I grew up with a mature locust tree in the backyard. They are nasty thorns, over a foot long on the trunk (article said as large as a hand, but they can be as long as a forearm), and many inches long on all the branches. They go out in every direction too, like caltrops. I played baseball in the backyard without shoes exactly once.
We had one in our yard in north Texas years ago. It had been intentionally planted by the original owner of the property next door when he built his house in the late 1920's. He said that he thought it was a pine when he planted it. There was also an ailanthus, a true trash tree known as the "tree of heaven" for some ridiculous reason. These were planted in the strip between driveways and together with the other trees offered abundant shade.
When we bought the house the tree was more than 45 feet tall and had these awesome thorns all the way up the truck to the crown and along the branches. Squirrels would hang out sunning themselves on the branches.
Of course those thorns will dry out and drop occasionally so you did need to watch as you turned into the driveway to make sure there wasn't a huge thorn in the way. One day for reasons lost to history I decided to climb that honey locust as high as possible without using any ropes, moving hand over hand and carefully placing feet as I climbed.
I found that it was actually pretty easy to climb the tree as long as you verified that the thorns bunches were alive and strong since they would be well attached to the trunk. I found that I could carefully grab hold of multiple thorns or if a limb was available I could firmly grasp the limb between thorn bunches and move myself up. The hardest part was preventing being impaled by those long thorns as you tried to stay near the trunk. It was a balancing act of locating a competent foothold higher up the trunk, locating open spots for each hand with as few thorns as possible and weaving my fingers between protruding thorns to gain the best grip and then slowly and gently easing my weight onto the upper foot while I maneuvered my midsection around the worst of the thorns or eased into them so that they were bent away from me as I climbed.
I ended up making it over twenty feet to a large limb where I cut some thorns out of the way so that I would have a place to sit. I sat there for a few minutes admiring the view and lying to those people on the ground about how easy it was. Then I carefully examined the trunk, the limbs, and the thorns so that I could select a path down before slowly twisting myself into position for the slow descent.
Other than a few shallow punctures and some scratches I had no injuries of note. I was wearing my old Vasque Sundowner hiking boots and the rubber on the toes was pretty helpful.
If you ever decide that you would like to try climbing one of these trees I found that the old, dry thorns should be avoided if possible since the sharp point of the thorn tends to dry out first and if you get punctured it will break off under the skin and may become infected if you don't remove it. It would be hard, and very painful, to get a deep puncture wound from one of those thorns since they rapidly narrow to a sharp point and the older thorns are thick. Newer growth can be thin enough to go pretty deep like a mesquite thorn. All things considered you should avoid driving over or steeping on these honey locust thorns.
I also took a elective archery class in college and one project we all had to do involved making a recurve bow and at least one arrow with a hand-made arrowhead or other type point. I tipped one arrow with a flint arrowhead that I knapped myself and the other with a honey locust thorn hardened over a fire. Both my arrows flew towards the target but the honey locust point flew straighter probably because it was lighter and more aerodynamic so I ended up with a good grade.
Honey locust are beautiful trees. The ailanthus was a PITA with all the seeds it dropped. Every year there were hundreds of sprouts threatening to fill the yard with those damn trees.
Yeah, honey locusts are pretty wicked; their thorns have thorns. I first met them on a trip to Utah, where they commonly occur in urban settings. They aren't native to Utah, so I imagine some brilliant city planner must have really hated the idea of children climbing trees. Which doesn't really explain the delicious mulberry trees of a similar age that I encountered.
Any decent landscaper knows about a special group of plants that have the so called architectural trait. Those aren't necessarily colorful, nice or covered in big flowers. They stand among other as a living sculpture.
Strongly geometrical plants are useful to integrate the rigid shapes found in man-made garden objects. We can culture a snow white Onopordum thistle near to a light-grey granite pavement, and it creates a subtle reverberating effect that is very desirable, both in color and in geometry. The horizontal lines on the pavement are balanced by the strong vertical lines of the thistle creating a structure that people often find pleasant, even if they don't know why. If well done, it just feels right.
Honey locust are cultured because they are hard and tolerate neglect, but they are not unique trees in this sense. What made them stand among other are its beautiful uniquely-shaped architectural spines.
And they are beautiful indeed. Locust trees are winter actors. The combination of clusters of black spines covered on ice, under a winter morning light can bright a long winter season when there is not much more to see. Connoisseurs appreciate it as a certified way to introduce drama and contrast in a garden that otherwise would feel bland, dull and uninspiring.
On the other hand finding this trees on riverbeds don't whisper to me "navajo settlement" necessarily. It speaks: "floodings and vegetative multiplication by roots".
I never even considered eating the pods.