The Worst Day of the Season

At the end of each season of tree planting I am always able to look back upon my time in the bush and clearly identify the worst day that I had to endure. There is always one day which rises above the rest in terms of pain (physical, mental or otherwise), confusion, despair and simple bad luck. This job presents a multitude of challenges on a daily basis and on very special days these challenges morph and multiply into a perfect storm of unfortunate circumstance. There are still two and a half weeks left to go in the season and I know that I have already experienced my worst day of the season.

My worst day of the season started three years ago within shouting distance of the Chinchaga River to the west of High Level, Alberta. An area of spruce forest had been logged and was ready for scarification to prepare the land for tree planting. The dirty scarifying machine entered the block, perhaps having plowed a number of blocks already that day. Somewhere stuck to the belly of the machine was a seed of invasive grass catching a sneaky ride to its newest home. The machine hit a stump, jolted and the seed of grass was deposited in the freshly tilled soil of a hoe plow.

That year in a Tolko High Level office space, the individual(s) responsible for reforestation decided that this block was not to be planted while it was still fresh cut. Whether it was too logistically difficult, too costly or simply a matter of forgetfulness, the planting of this block was pushed back not just one but two summer seasons. During the first summer season the seed of grass germinated, grew to maturity and produced seed of its own which was spread around the block through the wind. The next summer season saw these seeds germinate, repeating the process and bringing this species of grass that much closer to total domination of the block. Sometime during the next winter the folks at Tolko decided that 2014 was the year that this "green" block and the ones surrounding it were finally to be planted.

About three weeks ago on the evening of our day off, our supervisors and crew bosses gathered in the mess tent to make plans for which crews would be sent to which blocks for the next day of work. While they studied maps and designed a plan of attack, I rose from my tent for the first time that evening to run to the shitters. My gut was not happy with me and the distress had roused me from my sleep. While I sat there and came to the slow realization that this pain was abnormal for my famously steel-lined gut, it was decided in the mess tent that my crew would be planting the grassy block down by the Chinchaga.

The process of being woken by intestinal distress and rushing off to the shitters was repeated twice more during the night. The unpleasantness of the pressure on my insides was matched by the irritation and itchiness caused by the clouds of mosquitoes who call the putrid confines of the shitter tents their home after the sun goes down. At 6:30AM I awoke, unrested and unsure of how much more my body had left to purge. I was also unsure of the cause of my troubles but I knew that I had never experienced anything quite like it.

I dressed, ate, stashed some baby wipes in a large ziplock bag and got onto the helicopter to fly out to the block. The fact that we were planting a green block left me feeling less than optimistic for the day. While they are higher paid due to their difficulty, green blocks are still a challenge at the best of times. Every year that the land is left unplanted is another year that herbaceous plant life (including invasive grasses...) and aspen suckers have to establish themselves. Aspen suckers are especially troubling. They grow a few feet each year and prefer the the same micro-sites as a tree planter. This multitude of plant life slows your progress and obscures your view of where your trees are. You can be planting a tree 12 inches from one that you've already planted and have absolutely no idea that it's there.

We landed at our destination and were "cut-in" to the land by our crew boss. I bagged up a box of trees, back-bagged my baby wipes and waded through the four foot tall aspens for my first line of trees. The land was not good. The green was thick and it obscured the exceptional amount of "slash" (discarded logs of various sizes produced as a byproduct of logging) which was strewn about the block. Towards the back of my piece was another obstacle: an uncommonly steep hill for the traditionally flat land around High Level. After my first box I was convinced that the land would be my biggest headache of the day rather than my gut.

I was very wrong. The land was rotten and slowed me down considerably. My gut was rotten and caused me to squat amongst the greenery and utilize my emergency baby wipes on three dangerously explosive occasions. But my biggest headache of the day presented itself innocuously enough during that first line of trees to the hill in the back of my piece; I sneezed.

