The Tree in the Lake

The Tree in the Lake is a short creative piece written from the perspective of the Wānaka Tree — a lone willow in New Zealand’s Lake Wānaka that has become an icon, endlessly photographed and admired.

But what might the tree feel about all the attention? What if it never asked to be famous?

The Wānaka Tree in the evening, Wānaka, New Zealand, 2025

They all look at me, stare. They point, whisper, and gawk, but I’m used to it now. The ones who come at sunrise often wear mesmerisation or disappointment, depending on the clouds. 

“Wow,” some people exclaim. “It’s incredible,” they say, standing there admiring.

“Is that all?” others say. They move along quickly. “I don’t get it,” they say, and honestly, nor do I. 

I didn’t choose to be this way. I didn’t earn it.

It started nine years ago, although I’m not sure why. Before then, some people paused, but they didn’t usually stay for long — many never noticed me at all. The ones who did pause, saw me. Their eyes widened and they smiled softly in awe. I liked that. 

My best friend was Karky, a long black bird with a white, craned neck and a yellow beak. Karky visited my lower branch every day, his favourite spot. I liked it when he stretched his wings out to shake water off, and chirped his endless nonsense. Sometimes he brought others, and together they’d rest with me, nest in me, sing into the stillness. Karky told me how wonderful I was, how strong I looked in the wind, how lucky he felt to know a tree like me. I felt proud to be their perching tree.

Nine years ago, I liked the newfound attention. After some time, it started to make me ache; they seemed to like to capture me instead of see me. I missed my peace and quiet. I missed watching my friends across the bay slowly shift with the seasons, with no beings between — the soft ways they changed when no one was watching. 

Karky’s friends came less and less until it was just Karky who kept coming. Soon enough, Karky told me he didn’t like the attention anymore, and flew away. He could choose to do that. 

More birds — “shags” they called them — perched, but they were different every day, strangers. They were usually the ones that liked being photographed, and few of them even said hello. They’d sit there, pose, then fly off, only to return when the lighting was right. They didn’t stay.

Now, most of the time, I just watch the mountains instead. I do like the small ones, however; they jump and stare with light in their faces.

The only time I’m alone is at night, and that’s my least favorite time of the day; I can no longer see what’s around me, except for some sparkling lights in the distance. 

During the day, the beach is lined with bright, bustling clothing and countless tall black things with three sticks that I’ve heard are called ‘tripods’.

Sometimes, there are these small, grey boxes buzzing above my head. At first, I thought they were birds drifting overhead, but birds like to pass or perch, while these boxes awkwardly linger. They sometimes even whir into me, taking a leaf or two with them.

I look at my reflection, rippling in the water, and despise it. 

There are more people when the sun shines and less in the winter, and I prefer the latter time. The ones in winter seem more soft, caring, thoughtful, somehow. At that time I’m bare — naked — but they still watch. I’m not just some pretty thing in a lake. 

My view also changes with the seasons. Right now, I see the tall, pointy Poplar trees lined up along the bay, warm yellow, though their leaves are starting to shed.

I’ve grown more jealous of them, bunched up together. If one’s skin is slightly sparse one season, the one next to it is full and no one notices. It’s always obvious, even if I have only a handful fewer leaves one season. The Poplars don’t like the loud noise either, and they blame me for it. They don’t like that I’m the one called special.

Five years ago, water rushed and flowed, and I felt parts of me shed and the pressure pushed. I couldn’t move. Finally it finished, and I watched the water settle, my limbs weaker, my trunk aching. 

“It’s resilient,” the beings said, but I didn’t choose to stand against the pressure — it was my roots that did the work, not me. I would have surrendered to the waves. 

One time, long after the sun had fallen, two figures waded through the water, holding a jagged, pointy thing.

They loomed closer — slow, deliberate — their large silhouettes framed against the dark, shifting water. Their waists were submerged. I couldn’t see their faces.

They raised the object, its orange edge catching the moonlight, and began to slide it back and forth against me. A loud, grating noise echoed across the lake.

I felt numb.

A weight dropped.

A splash.

In the water, something floated.

Was that… me?

A few thin branches. Sparse leaves. My lower branch, where Karky once sat.

Was this what they so admired?

“Bound to be rid of this thing,” said one of the beings. I imagined the water rippling around me was made up of my tears. I wished I could cry. When the sun rose, I looked at my reflection again, an arm gone. 

Sometimes, I wish I could fall — drift into the lake and vanish beneath the ripples. Then maybe they’d stop looking. Then maybe I’d stop aching.

Now, when they come in the early morning, they still say it’s beautiful. They still take their photos and walk away. I stand, as always, half-alive and half-forgotten. No one asks what I’ve lost. But the lake knows. And when the sun dips behind the mountains and the last footsteps fade, I let the silence hold me like it used to — before the world decided I was something to frame.

The Wānaka Tree in the evening, Wānaka, New Zealand, 2025