly not the center. I took a quick video of my first impression.
Because it’s leaning over, you view the structure differently than you would a classic upright specimen. Live oak branches extend out long, and these almost horizontal limbs allow you closer to the upper canopy. One of the longest branches is held up by supports, just feet above the concrete path. The book entries don’t mention this, but the on-site plaque claims that this was a seedling in 1700, putting this specimen at 320 years old!!
It says there is a possibility that native Americans might have weighted down the branches to indicate their direction of travel. Perhaps these claims are unsubstantiated?
Photo by Johnette Alter
Random detail: This metal tablet mentions Ferdinand Lindheimer, known as the “Father of Texas Botany,” stating that he arrived in Texas in 1836 to assist the revolution against Mexico. He collected botanical flora from all over central Texas. Lindheimer Muhly grass (Muhlenbergia lindheimeri) is my favorite of numerous plants named after him.
Lindheimer Muhly grass (Muhlenbergia lindheimeri)
Last measured in 2009, the trunk was 17 FEET(!), 2 inches in circumference, with a height of 50 feet and a 100 foot spread.
It has undoubtedly gained width and girth in the decade following. The monumental size and unusual form of this amazing tree makes it my second favorite of the all the famous trees I’ve seen so far. (The Houston Campsite Oak is currently in first place). If you feel an urge to visit any of the trees on my list, I highly recommend these two.
The 2015 edition of the Famous Trees of Texas mentions that the oak was named by 10-year-old Heather Stockhorst in a contest set up by the Parks & Rec, during New Braunfels 1985 sesquicentennial celebration.
My nature-loving friends were impressed and completely relaxed, taking their own photos and some of me as well. Feeling dorky and self-conscious, but knowing that seeing a human alongside this living sculpture provides visual scale, I posed in the sweltering August heat before we made like a tree and left to hunt down the the Church Oak.
Church Oak
This one paled in comparison, but nonetheless provided a blessed cool-off that felt miraculous in the Texas heat.
The amazing Founders Oak turned out to be a tough act to follow.
From Landa park, it’s a quick jaunt over to see this Live Oak (Quercus virginiana), outside the Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Church. Had I done any research ahead of time, I might’ve planned to see this one first. Though its twisty form makes it look like one of those scary trees in a movie that might come alive and try to grab you, on this burning day in August, after the thrill of the bigger tree, its impact was significantly diminished.
There is a weathered tombstone type marker at its base, with a somewhat more recent sign sort of thing attached, that notes a bit of history from the Texas Historic Landmarks Association.
Stating that a Catholic mass was offered under the tree 171 years ago in 1849, this info means the tree must’ve been large enough to offer shade at that time. How many years old was it back then? Easily 200 years old now.
Does this make sense to you? Inscribed on the marker are the following words: “Folklore says that here, in the dawn of Texas history, stood an Indian village in which one of the early missionaries lingered many days; that here a vision of the chief's daughter freed the first German in Texas. Tradition says that under this tree Mass was offered by the Abbe Em Domenech in 1849.”
The brief wording on this sign is odd, beginning with the vague phrase “Folk-lore says” … (and in the same tiny paragraph, “Tradition says.”) Linked to the previous sentence by a semicolon, it also includes this confusing piece of a sentence: that here a vision of the chief’s daughter freed the first German in Texas.
What???
I mean seriously, what does that mean? The book entry is no help. It consists mainly of wording direct from the memorial stone, stating that its history is lost except for the legend on this marker. Dang it.
As afternoon neared, it was hotter than hell. The shade of the old oak wasn’t enough for us modern types, so the obvious solution was to go to church. We popped inside the empty building to cool off for a minute.
Thank you, Jesus!
The beautiful old church looks like a fortress on the outside, with an interior plan in the shape of a cross. We appreciated the stained glass windows inside as well as the blessed air conditioning.
We didn’t linger. I was happy just crossing it off the list. Locating a lovely restaurant nearby with a shaded patio, I realized that I had a short video of my phone swinging in my hand walking back to the car, as I had pressed the buttons wrong when I believed I was recording. We sweltered outside in order to steer clear of covid
This lovely angle that the book photographer captured makes me wish I had been a bit more patient that day, but it was hot AF and a car was parked right there in that spot the whole time.
Kissing Oak
My tree hunt resembling the Pokémon Go game slogan: Gotta Catch ‘em All!
Skimming the eyebrow-raising (or perhaps eyebrow-lowering) story that accompanies it, I got interested in seeing this oak in our San Antonio hotel room,
Sunday afternoon, after a birthday weekend of some indulgence, my patient friends were weary of my tree detours and ready to get home. A craving for accomplishment gnawed at me. We’d already seen two in New Braunfels and I had my heart set on seeing two more in San Marcos. Crossing a couple more off my list excited my inner nerd.