I stopped to sneeze once during my first box of trees, twice during the second, four times during the third and on and on in this parabolic fashion until a few hours later I was stopping to sneeze almost every minute. I realized pretty quickly that the poofs of pollen erupting from the seed heads of the invasive grass were the culprit. I was nursing a sore shoulder and knew that the jolt of a sneeze could make it worse if my body was in the wrong position. To protect my shoulder, I had to stand up straight with perfect posture to ensure that I didn't sneeze my shoulder right out of place. As a piece rate worker, I'm concerned with shaving seconds off of minutes and tenths of seconds off of seconds. You can imagine my chagrin at having to stand up straight every minute to sneeze for three seconds.

The sneezing wasn't the worst symptom produced by the grass. The seed heads of the grass stood on long spikes that raised them three to four feet into the air; the perfect height to be rubbed against the face and neck of a tree planter who is bending down to perform his or her duty. A few hours into the day I was at the road bagging up more trees and my crew boss walked over to see how I was doing. As I mentioned the bad land, my intestinal issues, my sleep deprivation and my incessant sneezing, he took a step closer and bent his head a little closer to mine. "Are you allergic to something?" Unbeknownst to me, my face and neck had broken out in itchy red hives. Their itchiness only became apparent once I became aware that they existed. I wished he hadn't told me about them at all. I headed back into the land unsure of how I would make it through the day.

But somehow I did. I sneezed, itched, pooped, sweated and planted my way through ten hours of work. Did I mention that the bugs were terrible that day? Icing on the cake. When I saw Stephanie at the end of the day as we waited for our helicopter ride off the block, the look on her face gave me a good idea of what my face looked like. When we arrived back in camp I took a look in a mirror at the mangled remains of my face. Hive or bug bite? Who's to say. My eyes were completely bloodshot from the allergic reaction and served to add to my terrifying appearance. A planter who saw me afterwards asked my crew boss if I had been hit with bear spray.

I popped a few Benadryl and headed to the showers hoping that my suffering might soon be over. I got under the water and noticed that the hives were not restricted to just my head and neck but were present to some degree over my entire body. The hot water felt nice on them. I cleaned my fingers and removed my contact lenses to try and give my eyes a bit of relief. I rubbed my eyes a bit once the contacts were out. "Don't rub your eyes!" said every mom ever. The first rub made my eyes itchier so I rubbed them again to make it stop. Hmmm..... This train of logic ended with me lying in my tent putting drop after drop of solution into my eyes and having to physically restrain myself from rubbing them. Like a bug bite, my eyes weren't itchy until I itched them, but they certainly were once I was done with them.

I returned to camp to eat dinner and had to explain my appearance to anyone who saw me. "Ahh man, you don't look so bad anymore. I heard you looked really bad before!" The Benadryl was doing its job and by the time I was done with dinner my symptoms had mostly subsided. I was left spent, physically and mentally, wondering whether or not I would still have to dash to the shitters in the night, but I still maintained my good humour. That was until, in a Bendryl induced haze, I put my boots down to dry by the fire and then noticed that they weren't there anymore. I hunted around camp for 20 minutes: picking up peoples boots, becoming increasingly frustrated, trying to think where they might be and cursing whoever it was who had moved them from their sacred spot in front of the fire. My good humour vanished entirely and I entered into one of my very rare but very real moments of mental darkness. All was not well until I looked again by the fire to see that my boots were right where I had left them. On top of everything, I now felt very stupid.

I returned to my tent and sighed, "What a day!", spread some creme on my face and neck, curled up in the sheets and went to bed. The day was over. Finally. The hives were nearly gone. I wasn't sneezing anymore. I didn't have to get up in the night to dash to the shitters. The worst day of the season was over and done with. Everything's downhill from here!! (Right?)

Head and shoulders, knees and woes !!!

Consumed with thoughts I grabbed my planting bags, packed to the brim with trees, strapped them to my body, picked up my day bag and shovel and walked into my piece. It was my second last day of tree planting for the season, or so I thought. It was my first season of planting and it had already been quite the experience. At this point in the season my body was aptly tuned; a well built and sculpted piece of machinery made to pound trees into the ground all day long! However, mentally,  I was growing weak. The past week had been a lot for me to take. I had been seeing someone in camp who had just left for the season, and I was feeling very mixed about the whole situation. Parts of the experience had been less than ideal. With an extra 45 pounds attached to my body, a mind full of conflicting thoughts, and a tormented heart I walked down the logging road to drop my belongings and start a day of planting.

