How ’bout them apples? My winter work ensures a bountiful fall.

Spring is incipient here in Maine. This calls for an important preparatory activity, though snow still lies about and the stream behind my house remains choked with ice: The apple tree must be pruned before the sap rises.

Pruning an apple tree is one of the purest expressions I know of the philosophy that less is more. The bulk of the task is a matter of removing so-called suckers, or “water sprouts,” shoots that sally forth from the trunk and branches and reach toward the high heavens like exclamation points on an overwrought sentence. But there is also the occasional heavy branch that must be sawed off. All of this clipping and hacking is designed to accomplish two things: enable the tree to direct its energy toward setting fruit, rather than supporting wayward growth, and allow light to reach all the leaves. The rule of thumb is that a robin should be able to fly through the apple tree unimpeded, although an experienced friend of mine says that a cat should be able to leap through the expanse of branches untouched.

My apple tree is a Cortland, which is described in the catalogs as an “improved McIntosh.” I’m not sure where the improvement lies, but Cortlands do have two impeccable features: The white flesh of the fruit is slow to turn brown after cutting, making it a good choice for salads, and the tree itself – unlike many apple trees, which tend toward gangliness – is wonderfully symmetrical. The one in my backyard resembles nothing so much as an immense beach umbrella.

I bought the Cortland a good 20 years ago. It was a thin whip then, a specimen left over at the end of a fruit-tree sale. I bought it not only because it was the last tree on the lot, but also because it looked so forlorn, leaning up against a shed like a child whose friends had excluded it from play. I brought it home and planted it on a rise overlooking the stream. 

It must have liked the spot, because it grew by leaps and bounds. Today it is a mature tree with a magnificent crown, bearing reliably from year to year. Its white blossoms are a sight to behold in midspring.

But all this largesse has a price: the time and effort of pruning, which is a full day’s work if the task is done right. The most essential tools are loppers and a pruning saw, but these would be all but useless without a good apple ladder. The salient feature of such a ladder is that it’s pointed, the better to pass through tangled branches.

Here in Maine we have a man who works ash and aspen into the most exquisite apple ladders. I own one, and come February, I haul it out and slip it among the branches of the Cortland. And then, with loppers and pruning saw, I climb up, up until I am a denizen of the tree’s still-bare canopy. Although I am not one of those who talks to plants out of any faith that they understand me, I find myself voicing my thoughts nonetheless. “Let’s clip this branch here.” “And this one, which is growing the wrong way.” “Look at the angle of this branch! It’s too narrow. I’ll have to use my saw ...”

I begin my work in the cold, but by the time it’s done I’m warm to the point of comfort. I descend the ladder, step back, and examine my handiwork. 

The sun has moved around to the southwest, and abundant light silhouettes every branch against the wild blue yonder. Before too many days have passed, the sap will rise, the buds will swell, the blossoms will burst forth, and the fruit will set. With the help of sharpened tools and an apple ladder, I take some ownership in this. 

Let the show begin.