If achieving this seemingly unrealistic production goal wasn’t enough pressure, we were informed that we would be strictly supervised, that every one of our planted trees would be examined “under a microscope.” This was to ensure that the roots were planted properly, that they were in a specific soil, at a specific depth and that the rest of the tree was perpendicular to the ground. We were also expected to plant our seedlings at a specific distance apart from one another, ideally on a 3.2-metre grid pattern across our entire area. This criterion seemed doable if we were planting trees on a golf course putting green, with no obstacles to manoeuvre around. Of course there were no putting greens to be had within hundreds of kilometres of our camp, nor was there anything even remotely resembling one.
The terrain we were dealt on our first day consisted of a series of rolling hills rising high above the road on which were assembled. We stood, gazing up at the clearcut landscape with slack jaws. At the crest of each hill were layers of exposed bedrock forming sharp stratified ridges, some of which appeared to be completely devoid of soil, their bleached and weathered edges resembling whitecaps on a choppy sea. There were large boulders randomly distributed across the entire setting. Stumps and discarded “junk trees” littered the landscape like lifeless limbs and torsos on a medieval battlefield—the aftermath of the harvesting process. There were large concentrations of slash everywhere, and apparently these areas needed to be probed thoroughly for any hint of soil.3 There was also water, both stagnant and flowing. Large volumes of it coursed through the numerous gullies and ravines that were chiselled into the landscape, fed by a source much higher in elevation, gravity mobilizing it downward. Much of the coursing water, after being channelled under our feet through a series of culverts buried beneath the road on which we stood, continued its rapid descent, disappearing into terrain below. Some of the water eventually collected in pools along flat benches near the bottom of the clearcut. We would soon discover that the fringes of these pools were swamp-like, with soft muck, even quicksand, lining their outer edges. And it was on this terrain that we were expected to plant our seedlings on a 3.2-metre grid to exacting standards. I swallowed hard several times and considered the futility of such a task.
Our taskmaster was an extremely arrogant and peevish character named Jeremy. He insisted on giving us his entire resumé—every annoying detail of it. He was a mountain climbing expert, a survival expert, a search-and-rescue expert, a martial arts expert, a treeplanting expert and, judging by his behaviour around Debbie, a smooth-operating female-treeplanter expert. I hated him.
Jeremy was a good instructor, though. He wasted no time arranging us in a line and setting us in motion. He demonstrated in minute detail the mechanics of putting one’s shovel blade in the ground, opening a hole, sliding a seedling’s roots in, closing the hole and pacing off the proper distance to the next spot. It wasn’t easy. There were areas where the soil was simply too shallow, where the level of slash was too deep, where large obstacles and water courses impeded forward progress—where planting trees on a 3.2-metre grid was a physical impossibility.
Rattled by the lofty expectations thrust upon us, we worked nonstop that first day. I struggled to maintain my balance on the broken, uneven terrain. I attempted to use my athletic prowress to produce a fluid motion, but I couldn’t develop a rhythm. It was like learning to walk for the very first time. My final tally at the end of day one: ninety-five trees! And I was by far the highest producer on our rookie crew.
We ended our first day as treeplanters feeling completely overwhelmed. One thousand trees by day fifteen, or else! They had to be out of their fucking minds. No one could conceive of attaining such an absurd goal in such a short period of time. This dominated our conversation on our hike back to camp. That is, until we approached the bridge near the edge of camp where our loud, boisterous discussion trailed off into stunned silence. Crossing the bridge, we were greeted by a half-dozen women from the regular crew who were bathing in the creek below. They were completely naked. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I remember questioning my senses, wondering if what I was witnessing was real. It was real. And it was by far the most captivating display of the female form I had ever encountered in my nineteen years. Six voluptuous lily-white bodies, all in proximity and without even a hint of self-consciousness, using the cool clear creek water to wash away dirt and sweat from their exhausted, ethereal frames. They paused briefly, just long enough to toss us a friendly wave as we filed past— muffled giggles could be detected once we were clear. The images I took in during those precious few moments had a profound impact. They were indelibly imprinted in the pleasure centres of my brain. If I had felt even the slightest hesitation or doubt in my commitment to tough it out prior to this glorious and sublime event, those feelings were immediately cast aside.
Debbie and I ate dinner together that evening. We tried our best to console one another after a gruelling day on the slopes, a day that seemed to produce more questions than answers.4 We both responded politely, albeit reluctantly, to the inevitable queries from some of the more experienced planters on the crew. Questions like: “Tough day on the slopes?” and “Did you pound in a grand today?” and the most annoying one of all, “How goes the war?” After enduring the same line of questions from over a dozen people, I broke away from Deb and sidled up to a small group of veterans who had assembled around the wood stove. The sun was low on the horizon and the temperature was dropping by the minute. Over the crackling of a cedar fire, peering through clouds of cannabis and tobacco smoke, I listened in on their conversations, hoping to glean any insight that might offer an edge. It wasn’t long before they shifted their focus toward me and I became the centre of attention. The advice and counsel came rapid-fire and from every direction. Even those who weren’t part of the conversation, who overheard bits and pieces as they were passing by, chimed in with nuggets of wisdom, all for my benefit.
The general consensus among this group of highly skilled individuals: don’t stop moving—never pause—learn to conserve movement—eliminate any unnecessary motions—always scan the area ahead—learn to take mental snapshots of the ground immediately in front of you—plot your next three or four moves in your mind—never stop moving. Incredibly, this made sense to me, and with all of this fresh intel swimming around in my head, and after bidding Debbie a warm good night, I strolled off into the cold night air, in the general direction of my tent (I remembered to pack a flashlight with me from that evening on).
There’s a strange phenomenon that plagues nearly every rookie treeplanter at night during their first few shifts. Their dreams are monopolized by planting scenarios, and in particular, grid patterns. Whether the setting of your dream is a shopping mall, your mom’s kitchen or the surface of the moon, there’s a powerful compulsion to establish a 3.2-metre grid pattern. Everywhere! I cannot tell you the number of times I woke up in a cold sweat, frustrated because I was unsuccessful in pacing off an acceptable grid pattern over my dreamscape.
The second night in my tent followed a similar pattern to the first. It became bitterly cold in the wee hours of the morning. Not only was I forced to pile every stitch of clothing I owned on top of my sleeping bag for additional insulation, I actually wore several pairs of underwear on my head in order to trap body heat. I remember waking up, wondering if I’d ever be able to restore my dignity.
I was determined to approach day two on the slopes with a new strategy and mindset. I was determined to stay in motion no matter what the circumstance. This is easier said than done, especially when one’s terrain is riddled with obstacles that hinder forward progress and limit one’s view of what’s ahead. But the strategy began to pay off. By midday, I astounded Jeremy with a total of 120 trees. By day’s end I managed to pound in 275 trees. Having shared some of my recently attained insights with Debbie, she too was able to plant over two hundred seedlings that day. The rest of our rookie crew were struggling to crack the one hundred level, and on the hike back to camp at day’s end, I revealed my secret. Sadly the bathing beauties we’d encountered near the entrance to camp on the previous day were not in evidence. Apparently they had discovered the showers.
The strut in my step, having bettered my previous day’s score by 200 per cent, was lost soon after returning to camp. The average number of trees planted across all three (experienced) crews that day was thirteen hundred trees, with some of the faster planters pounding in an