We had been flown in for this particular cut block, which is why my planting bags were already full of trees. Typically in a helicopter show it is more efficient to fly in with trees as it could take hours for the helicopter to return to the landing spot, get trees loaded into a sling, then fly back out to the cut block where we are planting, drop the sling of trees, and pack our bags, then start planting. As I walked over and around different slash piles (slash is the log debris left over from the loggers) I couldn’t stop thinking about this guy and the way things had been left. Needless to say I was distracted. I kept walking, not 20 feet from where I was to set up my cache  (your home base for the day; where your boxes of trees are stored as well as your personal belongings fort the day), I fell. I literally wasn’t paying attention and tripped on some slash. After I hit the ground all I could think was “oh my god, how clumsy can I be?” I pushed myself up off the ground and kept walking towards my cache. Although I immediately noticed how sore my knee was. Thinking that I must have come down harder than I thought,  I couldn’t believe the amount of pain I was in. Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps I did more damage to my body than some potential bumps and bruises, which are beyond common in tree planting. The pain got stronger and stronger. I looked down at my leg; there was a tear in my pant leg. “Oh, shit, something cut through my pants.” My mind starts racing “if something cut through my pant leg, then it could have been sharp enough to cut through my skin”. Entirely plausible considering the searing pain. I see an overturned log ahead. I decide I will make it to the log, drop my bags and shovel and take a look at my knee. I make it to the log, unstrap everything attached to me and place it beside me. I sit down trying to brace myself for what I may see. Do keep in mind that I am from the suburbs of Toronto and as much as I can be tough as nails and “hardcore” I have never had much in the way of bodily injury. In fact I have never (knock on wood) had a body injury other than the odd scrape from falling off my bike, or common bruising from playing fighting with my older brothers as a child. I take a deep breath, reach down, and very carefully pull up my pant leg.

My right knee had been pierced by a piece of slash. There was a 2 inch gash cut in the shape of a triangle just under my knee cap. It did not look like a small scratch or cut, it was deep and terrifying! I could feel the panic moving up in me about to explode, but I immediately stopped it. It was just me, alone at this cut block, and I had to deal with it. I could succumb to fear or helplessness, but I had to deal with the situation as best I could with a strong, able, and calm mind state. I opened up my day bag and looked around for something. I found my SOA (School of the Americas) bandana , wrapped it around the gash and tied it tight. This, for the mean time, would stave off the bleeding, as well as bide me some time until I could figure something else out, or find someone who could help.

For most people it would have been common sense to go and seek help from a neighbouring planter, or even my foreman. Nope, not to me. I was determined to be a trooper, to suck it up, and deal with it.

It is important to note that in this, my first season of tree planting, I had a huge complex about being a woman planter. There had been a handful of women planters throughout the season. For the most part the rookie women planters had either given up, gone into the kitchen to cook, or just set an imaginary ceiling which didn’t allow them to push harder, further, and put in good numbers. ‘Numbers’ comparable to the other male planters. Along with this pressure there had been a great deal of sexism. There were quite a few “gents” who consistently spouted off offensive and undermining comments towards women. Very much trying to keep us in “our place”, or so I felt. All of these factors combined I was not about to give any of these guys the benefit of the doubt and behave like a helpless woman who a) couldn’t take care of herself b) couldn’t deal with a little bit of pain and c) couldn’t plant trees like the rest of them!

So I sucked it up! I put my planting bags back on, I picked up my shovel and I walked into my piece ready to plant these trees!

So I planted. One tree, two trees, three trees, my knee still throbbing. I ignored the pain. Four trees, five trees, a whole bundle gone and put into the ground. I flagged my line as I kept on planting. I looked around, but no one was around. I kep on planting. Two bundles in, still flagging my line, I kept on planting. Every minute seeming like an eternity, I kept on planting. No one was going to say that I was a suck, a baby, a weak woman. I kept on planting.

