There might have been a half-dozen words spoken between us during that first hour. The only sounds produced by our little trio were those of our shovel and mattock blades stabbing the ground and the occasional involuntary grunt as we worked our roots into the soil. As we planted farther toward the bottom of the block, we were treated to the vibrations of rushing water. The source lay hidden, buried deep in the lush foliage of the riparian zone below.
This was not a day for individual achievement. When someone bagged-out early, they grabbed trees from the bags of the person planting beside them, repeating the gesture over and over until the entire group was completely bagged-out.
At the end of the first run, back at the treecache, Debbie glanced at her watch, sighed heavily and declared, “One run down…seven more to go.” This was going to be a long day, and emotionally, I was a wreck. The thought that I might not see Debbie again after this day was more than I could handle. I was gutted. But I managed to stay in character. Staying in motion helped conceal my anguish.
We worked at a steady pace all day long and by 3:00 p.m. there were ten additional planters in our area, turning our cream-show into a hub of activity. By 5:00 p.m. two more trucks loaded with planters had arrived and, as expected, the gang-plant was epic in scale. It’s an extraordinary sight watching two dozen planters lined up, side by side, three metres apart, taking out giant swaths of land in a single pass.
By 7:00 p.m., operating on only a few hours of sleep, a half-dozen pieces of fruit and a few handfuls of granola, our little trio was plucked off the gang-plant and put on yet another special mission. Barrett transported us to the other side of the riparian zone that served as our bottom boundary. There, a new cutblock opened up. Our instructions were simple: plant along the bottom of the cutblock, along the treeline, and continue planting until our roadside cache was exhausted. Though we couldn’t fully appreciate it at the time, this assignment was a gift. The perimeters of most Interior cutblocks were lined with a fire road or trail back then—a beautiful, dirty and yielding swath of ground that made planting nearly effortless. This cutblock had such a feature, but it was twice as wide as normal.
Barrett left us with eighteen hundred trees in our cache. We bagged-up with three hundred each and began pounding away. The ground was so clean and fast that we bagged-out in less than forty-five minutes. When we arrived back at our cache, Barrett had left us an additional 150 trees. Expecting that this would be our final run of the season, we bagged-up with 350 trees each. The weight on our poor hips and shoulders was brutal, but the weight comes off fast when you’re planting a tree every five or six seconds.
The sun was in full retreat when we bagged-out from our final run, and to our great relief, there were no more trees waiting for us at our cache. Our empty tree boxes had been broken down, flattened, and the tarp was folded—a clear indication that our day was done. The contract was over.
Tearing a page out of Karl Marx’s playbook, we decided to pool our trees together and split them evenly three ways. Our net result: 3,100 trees each. Not bad for a day when I was ready to quit before it even began.
There was no party or celebration back at camp that evening. People were struggling, even falling to the ground, as they attempted to extricate themselves from the back seats of their trucks when they arrived at camp. Some people didn’t even line up for supper—they simply staggered off in the direction of their tents. This crew was done.
I guess I wasn’t surprised when Debbie pulled away from me at the end of the evening, insisting that we retreat to our separate tents. This was her way, her first step in drawing our relationship to a close. Though she didn’t admit it, I got a sense that she was determined to rekindle her flame back home in Vancouver. I was too tired to think, and with a heavy heart I wandered back to my side of the woods and drifted off into a profound sleep.
The breakfast horn blew at 9:00 the next morning. By the time I arrived, half of the camp had already been torn down. The bright white and yellow canvas shell of the Quonset hut had already been stripped and folded, and only the metal frame was still erect, giving it the appearance of a giant prehistoric skeleton from a distance.
Barrett, his foreman and several veteran highballers were gathered around the only table still upright, some shaking their heads, some with incredulous expressions on their faces. When Barrett spotted me, his face lit up. Pointing in my direction, he called out, “There he is!” Motioning me to come join his circle of insiders, he declared that I was his top producer on the contract. I had planted more trees than even his most celebrated highballers. That felt pretty damn good, for a second or two; then I spotted Debbie toiling away in the kitchen trailer, helping Denny get things squared away. When she looked up and our eyes met, I detected no warmth, no longing, no affection. She wasn’t approachable. I kept my distance.
When the water taxis arrived to take us back to Mackenzie, Debbie boarded the second boat, choosing not to ride along with me in the first one. It was a long ride back to town. I isolated myself, avoiding the chatter that centred on topics like, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get to town?” and, “Who’s the first person you’re going to call?” The banter was too carefree, too untroubled for the state of mind I was in. The smokers on the crew, who had just endured four days without nicotine, sat with their eyes fixed straight ahead, rocking back and forth in their seats. We knew what their first move would be once we landed, and one would be best advised not to stand in their way when the boat docked.
Back onshore, after the trucks were unloaded from the barge and people began to claim their seats, preparing for the long journey back to Vancouver, Debbie pulled away from the crowd, walked over to me and said goodbye. Our eyes locked for only a brief moment before she cast her gaze downward. Her eyes were puffy and red from tears—somehow I found comfort in her sadness. Before I could ask whether I could reach out to her the next time I was in Vancouver, she gave me a hug and quickly retreated back to her truck.
I wondered if I would ever see her again. To this day, some thirty-six years and a good handful of meaningful relationships later, my love for Debbie endures. Whenever I detect the scent of mint oil, lavender or jasmine, a melancholy rolls over me, nearly reducing me to tears.
Crazy thing: when I arrived back in Calgary late the next afternoon, I half expected a victory parade. After everything I had gone through, I expected people to stand up, take notice and give me my due. Of course, after planting for the better part of three months at a pace that could only be described as reckless, I was entitled to such delusions.
Exhausted, heartbroken and desolate, I landed on my sister’s doorstep and retreated to her guest bedroom. The next two weeks are a blur. They consisted of long periods of deep sleep and ruminations over lost love. I was inconsolable. I couldn’t steer my thoughts away from Debbie. Barely a second went by when I wasn’t thinking of her in some way.
As the summer matured and I began to heal, my thoughts eventually turned westward. I was waiting for the phone to ring. I was waiting for that important phone call from Barrett. It finally came late in the summer, just as the leaves around my sister’s neighbourhood were beginning to change colour.
1. A riparian zone refers to an area where land meets a river or stream. The interface between land and water is often dynamic. These zones are defined and recognizable by the abundance of trees and lush vegetation that border them.
2. “Bug dope” refers to bug spray or DEET insect repellent.
3. “Cream” refers to an exceptional piece of land that has light slash and soft, yielding soil. Basically, it’s fast ground and easy to plant.
4. “Gang-plant”: a large group of planters who descend on an area, typically toward the end of a contract, forming a line, planting side by side until