We'd flown over half of New Jersey, it felt like, and we were ready to call it a day. Not a single one of the trees I'd been told about had come even close to what we needed. I was barely paying attention by then, just enough to notice that this was one of the prettiest parts of the state. The landscape was lush and green, scarcely populated.

My head was nodding and I was just about to doze off. Then something made me sit up and look hard at the ground. For a second I couldn't tell if I was awake or asleep, I was so tired. But as my head cleared I knew I wasn't dreaming. There it was! No question about it.

This tree was a star. Everything about it said so: its rich color, the regal way it held itself--even where it stood, just apart from a whole group of evergreens, as if it was special.

"Can you go down a little?" I shouted over the noise of the chopper.

I held my breath. Usually closer inspection means disappointment. Half the branches are floppy, or the tree holds them too stiff.

Not this tree. It seemed to have the improbable combination I was looking for--the size of King Kong and the suppleness of Giselle.

My eyes wandered over the surrounding terrain, and settled on a large, elegant building.

"Do you know who owns this place?" I asked the pilot.

He glanced at a map. "That's what I thought," he said.

"What is it?" I asked, impatiently.

"Nuns own it," he said. "This is the Brush Creek convent."