A short while later, I had planted about four bundles, I looked up and saw my foreman about 50 feet away. I shouted “Hey, do we have a first aid kit on the block?” He responded “what did you do?” I replied “oh, nothing I just fell down and cut my knee, nothing too serious”. He walked over to me. “Let me see what you did”. I stop planting, put my shovel aside, reached down, and ever so carefully removed the bandana I had around the wound, now quite saturated with blood.

My foreman takes one look at my wounded knee and exclaims “holy fuck what the hell did you do?” It was bad. Worse than I had thought or convinced myself. I stumble out some explanation of the incident. I leave my cut knee undressed as we walk back to my cache.

I don’t really remember the particular order than the rest of the events happened. It  was luck that the helicopter was still at our block, it hadn’t flown off yet. There was a first aid kit at the heli landing site. My foreman cracked it open and poured alcohol all over my knee. At this point the recognition that I needed immediate medical attention was more than apparent and keeping me at the cut block was a very poor decision. The helicopter pilot, beyond agreeable and accommodating, got to work readying the chopper to take off. In the mean time I had spoken with a neighbouring planter, who now had shown up. I gave him the remainder of my trees, and the box tag for it.

My foreman grabbed my day bag and put me into the helicopter. Before I knew it we were off, flying back to the original landing spot. Freaked out, but trying to remain calm, we flew. The landing spot wasn’t too far away, although any distance at this point seemed continents away.

We landed and found our supervisor lounging in the front seat of one of the trucks. He saw me in the passenger seat as we landed, and his face moved to confusion. He walked over to the helicopter. The pilot briefly explained my situation and then made clear the urgency for me to get to a hospital. “the hospital” I thought. “Damn, that is not hard core at all! I am a wuss. I am a silly girl planter who cannot keep up with the rest of the boys! Fuck! I failed! I failed all women. I can’t do it, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get through one season of planting and prove how worthy, strong, and capable I am as a woman planter. I failed!” While my supervisor and the pilot chatted I remained quiet and stuck in negative thoughts of defeatism. We flew away after a brief conversation. The plan, now, was to fly back to camp, grab my health card, fly into Grande Prairie, and head to the hospital.

            We arrived at a deserted camp, everyone, except me, was out on the block, planting their hearts out. Suszi, our camp bookkeeper, came over to the chopper wondering what was going on. The pilot explained as I made a dash for my tent to grab my health card. I was clever in that I also grabbed my journal, a book, and my address book. Who knew how long I would have to wait around at the hospital to see a doctor??? I ran back to the chopper, and off we went to Grande Prairie.

At this point, fear had subsided as I was being looked after.  I was no longer alone on the block, planting by myself, with a gaping hole in my knee. I was now being flown to a hospital, in a helicopter, with my foreman, supervisor, and camp bookkeeper, concerned, and potentially worrying about me and my knee. Positive attention can be a grand thingJ

            I must admit I would do it all over again just for the helicopter ride into Grande Prairie. Typically planters do not get a lot of time in helicopters. The helicopter rides are a few minutes, maybe 10 to 15 at most. Helicopters are incredibly expensive to operate, using a drum of gas every 30 minutes. Not to mention the operating time for the machine, and the cost of the pilot. Generally speaking a planting camp will drive as close as possible to the cut block and from there fly to the designated location. Thus minimizing fly time. The ride into Grande Prairie was somewhere between 30 to 45 minutes and the ride was allotted solely for me!!! How fabulous! I remember it being the most beautiful ride I had ever taken. For starters I was able to sit in the front seat with a large windshield to view all of God’s green lands. Furthermore, we were no longer only travelling over cut blocks but just Alberta’s vast forest landscape. Green as far as the eye can see. Rivers, brooks, streams, I seem to remember flying over a waterfall. It was epic and it was my experience. I couldn’t have been more content, even with a cut open knee causing all sorts of discomfort and pain. It was marvellous!

