I have never wanted super powers. Let others strive to bend steel and fly like a bird. My dreams have been of the here and now. Real powers for real men.

The ability to chop a cord of wood with an ax, say, or tune up a lawnmower. Or better yet, climb to the pinnacle of my garage roof.

Not an idle fantasy, this last one. I have a genuine home maintenance need. Hanging over the garage are the branches of a fast-growing live oak. In a winter storm, I fear these swaying branches will strip the roof bare of shingles.

My challenge: How do I, a mere mortal, ascend to celestial heights to cut these branches back?

I’ve tried climbing an extension ladder, then reaching high with a snipper on a pole. The results have been ugly. I’ve mangled a few leaf clusters, while the serious offenders mocked me, just beyond reach.

Armed with a saw, I’ve considered using a ladder to boost myself into the body of the tree so I can then scoot out on limbs.

Almost certainly a bad idea. Overcome with vertigo or muscle weakness, I see myself dropping like a brick. Or worse, I freeze up and the fire department has to rescue me. Like they would a cat.

That leaves a third option: Manifesting the skills of a mountaineer, I climb the roof.

I’ve imagined equipping myself with gripper mittens and socks — I believe such products actually exist — then using a ladder to get to gutter level. My base camp, if you will.

From there, it would be about 15 feet to the peak. A really steep climb, more vertical than any San Francisco street, but I could do it by inching along, hugging the roof for dear life.

In my more grandiose moments, I throw caution to the wind and attempt to scale the summit like Spiderman in big easy swoops.

It can’t be that difficult. Weren’t roofers once up there? Why not me?

The fundamental flaw in this plan is a lack of self-confidence. Once I leave the safety of the gutter, I see bad things happening. I see myself losing forward momentum, slithering backward and plummeting to the ground. Like a rag doll, but with lots of bones.

It need not be this way. Not if I had a kung fu master to help me tap my inner powers.

I’ve brought Cheryl into the discussion. I’ve pointed out that one shingle has been knocked loose, with dire prospects for the future.

Instantly, she saw where this was going. Don’t do it, she said. You’ll kill yourself. What sensible person risks his life for a shingle?

Not to quibble, but I’d be risking my life to save the entire garage. We all know the damage that a leaky roof can do.

As for her point about killing myself, maybe the odds of my success would be greater if no one were watching.

I’ve entertained a stealth strategy. On a day when Cheryl is not around, I will recruit Jonathan as my safety net. With him standing below, I  could slither up, lopping shears tied to my belt. Snip-snip, job done, roof saved. If necessary, he could catch me.

Better yet, we could switch places. I am weak, he is strong. Climb, Jonathan, climb.

This would be an almost perfect plan ... unless Cheryl ever found out.

As the months passed and I did nothing, my tree obsession grew. I became unnerved by the giant elm in the side yard. A major limb, in defiance of gravity, extended horizontally over the kitchen.

What kept this branch, weighing hundreds of pounds, if not tons, up there? As far as I could see, precious little. Come the next big storm, I could imagine this limb slicing through the kitchen roof like a knife through butter.

When you envision something as catastrophic as this, the image doesn’t leave you. You dwell on it. You know your days are numbered.

I hesitated to point out the elm threat to Cheryl. The 100-year-old elm is one of her favorite trees. She does not lightly take to pruning.

Then again, she’s in the kitchen more often than I. If I said nothing and the worst happened, how could I live with myself?

I did a walkabout with Cheryl. Pointing to the second arboreal threat, I noted that trees are your friend until they aren’t.

In the end, a tree company came out. A team of guys, chain saws roaring, climbed like monkeys.

They were fearless. They did not fall to the ground like rag dolls. The force was with them.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com