Positioned at the front of the barge was a large backhoe, and within minutes, it was up on the beach busily tossing logs in all directions. Within fifteen minutes, there was a gap in the wall of wood large enough to allow our vehicles to pass through. And just like that, we were a mobile crew again.
Bidding our First Nations friends farewell triggered the waterworks. Poor little Anna didn’t want the afternoon to end. Her grandfather did his best to comfort her as we pulled away, but she couldn’t hold back the tears. I don’t think there was a dry eye among the crew either. We later learned that Anna’s family was employed by the logging company to provide “care and maintenance” for the camp. It must have been extremely lonely for them in such a remote setting.
After a forty-five-minute drive through a succession of clearcuts and patches of mature virgin timber, across fast-running creeks and a river, our convoy came to rest in the middle of a large clearcut at the edge of a riparian zone—a lush oasis of trees and running water that was left untouched by the logging company.1 This wasn’t just any large clearcut. This was truly epic in scale.
It was apparent that we were about to set up our camp along the edge of the largest cutblock on the contract. Every square inch of land around us, right up to our tent pegs, would soon bear our seedlings. The fact that we would be walking to work, rather than driving, for the first few shifts of the contract anyway, spelled opportunity. I was planting an average of sixteen hundred trees per day at that point. I calculated that by working an extra hour or two each day, I could potentially tack several hundred additional trees onto my daily average. That would put me in the running to become Barrett’s top planter—his top highballer. It was a ridiculous goal, especially for a rookie working among some of the best planters in the sector, but it became my objective nonetheless. It wasn’t just a greed thing, it was a satisfaction thing. I felt sufficiently motivated to make my mark.
It was getting late in the day and we needed to erect a fully functional camp by sunset. We all knew what to do and we threw ourselves at the task. Due to the extended time frame of the project—six weeks—an effort was made to create a more comfortable and fulsome setting. After the Quonset hut and kitchen were squared away, a spacious shower complex with multiple wings was envisaged, as was a sauna. Both structures were masterfully constructed, limb by limb, plank by plank, under the bountiful shade of the conifers that lined the edge of our cold-running creek.
With only thirty minutes of light remaining in the day, I followed the perimeter of our riparian zone and discovered a lush opening in the trees, some 250 metres away from our little village. The spot had shade, it was private and it was far enough away from the sounds of the camp generator—a very important consideration (Denny started his day at 4:30 a.m. and his first order of business was cranking up the camp generator in order to light his way around the kitchen). The generator weighed well over a hundred pounds and it made a racket. If you were camped too close to the kitchen and were a light sleeper, as I was, you risked being robbed of precious sleep. Of course, there’s always a risk in separating yourself from the herd. There was a robust bear population in the area, and having been stalked earlier in the season, I moderated an internal debate. Peace, quiet and solitude won out in the end.
Having pitched my tent and arranged my bedding, I stood back and witnessed the last vestiges of light retreating from the stealthy approach of night. The luxuriant canopy above my campsite filtered a setting sun that cast a smoldering orange glow across the late evening sky. I was spellbound. It was a superb moment, one of cogitation and inward reflection. Aside from a few distant female voices, the only sounds I could detect were from leaves fluttering in the caress of a soft breeze above, and the gentle lapping of water from the brook below. This would be my home for the next six weeks.
Supper was late that night and, as predicted, very simple. Setting up the kitchen, unpacking, arranging and storing the tons of food that accompanied us left limited time for Denny to fuss over an elaborate dinner. On the menu that night: spaghetti with meat sauce and salad. Even the simplest of meals taste absolutely amazing when you’re camped out under a big beautiful northern British Columbia sky.
There were several new additions to the crew, and curiously, one of the new girls seemed to know Barrett rather well. They both appeared to be quite taken with one another. Barrett and my sister lived together, as far as I knew, but I wasn’t privy to their exact arrangement as a couple (my sister and I rarely communicated—I hadn’t actually seen her in over eight years at the time). As I watched Barrett and the new girl, Brandi, disappear into Barrett’s trailer later that evening, I simply assumed that he and my sister had an open relationship. As I would soon discover, there were a few characters around camp who had wives and significant others back home, something you never would have guessed judging by the company they entertained in their tents at night. The whole situation was far too sophisticated for me. I was strictly a one-woman kind of guy.
As I entered the Quonset hut the next morning for breakfast, I spotted Debbie at a table near the wood stove. As usual, she had a seat reserved just for me. By that time, the majority of the crew suspected that we were a couple, though it wasn’t even remotely true, even if we were openly affectionate toward one another.
Debbie confessed that she was still in a funk over her boyfriend, “Mr. No-Show,” having broken his promise to meet her in town during the break between contracts. She said that she was considering giving him an ultimatum, or just ending it outright. In deference to her fragile emotional state, I feigned regret, but secretly, selfishly, I was excited at the prospect of seeing that relationship end. Then an extraordinary thing occurred: Barrett and Brandi sat down directly across from us.
Barrett and I had never broken bread together and suddenly here we were, on a double date. In hindsight, I think he needed to know that I was cool with his arrangement with Brandi. It would have been impossible to hide, after all. Determined to set his mind at ease and establish once and for all that I really didn’t care—that his personal life was none of my damn business—I broke the awkward silence by floating the idea of working extra hours. To my relief Barrett embraced the idea. “Whatever turns your crank, kid,” he said. Curiously, Brandi also expressed interest in working extra hours, if I didn’t mind the company in the evenings. Debbie immediately registered her opposition to that idea by poking me under the table, then quickly changed the subject by asking Brandi what her major was at university.
Having the freedom to walk to work was a rare opportunity. On most days, I woke up at 4:00 a.m., packed an extra-large lunch, and began my lonely walk just as the sun began casting its first rays of light on my day. By the time the crew arrived on the block later that morning, I’d already have four hundred trees pounded into the ground and would be well into my second run of the day. When the planting day wound down at 4:30 p.m. and people began their long hike back to camp, I’d stick around for one more run.
I loved watching the long procession of treeplanters as they made their way home at the end of the day, walking along the path at the bottom of my piece, chatting away, oblivious to my toil on the slopes above. It was always a welcome event when someone suddenly spotted me from below and called out my name, tossing an enthusiastic wave, causing others to follow suit. As the procession faded from sight, their laughter and conversations trailing off in the distance, a strange and heavy silence would often settle in around me. It was then, in those first few moments after losing visual contact with my crew, that I always felt exposed and vulnerable.
As I had discovered earlier in the season, there’s an indefinable atmosphere on the block when you’re the only one left standing in the middle of all of that wilderness. I loved pausing in those moments and scanning the rolling landscape. Every movement and vibration was significant. Even the sight of a small bird taking flight took on greater meaning. If I was high enough on the mountain, I could sometimes spot our Quonset hut off in the distance. The images shimmered. They didn’t seem real at times. It was like a mirage as rising hot air along the ground played havoc with the light. Sometimes, I could make out the larger, more colourful tents that were tucked in against the lush halo of our riparian zone. I wasn’t able to spot movement, though, no matter how hard I focused. If the wind was just right, however, I could sometimes hear voices emanating from camp, often as if they were only metres away. This,