Yeah, ok, now my tree hunt resembles the Pokémon Go game, with its annoying slogan: Gotta Catch ‘em All! (Can you tell I’m a mother of an eleven year old boy?) As we neared the highway exit, I could relate to addicted gamers, feigning nonchalance as I mentioned maybe we might just check out one or two more?
Feeling the time pressure, I drove right past the site and the obscure landmarks listed near the campus of Texas State University and the San Marcos river: a Boy Scout Lodge and some American Legion building. Circling back, it dawned on me that there was a tall chain-link fence surrounding the tree. Is the Boy Scout lodge under construction or what? I never found out.
This qualifies as my least inspired tree visit so far.
From what I could tell, this was yet another old, but comparatively not astonishing live oak, and the barrier certainly didn’t help. Like the Church Oak we saw before lunch, it couldn’t possibly surpass the spectacular Founders Oak we visited first.
Ok, so tell me if you think this is cringe-y...
Like the beginning of a Hallmark movie, the 2015 update of Famous Trees of Texas opens with the saccharine question: How powerful is a kiss?
In anticipation of his appearance, some local ladies got together to sew a Texas flag to present to then senator, Sam Houston, the eventual first President of the Texas Republic, who (unsuccessfully) campaigned for governor under this tree 163 years ago in 1857. This was obviously a simpler time, but you’d think these ladies had something better to do.
After receiving this gift and making his speech, (which reportedly went on for FOUR HOURS WTF???) he went down the line, kissing each of the ladies who contributed. I guess this really made the papers, as this is why the tree got documented. The older book uses the word “incident” describing this moment that provided a name for this historic oak, but attempts to portray the whole thing as charming: “...he gallantly bussed each to show his added appreciation.” ICK. We’ve all heard of politicians kissing a baby or whatever, but in a modern light, this just seems questionable.
The newer edition brings up a bur oak (Quercus macrocarpa) that lived on this site which, in 2012, developed health issues serious enough that it was slated for removal. Some folks were upset that maybe this was the real Kissing Oak about to be destroyed! Foresters from Texas A&M Forest Service estimated the age of the remaining trees in the area and decided that the largest live oak, as well as the bur, would’ve been there at the same point in history. Since this update frustratingly divulges none of their age calculations, it’s tempting to believe the bur oak they removed was the notable specimen which prompted the speech location in the first place…? I wonder if perhaps this live oak could now be showing symptoms of ill health?
My pals didn’t even leave the car, so I just ran over a snapped a couple pics in the blazing heat. Squinting in an unflattering selfie in front of the fence, the searing sun turned my transition lenses dark. There was no awe, no inspiration, no reverence. I got back in the driver’s seat, with another Pokémon added to my growing collection.
(The quick scribble is supposed to be me catching tree Pokémon—see the little targets on them?🤓).
Log Cabin Oaks
Of all the reasons for which to ruin a grove of trees, a parking lot is one of the more depressing.
Transformative experiences motivate me, but this time I was propelled to satisfy my collection fever. Leaping from my car, phone in hand, my Tree-Pokemon game continued.
Keeping their complaints to themselves, my fellow adventurers allowed me to conquer my last quest of this voyage.
A two-lane road, heading towards Texas State University splits the cracked and weedy parking lot of a dilapidated, possibly defunct (or closed on Sunday???) storefront, labeled Colloquium books.
This is where we located what was once a grove of trees under which early settlers built a log cabin that became San Marcos’s first county courthouse 170 years ago in 1850. Now diminished by urbanization, if you were groovin’ on a Sunday afternoon down Moon Street, (just a couple of blocks from the (chain-link fence encircled) Kissing Oak), you might not realize that these live oaks, nearly swallowed by asphalt and cement, were significant.
Of all the reasons for which to ruin a grove of trees, a lot for cars is one of the more depressing. Searing hot asphalt during brutal Texas summers destroys surface roots. Not to even mention the compression of traffic, impervious paving smothers off oxygen, water and nutrients to the roots, slowly, but steadily killing the trees. These oaks are likely 200 years old!
Park somewhere else.
Could one, perhaps, carefully remove the asphalt, I wondered?
I tried googling this question, envisioning a restoration project. Instead of answers, I found disturbing questions.
Why so little regard for these irreplaceable living artifacts? For trees in general?
Why is a driveway more important?
Sigh.
You can tell I was in a hurry as I briefly documented the group on video. Trotting over, a bit confused by the lack of log cabin or historical marker, (Did I miss these in my haste?), I called the tree the wrong name.
One specimen, sandwiched between a sidewalk and the street, has a bloated nub, covered in an intricately furrowed pattern of bark— a healed-over branch removal wound from long ago.
Clearly elated at hitting my goal: five tree visits over this momentous birthday weekend, my goofy smile in the video says it all.
