Treeplanting July: This is my World.

A routine calm seems to have mantled my everyday here and now. But it is this illusion of regularity, I find unsettling. The vision is held together by a thin thread. Appearing to always be there: truck in the morning, cache down the road during the day, mess tent in the evening, bar/laundromat/resturaunts-on days off, and in the camper sleeping next to me each night. But under a surface of habit flutters the thought of life after July: the Joel coefficent, that bit that holds my pieces together---abruptly removed.

Dread at the thought of August when the calm will fall away to reveal my trembling, bug biten skin.

We get back to camp in the late afternoon and he finds Kerry; they slip off to the trucks---fogging the windows with reefer film. At dinner, we chat with fellow campers. Then he'll go off with Kerry on a private adventure down by the lake. I'll sit with Tony and the girls and drink wine/whiskey, play Eukure. Guitar melodies. Laughing. Touching arms. Being normal. But there are whispers of him in my head. Not a drop leaks. Poker-face Penny. This is our secret. No one consulted. No one's approval. Silence. Us.

When the shadow's deepen, I'll slip away to the camper. Ducking and weaving through the village of tents and trees so to be unseen.

A note left pinned on a tent. A sly grab under the table. A wink. An ass-pat at the reefer. Our secret communique.

Some nights, he'll come back early and hang around the mess tent. Flitting and flirting. Talking loudly, drinking tea. And we'll both wait until all the people drop off to bed before heading off hand-in-hand to our sleeping cocoon. Threads and threads of downy to lose ourselves. Transform ourselves. Hide us away 'til morning. Pillows. Warmth on cold nights. A comrade to complain to when the nights are hot. Noseeums.

Dusk. And finally, Words! An entire day's thoughts come pouring out to meet the setting sun. Numbers, motivations, struggles, politics, yearning, judgement, nothings. nothings, his eyes-hands-focused freely on me, laughter. and calm.

A possesive grasp of my waist on the way up the ladder.

Animal Intensity. He grabs me up and throws me to the snarl of sheets and long-johns and pillows and attacks.

Or, delibrate and desperate. I soak him in. Hands in hair. Fingertips on face. Mouth on neck. I grasp for his strength. Awareness of being so weak and alone, that only a summer of isolation can bring, opens me up to him. Bulky pillars of tanned arm wrap around my openness, and I am fortified against the frustrations and failures of the day. Our noses touch as we drift off to sleep.

In the morning, I'll wake early. He stays sleeping. I slip quietly down the ladder, feet thudding onto dew covered ground. Down past the sleeping camp to my tent to get prepared for the day.

Breakfast. Trucks. Row after row. Bend, insert hand, step---drop-flag. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat...

His face appears at the open window at the end of the day: sweat, dirt, electric blue eyes rimmed in red. With a grin, he squeezes his long limbs into the truck. Electricity pulses through me. My stomach tightens. We sit side-by-side, barely talking. He passes out against the window, and I'll chat with Mary. Laugh loudly. Breath-even. Eyes averted from the sleeping figure at my side. But I feel his leg touch mine every time we hit a bump in the road. And my mind fast-forwards to dusk.

Treeplanting: A Rainy Night Outside of Quisnel

The day started sullen, and the rain and wind slapping against my tarp right now remind me that nothing has changed.

It started at breakfast with a "I-hate-work" mentality. It took all my physical strength to say a simple 'morning' to anyone. And then the mess tent was unusually quiet. Not the usual groggy lull of early morning, but an aggressive silence. Planters staring down at their eggs and pancakes. No eye-contact; no dream-rehashing; no jokes about getting maimed by a bear and going on workers comp.

I hated the short ride to work. A 5 minute drive to the reefer. I sat, arms tightly crossed, staring out the window not saying a word to anyone---iPod on, growl playing at my lips. Another 5 minutes to the block, and by the time my bags were loaded, I knew that making my minimum of 2000 was about as possible as breaking 5000 today.

Three day old filth, a stale mind, and checkers that couldn't be pleased no matter how hard I tried. I desperately hoped to be caught blindside by...anything. Something external to swoop out of the blue and legitimize my suffering---a sign from the divine? like a tornado? getting fired? or a sudden strange disease?

