The Kurnell is at home on The Hill

Rick Smith/Columnist

Editor’s Note: This marks the start of a new weekly column by new Jeffersonian Rick Smith.

He’s a rugged and resilient ol’ coot, characterized by toughness and a determination that has earned him the nickname The Kurnell. He lives to the left of our driveway atop our homestead, The View from The Hill. He is a Texas Hickory tree, a generic term for the botanically challenged, those unable to discern between Pignut and Shagbark hickories. 

It was a chilly November day in 2016. Ms. Ellie and I parked on the side of the road north of Linden, clambered over a fatigued fence, high-stepped through waist-high thickets (bushlands to big-city folks), and scaled a steep 300-feet hill in hopes of finding our future homesite. Construction began shortly thereafter.

Before the ink had dried on the purchase agreement, this extraordinary hickory tree became a favored tree on the property. At that time, he had not introduced himself as “The Kurnell.” That introduction came on a frigid winter day in 2017 following a year of wardrobe changes. Each season brought eye-catching transformations to The Kurnell’s profile.

In mid-Spring, The Kurnell was covered with male pollen-producing flowers, as well as female flowers that gave rise to fruit, highly prized by both humans and wildlife. In fact, Shagbark hickory nuts are known as the “black truffle” of the nut world, a favorite among feral hogs with a bougie propensity.

During late spring and summer, The Kurnell seamlessly blended into the landscape with dark green leaves that created a thick foliage, concealing his trunk and branches. 

It was during the fall that his personality really went places. He proudly flaunted long magnificent leaves of yellow and gold. With nary a shy bone in his trunk, he grabbed front and center stage for several weeks. 

The bone-chilling cold of winter completed The Kurnell’s annual life cycle. By winter’s onset, he had shamelessly disrobed and entered into his “nudey” tree season. A blanket of brown leaves lay piled around his trunk and beneath his branches. 

His war scar was evident in winter. The Kurnell’s lost the top of his main trunk a few years ago when he tangled with a tornado. According to local flora, it was a miracle he didn’t get the short end of the stick. 

Lele, one of the Red Oak sisters, dropped nearly a third of her acorns before her appointed time simply because she fretted to excess over The Kurnell’s wellbeing. “Life is not always as easy as falling off a stump,” sighed Becka, the oldest Red Oak sister. 

Miss Cedrus, an adjacent cedar, observed, “Even today, that boy ain’t short on looks. Older hickories just get betta lookin’ with age.” Several younger, more tender, cedar trees shook their heads, dropping handfuls of vibrant blue berries as Miss Cedrus rambled on and on about The Kurnell’s particularities and what’s-under-the-hoodness.

Those that know The Kurnell admire his uniqueness – uniqueness fashioned by the frenzied rage of a summer storm and the cold-bloodedness of winter. Season after season guests of The View from the Hill have delighted in his company, as have Miss Cedrus and the Red Oak sisters.