            My pilot was a true gem as well. Obviously concerned for my welfare and trying to take my mind off of the situation at hand he chatted to me the whole way into Grande prairie. He was so reassuring and kept me calm.

            We arrived at a helicopter airport in Grande Prairie. From there he was going to drive me into the city hospital. I was dropped at the hospital, I checked in and was told to take a seat in the waiting room. Judging by the volume of people I figured it was going to be awhile. I hobbled through the hospital to find a place where I could  buy a calling card. Despite my indisposition I had some wits about me. I would take the time to call home and chat with some of my friends. I called my best friend and told her I was at the hospital, I had cut open my knee and needed medical attention. I soon became a relic of entertainment in the hospital waiting room as most people could hear my animated phone conversation to my girlfriends, and I wasn’t about to dull down my story, I do have a bit of a flare for theatrics ;) Hours passed. I called all three of my closest girlfriends as well as my parents. Time passed slowly by.

            Eight hours later my name was called and I was taken into a hospital room. A nurse saw me at first; assessed my situation and cleaned up my wound. She left and I waited and waited and waited some more. Eventually a very nice doctor came in and was ready to stitch me up. After waiting to see a doctor for most of the day, all of my fears and worries came back in an instant and adrenaline was pumping through body, I had never gotten stitches before and didn’t like the thought of dealing with even more pain in the affected area. The doctor stitched me up no problem and I was good to go. Just like that I was ready to go back to our planting bush camp and face persecution for being, yet another girl, who couldn’t hack it.

            A couple of hors later I was picked up by my foreman and we drove back to camp. I had decided that tonight would be a good night to get drunk. The cumulative events of the past week had made me weak and I was ready to get sloshed and drink it all away. A  great plan!

            When we got back to camp it was very late and most everyone had retired for the evening. I was invited into the “Office Tent” with my foreman, supervisor, Suzsi, and a couple other people. As conversation evolved people wanted to hear the story, and what had happened to my knee. My foreman piped in letting everyone know that I had gone out and planted 4 bundles of trees despite my injury! The look of shock and amazement from their faces was a surprise to me. I had felt so defeated, but everyone was responding to me with admiration. My supervisor commented by saying “we were going to give Andrew (another male rookie planter) the rookie of the year prize, but I think you might have won it Stephanie”. Me, rookie of the year?!?!?!? Was he crazy? I fell apart out there. I hurt myself, I had to stop planting and seek medical attention. I didn’t deserve recognition or admiration. I should be shamed and shunned and banished from planting camp for not being a role model for women everywhere! It was then that I finally succumbed to the fact that I was indeed hardcore! Woot woot! I am hardcore! I am hardcore. I pushed through a difficult circumstance, sucked it up, and showed what I was made of! I did it! It felt absolutely amazing and it was all mine to relish in. My greatest accomplishment of the season. Congratulations Stephanie you are officially a seasoned tree planter. Way to go!

J

The Loneliest Tree

A pine tree planted in a burn

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They tantalize me. The tease me. They tempt me with nothing more than their availability. They touch a nerve in me. They call to me and I almost always answer. 

They are those out of the way microsites that I can't help but plant. That bit of soil between rips? That grassy area at the treeline that will fit three more? Those two lonely microsites amidst the wood-chips near the slash pile? I plant them all. I am a completionist in many respects. I can't help but plant a spot if a tree can go there. In the grand scheme of things, it's quite unnecessary that I plant these spots. The cumulative effect that they have on the density of my piece is negligible. A tree checker won't fault me for not fighting into every nook along the treeline. If all of the obvious spots are planted, everybody is happy.

So why do I do it? Were I to save the seconds that I waste throughout the day planting these out of the way microsites they would surely turn in to minutes. Time is money. So why do I do it? Am I being altruistic? Am I some sort of idealistic guardian of the cut-block who is compelled to leave behind the fullest forest possible? Most definitely not. In this instance, I think I let the little things get in the way of the bigger picture. It's an easy thing to do when your day is broken down into seedling sized units. The next time I spot a lonely microsite off to one side, I will think big. When it comes right down to it, that's all that really matters.

