Barrett picked his crews carefully, with an eye for physical prowess, character and, perhaps unintentionally, beauty—at least so it seemed to my adolescent eyes on first viewing the women I was to share camp with. Barrett recruited what struck me at the time as a very satisfactory balance between men and women. I wasn’t expecting this. Barrett also chose his projects carefully, preferring remote contracts—those well off the beaten path—over those within hailing distance of paved roads and fast-food drive-thrus.
These remote and geographically isolated projects fetched significantly higher premiums due to their technical nature and complex logistics. Very few contractors possessed the skill set to pull them off. Of course the geographic isolation presented a host of other challenges, some of which made life difficult for a treeplanter, some of which added an element of risk, all of which generated heightened levels of adventure.
It had taken some serious arm-twisting on my sister’s part to convince Barrett to take me on as a rookie treeplanter. He resisted at first. We had never met. I’m sure he imagined the worst, thinking I was some hapless city punk completely lacking in wilderness skills—some insufferable putz who would become an instant liability to him and to his finely tuned crew. But my sister knew how to apply pressure. Barrett finally relented. My name was added to the crew list, reluctantly.
Barrett didn’t know, but he could have picked a worse candidate for the small rookie training crew he was assembling. I was athletic. I loved the outdoors. I craved adventure. I also hated school, even though I was surrounded by academically oriented siblings. I wanted nothing to do with post-secondary education—something every treeplanting contractor likes to hear. I was a nineteen-year-old boy, the youngest in a litter of five, who was determined to follow a decidedly different path from that of his studious older siblings. I suppose it was partially out of spite that I arrived at this decision.
I trained hard for several months prior to meeting Barrett. I ran daily. I hiked. I lifted weights and I cross-country skied. I had also meticulously assembled my gear for this three-month wilderness gig, scouring every outdoor store, army surplus and second-hand shop for gear, clothing and equipment. Our basement took on the appearance of a marshalling station for a major expedition. My mom, impressed with her baby boy’s zeal, actually ran guided tours through the basement whenever she had friends over. Every time I added to my stockpile, I ran a formal inventory check, complete with clipboard, felt marker and highlighter. I guess I was a little gung-ho.
In hindsight I suppose Barrett’s first impression of me wasn’t exactly confidence inspiring. Not owning a vehicle, and having a mother who had a difficult time letting go, I agreed to let her drive me the seven hundred and fifty kilometres to our designated meeting place at a small café near Purden Lake, BC. I was on pins and needles for the entire journey.
It was my mom who broke the ice on that first day.
She was a character. The only girl among five siblings, she’d led a life of slave labour on the family farm from the moment she was able to walk. Thrown out of the house in her mid-teens, she would later discover that her four younger brothers, the boys she helped raise, had colluded to cut her out of the family fortune (this is how it was explained to me). This not only deprived her of a better life, it shredded her sense of self-worth. She wore this humility, anger and sadness around her like a veil. Barely a day went by when she didn’t reflect on this act of betrayal in some way. Human nature being the mystery it is, this brittle side of her personality was reserved mainly for the benefit of family. To the outside world she could seem as intimidating as a momma bear.
We had to push our way into the café that morning. It was standing room only. Neither of us had ever met Barrett, so my mom, summoning her momma bear persona, called out in a shrill demand, “Where can I find Barrett?!” After the laughter subsided, a reluctant voice called out from behind us, “Uh—that’ll be me.” One of the people we had unceremoniously brushed past at the entrance to the café was our guy.
Barrett was a good-looking man of average height and lean frame. He had an air of cool about him. He even dressed cool, wearing a grey down vest over a faded jean jacket, black denim pants and a pair of tired leather hiking boots. He greeted us with a warmth and affection that was so charming I sensed my mother getting weak in the knees. She responded by turning flirtatious, a side of her I wasn’t even remotely familiar with and, given that I was already self-conscious enough in front of these new peers and this new boss, it made me cringe. I think I still bear psychological scars from that little display.
Barrett handled it graciously and I immediately liked him. Getting him to like me would be no easy task, as it turned out.
Having lived a relatively sheltered existence under my mother’s wing in the big city didn’t exactly help prepare me for what transpired next. Feigning courage as I bid my teary-eyed mother farewell, I found myself surrounded by forty complete strangers; a group that looked more like a band of gypsies than a bush crew. There was no time for introductions. We loaded ourselves into a number of idling bush trucks and made tracks, travelling a half-dozen kilometres back down the highway before turning onto a rough and rutted logging road.
There’s a certain comfort and familiarity in driving on pavement—all of that is lost the second you hit gravel. From that point on we travelled deeper and deeper into the wilderness. I didn’t fully realize it then, but nothing in my life would ever be the same again.
Within minutes our long convoy of vehicles kicked up an unbroken column of thick, choking dust. I couldn’t see the vehicles out in front or the topography on either side of the road. I had nothing, no sense of the surrounding landscape to help divert my attention away from the feeling that I was being abducted, that I was being taken to a place where escape would be impossible. I imagined that this was how young men must’ve felt after being drafted and abruptly hauled off to war.
Finally we arrived. Our caravan pulled into a large landing—an area that had once been used as a staging area or log-sort by a previous logging operation. It was a level, one-acre teardrop-shaped clearing with a gently flowing creek running along the bottom perimeter—a creek that emptied into a series of ponds and marshes several hundred feet below.
Just beyond the landing and across the creek, looming over us like a thunderhead, was a rolling expanse of barren landscape stripped of every conceivable living thing for as far as the eye could see. This was where we were to set up camp. This was where we were to plant our trees. This was where it all began.
Barrett’s camp, as I would later discover, was about as well equipped and elaborate as they came back in those days. It took a good number of vehicles and trailers to haul in the entire setup. A half-dozen trucks and trailers bore the weight of metal frames, lumber, appliances, generators, pumps, sheets of canvas, tarps, tools, fuel and, of course, mountains of food. The most prominent feature of Barrett’s camp: a medium-sized travel trailer that had been gutted and converted into a kitchen-on-wheels. Inside were a large freezer, two commercial-sized refrigerators and a pair of gas-powered stoves. And judging by the assortment of meat, dried beans, grains, fresh fruit and vegetables that were on board, our meals were going to be anything but your standard meat and potatoes fare.
I had my first real look at the crew as the trucks were being unloaded. It was a spirited bunch. It was fairly young too, except for the managerial types who appeared to be in their mid- to late thirties. The men, who outnumbered the women by only a handful, appeared to be in excellent physical condition—lean and mean. A good number of them had long hair, some had ponytails, some wore headbands; nearly all of them sported beards or moustaches. I couldn’t help noticing that several carried acoustic guitars, and perhaps twice as many had bongo drums poking out of their gear.
The women on Barrett’s crew all looked magnificent to me. They seemed extraordinary in