I continued to drag my feet through my piece....three steps: one. breathe. two. stop. three. slowly bend over....jam the poor sapling into the ground.

The day went on, and on, and on. Rock hard mounds were the day's specialty. I could've cared-less about quality, or numbers, or life, actually. I took a nap behind a stump---bags still on. The light rain gave me a shiver. I examined small frogs. Napped some more. Realized I have no water left so I took a small hike over to Joel/Steve's cache to steal a sip or two.

I am having huge doubts about my choice to come out here again. Bromide thoughts put a damper on my spirit. "I'm a smart girl, and could be in the city developing my "career skills." Real estate, or consulting. Putting the economics to good use. I don't need the money. I love people...being stuck amid these mounds of clay is making me lonely, and miserable."

When I got to the neighbouring cache, I found Joel hunched under his tarp. The mental toll of the day had disgorged his will too, and his usual Huck Finn lightheartedness and denitist quality smile as much of a reality as us hitting PBs today. I took a seat and gave his arm a rub---not saying a word. Just sitting with another miserable soul made me feel better for a minute at least.

When the day finished up, I find out I lowballed the entire crew---even Joel. Figures. Your standards start in your head, and I had set mine shit-low. I held back tears the whole ride home.

Treeplanting: Another Urzeit

May, Let the Games Begin!:

Woke up to the first day of planting, and...it's snowing! Snow everywhere! No work until it all thaws later in the day. We are sittting in a large circle around a crackling fire in Tyler's crew's tent city, joint going round. There are few familiar faces.

Tyler picked me up from the airport in my rookie year. He's short but loud and has an intense gaze. I remember thinking he looked so hardcore when i first met him: a bag of trail mix on the dash, and the look of a wild animal in his eyes. Look at me now: bag of trail mix in my hand, and a ridiculous florecent green hat covering my head that's been in storage all year---until today. Year three. Wow. I am hardened now too. Weathered.

Mary and I are telling a story about last year's post-planting adventures, interuping each other to add details. "We hitchhiked from Calgary to the Coast..." Move in closer to the fire. "...We almost lost our lives in the mountains when we were picked up by a crazy ex-con." Eyes darting around to faces. "He was driving a stolen car at 200kph through the Cokahalla Pass..." Smile. "We were holding hands secretly in the back seat...he kept asking if we were scared!" More smiles. "God, we planters BE CRAZY!" We're not the only ones, a few others have similar tales to tell. Travels to dangerous countries. Camping out on the highways. Sky-diving adventures. And nudity-tales.

We are trying to figure out how we are connected. Tyler's boys planted with Joel ( a new planter on our crew) for a couple of weeks last season on a shit summer contract in Fort St. James. Kerry, one of Tyler's boys, dated a friend of mine from my rookie year. Tyler was fucking a girl from our camp last year in the "real world". Etc Etc. Planting is a small world...and the degree of seperation is less than six.

Another joint goes round. I turn down a hit. It's been a long time (probably since last season)since I smoked...I'm not going to start on the first day back. Alliances are made early on by accepting a puff, and I want to check out the scene before I get thrown on to the partier train.

We're all laughing --- cheeks rosy from the cold. I feel I'm glowing with the happiness of being back. "Sure am pumped to put a few into the ground today!" I toss the thought to Mary.

"Come back to talk to me after we get back to work." I wish she wasn't right. She's already finished a contract this season and has no idealistic "first-day-back" glasses like I do. I know tomorrow I'll be aching, tired and missing a real bed. (Also cursing the 2 o clock wall---when all you want to do is see your truck rolling down the dirt road bringing you music, conversation and warmth.)

I leave everyone to take a nap until we leave for pre-work and "the block"! ahh! As I curl up in my sleeping bag, I feel almost pre-race jitters in the pit of my gut. I used to run track for Uni. and before each race, I'd feel my throat and stomach tighten. It's the same thing I feel everytime I think about flagging my first line of the season. I guess my expectations are high for this summer.


Later in the Day:

Once we're packed into the truck headed to the block it feels like I've never left: the tunes (that will be so so overplayed in the weeks ahead), the laughter, stories and more stories about the previous seasons (but there's no stinky feet smell). I feel so close with everyone...even the rookies, stiff faced, huddled in the back.