Enter the Russian Forest: The Story Behind the Name, Part Three

I’m picking up where I left off last time in the story behind the name, Birchtree Photography. If you missed any of the previous posts, be sure to read part one and part two.

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We were waiting for our lives to arrive. Everything we owned but the few suitcases of clothes and toys we brought on the plane with us was somewhere in the Atlantic ocean, slowly traveling by ship to Moscow. We could only take so many rounds of card games before our boredom reached a breaking point. My sister and I had created every imaginable storyline with our two dolls that we could, and we longed for something different to do.

And so, despite our unfamiliarity with a strange land, we ventured into the neighborhood forest. In a city of concrete block apartments and millions of people, parks were surprisingly easy to find in Moscow. The most common type was the typical courtyard playground, full of rusted metal structures, wooden benches, and old babushkas watching their grandchildren. These sorts of parks were frequented by young children during the day and restless, cigarette-smoking teenagers at night. But the other type of park, if it could be called that, was unlike anything I’d ever seen in Texas.

It was a forest, complete with dirt trails, tall trees, wild berries, and lots of people strolling along the paths. Amazingly, it was all within a five minute’s walk from our “flat” (apartment). One minute you’re passing nondescript gray buildings, the next minute you’re surrounded by the smells of spring–lush leaves, wide ferns, and shady trees. A strong scent of fresh mud and growing matter fills your lungs, detoxing them from the odor of burning garbage. It feels very otherworldly to my eight-year-old mind.

Those first adventures into the forest were akin to discovering a new (old) world. Each path would lead to a new area, each trail would wind past different trees. And the trees–they were again, unlike any that I’d observed in Texas. In Texas, the most common tree I saw was the live oak, a hearty, wide tree that stretches its twisted branches into all sorts of odd shapes. But the Russian trees–they were tall, slender, leafy, and green. Their branches were not so wide as they were high, blocking out the sunlight and casting a cool shadow along the forest floor. Here many smaller plants would grow: strange ferns, wild strawberries, slimy mushrooms, and Queen Anne’s lace.

But these findings were just scratching the surface of the wonders contained within the woods. We were still yet to discover a most profound scene that I shall not forget. But, I think it deserves its own story…