Planting Sequoias: Excerpt from Jeremy Collins' New Book

Excerpted from EVENTUALLY A SEQUOIA: STORIES OF ART, ADVENTURE & THE WISDOM OF GIANTS by Jeremy Collins (September 2025). Published by Mountaineers Books. All rights reserved. Used with permission from the publisher.

 

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From Chapter 5: The Places That Scare You

Eventually a Sequoia: Stories of Art, Adventure & the Wisdom of Giants

By Jeremy Collins

From my elevated perch in the sycamore, I could see the police searching for me. Their flashlights darted between houses, beneath bushes, and under cars, but oddly never upward. My heart was beating like a school marching band through my chest, but apparently, they couldn’t hear the drum line down below. Surely they’d see my toes over the edge of the limb, like a lineup of baby birds. The officers scoured the neighborhood and interviewed each neighbor. My poor mother cried. But still, I didn’t budge from my lush green camouflage.

Up in the tree, I was a kid trapped in fear. How furious was my dad going to be that I had broken the glass top of his home office desk? The desk’s platform was a hollow paneled door, reclaimed from who knows where and elevated by painted cinder blocks in the corner of my parents’ bedroom. It was practical and frugal, like my dad. The offense was an innocent accident, but that didn’t matter. In my mind, I had committed a felony and would be punished. Maybe prison. I knew I couldn’t stay up there forever, and eventually I felt less guilt about the desk and more about the anguish I was causing my parents. At least I could repair one of those infractions by simply showing up, apologetic and late to dinner.

Whatever anger my dad had about the desk was cooled by the relief of my return when I entered the house with my head hung low. My guilt and empty belly were punishment enough.

That was a lifetime ago now, but it still stands out to me as an early moment when I felt safe in a tree like Shel Silverstein’s famous greedy boy. I remember being above it all for a moment, and I suppose trees still offer me that escape today—not from my dad, but from the madness and overwhelming speed of the world.

 

The pages of Eventually a Sequoia are a collage of original art, text, photos, and other storytelling sundries. Photo courtesy of Mountaineers Books.

 

Growing up without internet, cable, or even a VCR, my brothers and I found our backyard to provide immediate access to entertainment and an escape. Stepping out the back door was like exiting the hatch of a spaceship. We used our imaginations without devices to inform us about the world.

We caught crawdads and lizards and would walk miles into the forest before they became suburbs again. It was western Missouri in the 1980s, and though our house was quaint, the yard in our minds was immense. It was a place to play, explore, and yes, hide. I can still sense the rough bark against my back, the sharp edges digging into my bare feet, and ants running over my toes.

My mom raised us to go outside in any instance: Bored? “Outside!” Obnoxious? “Outside!” Too hot? You get the picture.

Just a couple of miles away at my Grandpa Bill’s house, an oak sapling he called “the Jeremy Tree” grew in the front yard. Grandpa “Tiger” Bill planted it front and center of their home when I was born to celebrate their first grandchild. One of my strongest memories of him was his baritone singing voice, which I loved to hear. We would drive down to the lake in his pickup truck to go fishing, and Grandpa Bill would push in a Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson eight-track into the dash. I didn’t know the lyrics yet, but I would hum along with him to “Ring of Fire” and “Man in Black.” I still do.

 

A visually abundant and uplifting book, from start to finish. Photo courtesy of Mountaineers Books.

 

After the Jeremy Tree, Grandpa planted a maple out back for my brother Bryan and another for our cousin Jennifer. Then he apparently gave up when twelve other cousins appeared in a matter of a couple of years.

Eventually, I was able to climb the Jeremy Tree when both the sapling and I were strong enough. Maybe he didn’t intend it, but Grandpa was teaching us that trees had sacred properties to those open to seeing them.

I didn’t plant a sapling for either of my children, but I found a way to connect them to trees of their own.

There are two specimens in a large urban park near where they both were born that we visit on occasion. One is a gnarled cherry that rises and falls quickly to the ground in a fallen rainbow shape, then back up again with a canopy that surrounds the entire footprint like a leafy room. It made for an off-the-ground catwalk of sorts when my son was a baby. I would hold his tiny hand and let him feel the thrill of being “off the ground.” We call this the Z-Tree after his name, Zion. Thirty feet away is the Say-Tree named after my daughter, Sela. The Say-Tree is a three-trunk bald cypress grouping that rises high into the sky. At its top, a red-tailed hawk is often nested and hunts the park for rabbits, much to our terror (and delight). In between the three trunks is a small vacant space my daughter would crawl into and play make-believe with sticks and acorns. On a random afternoon, I will say, “Let’s go visit your trees,” and the kids know exactly what that means. Now teenagers, I usually include a bribe for ice cream on the way there or back, and perhaps I’ll bring along a Frisbee.

 

 

Unlike my grandparents, we do not own these trees, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they are known by other names to other families, but they represent a place of significance to us just because we say so. The lazy cherry has lost many limbs in the almost two decades we have been visiting it, as its arched trunk sinks into the soil more with every passing year. Like my kids, these trees were once saplings as well—new and fresh and full of optimism—but like us all, someday they’ll be gone. The sycamore I hid in from my dad is gone. The oak he built our treehouse next to is gone. The Jeremy Tree planted by my Grandpa Bill—both he and the tree are gone. The Bryan Tree and my younger brother Bryan are gone too. Life is agonizingly short and offensively quick. I propose we get a redo option on our fortieth birthday—just pull the lever like in The Price Is Right and the year it lands on is what you get to go back to.

Sometimes I’m frustrated by the reality of aging, but then I look at the maple leaf fading from green to orange to brown in autumn, and it doesn’t seem concerned. Its time is short too, and we know another leaf will replace it in the spring, bringing new color to the world.

 

 

Jeremy Collins is a multifaceted artist, climber, and adventurer whose work intertwines the grit of the wild with a mastery of visual storytelling. Known for his breathtaking illustrations and striking narratives, Collins captures the raw beauty and intensity of the natural world through his art and prose. As a climber, his ascents in some of the world’s most remote locations have shaped both his work and worldview, fostering a deep connection between him and the landscapes he immerses into. Collins’ work invites us to understand the challenges and struggles of wilderness and ourselves, sparking a deeper appreciation for both the environment and the human spirit’s capacity to endure. Learn more at jercollins.com. 

 

If you enjoyed this excerpt, you can buy Jeremy's book at Mountaineers Books.