Itchy Tree-gger Finger

A spruce plantation in Sweden

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The first shift of a tree planting contract is a time to ease back in to the reality of the job. Rather than shoot out of the gates like a racehorse, conventional wisdom around camp suggests that you not push your body or mind too far before you've had time to warm up. That's easier said than done in many cases. After several years, planting trees is like riding a bike so even on the second day of the contract you can find yourself planting like you've been at it all summer. Today as I found myself cruising down the rips at a healthy speed, I wondered if I would be better off slowing down. The first shift is when tendonitis usually strikes and I've been down that creaky road before. Getting an injury early in the season costs you missed days of production while everyone else gets their engines fired up. If you don't eat your piece of the tree planting pie, somebody else will. But all felt well so I went with the flow and planted hard for the rest of the day.

As I lie here in my tent writing this, I feel achy and tired, but no more than usual. I ignored the conventional wisdom but I seem to have made it through the day unscathed. Is it reasonable to cast aside conventional wisdom on a whim? Let's see how I feel about that tomorrow.

~~~~~

In hindsight (two weeks later as I type this) my decision to forgo conventional wisdom paid off. I made more money than I would have that day if I had chosen to be cautious and slow down. But was my minor, short term monetary gain worth the risk of jeopardizing my season in the long term? Conventional wisdom is conventional for a reason. Sometimes the rush of planting lots of trees can get in the way of more reasonable thoughts. I didn't follow the conventional wisdom this time, but next time (if there is a next time) I think I'll err on the side of caution. Big risks that produce small rewards should be taken only in moderation.

Land + Trees = $$$

A scarifier carving "rips" into the land for planters to follow

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I bagged up my last box of trees to finish what was left of my piece and it had 17 bundles of 15 trees each in it. A few leftover trees from my last bag-up made the count 18 in my head. I left 2 bundles by the road to take care of the very front corner of the piece and to lighten my load for my trip to the back. I planted in, following a rip in to the back where there was a small area of open land to finish planting. As I planted along I estimated how many trees would fit in that small area. 10 bundles? 12? I would need at least 2 bundles to be able to plant back to the front corner when I was done. After the 2 bundles in the front corner, I knew I was to plant down the side of the road to where there was more open land and trees. Would I have enough trees leftover from my piece to plant to where I was going next without having to dead-walk? Walking somewhere instead of planting your way there means you're not making any money along the way.

~~~~~

When I'm planting trees, I spend a lot of my time doing math. To be as efficient as possible - to not be carrying any more trees than necessary, but to still have enough to cover your land - requires a good deal of thought and planning. Tree planting math is useful for figuring out how to ration out however many trees you have over however much available land. The number of available trees can be divided by the number of empty rips between boxes to figure out what sort of spacing to plant your trees. I also do math to figure out how many trees I'm planting per hour so I can give my crew boss an estimate of what kind of set-up I need for the day. Tree planting math serves a valuable purpose, but in some situations it isn't really necessary. Sometimes the auto-pilot mathematics that constantly run through my head serve no purpose but to occupy precious brain power, something that can be difficult to muster by the end of a long day.

In the above situation, there was a small, finite amount of land and a small, finite amount of trees. Whatever was leftover would get me as close as possible to where I needed to be next. The math I was doing didn't change the reality of the situation: I could only go as far as my trees could take me.

~~~~~

Sometimes when we're faced with a situation or a problem in our lives, we perform all sorts of mental gymnastics to try to think our way out of it. But when an unchangeable factor, say, the number of trees you have available, is what limits your progress, the gymnastics are unnecessary. Why waste energy over-contemplating an issue that's out of your control? It's better to just plant the trees you have and see where they take you.

Let's do this!

Stephanie,

I feel so honoured to be able to share the joy of writing with you. What a pleasure it is to be so connected with another person that you can communicate together on so many fronts. The idea that we can collaborate on this project and create art together makes me feel incredibly lucky. I hope we grow closer in the process and that our dual effort can bring our friends and family a little closer to our world. Let's do this!

Love,
Kevin