UPDATE: Drayton Valley, Alberta

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At the BCMI inn, where I am staying, there are no cars in the parking lot. There are large white trucks with company decals on the sides, and big tires; splatter coatings of grey clay around their base grow thinner up their sides, acquired on the many dirt and gravel roads that divide the green foothills between Drayton Valley and Edson. Roads that lead to wells, massive thrusting derricks churning and belching, or clear cut forrests; running adjacent to seismic lines and ten meter wide stretches of dead straight green grass that seem to go on forever, a scar marking the underground pipelines; roads that climb up hills that when crested reveal the far off jagged white shapes of the Rocky Mountains on one side, and a muddy flat horizon on the other.

There are no women at the BCMI save for the hostess and the waitresses at the Bar-Restaurant near the reception. It is full of men, alone and in small groups, eating high cholesterol breakfasts off of the Canadian Classics menu. Heavy set men wearing denim and wool, and high boots. Everything recognizable from the racks of Mark's Work Warehouse. They look threateningly unremarkable.

One shift here and the numbers are huge. We only earn nine cents a tree, so you have to plant more of them. But the land is, as Cam would say, 'dead-easy.' We are camped along a river in a provincial campsite, somewhere between Edson and Drayton Valley, one hour from cement in any direction. I can hear the trickle of the creek through my mosquito net at night, which becomes almost indistinguishable from the loud puttering of the generator beside the cook shack.

1/2 of Throat Kick

Mark Large, Bass


Riley, Drums

Video: Mess Tent

Morning:


Evening:

Yossef

He talks about being from Spain, and having a Muslim father. Apparently he lived in New York for a while, before taking temporary residence in Montreal. I am not sure of the timeline. By the look of him, he must be in his mid to late thirties. He wears a doo-rag underneath a baseball cap that he does not take off even when he sleeps. He smokes two packs of cigarettes a day, and plants more trees than anyone I have ever seen.

Yossef is slight and muscular. He stands around six feet tall and has a 28 inch waist. He eats almost nothing but almonds and fruit. His limbs account for the larger portion of his physique. Spindly, you could call him, and slightly stooping, he moves quickly and has wide set eyes which give him a reptilian presence, like a gecko.

My first day planting with Yossef he put in twice as many trees as me. I was baffled at how such a feat could be even possible, and quickly began peppering him with questions relating to his technique and diet.

He speaks French, Spanish and slangish english in a quiet raspy voice. He refers to Tim Hortons as "Timmy Timmy," and smoking pot as "stone time." His favortie singular phrase is "unbelievable," which he uses to express exasperation, as in 'Can you believe this shit?' Out of his mouth it sounds like UM BA LEE BO.

His smile is full of cunning, which must account for some of his success. He works his land in ways that confound other planters and checkers alike, guaranteeing that people will most often stay out of his land. This can be interpreted as eccentricity, but is more likely a calculated strategy to throw everyone off.

Yossef is becoming like a planting mentor to me. He is the best I have ever seen, and likely one of the best that there is.

Trees and Spade

UPDATE; Fort St. James

After finishing the Williams Lake contract on a five day shift, we had one day to move to Fort St. James and set up camp before starting in on the 500,000 or so Ministry of Forests (government) trees we are currently chipping away at. The haste made for a dearth of downtime that prevented me from adding to this page. Today is my first real day off in ten days.

In Fort St. James the prices are lower (13 cents), but the land is faster and the numbers are higher. We are camped only 15 kilometers away from a 250,000 tree block that we have been on the for the last four days. The proximity to and the size of the block mean that we are getting long days and big pieces of land. On day four, I closed a 10,000 tree piece having thoroughly exhausted myself every day of the shift, then celebrated by splurging on a single motel room on the night off. I drank three beers, ate a pizza and watched a nine ball tournament on television. In the morning, I had a bath, checked out, and walked to the laundromat, which was closed. I walked to a nearby gas station and asked a friendly cashier what time the laundromat opened. She informed me that it was closed on Sunday. 'Is there another one is town?' 'No.' 'Is there an internet cafe around here?' 'Yes, but it is closed.' 'How about a library?' 'Closed.'

I called the motel and asked if they had laundry service. They said no, so I took a day-room and bought some detergent from the grocery store. I hand-washed my clothes in the bath tub. I rung them out, hung them off of a rail, and am now waiting for them to dry while orating this post to Lauren, who is in Manhattan, using the motel room phone and a 7-11 calling card.

We are here for another 4 days before packing up again- this time for a 12 hour drive to our neighboring province.

UPDATE: Moving Day

Today is moving day, meaning that our entire company is packing up and moving from Williams Lake to a new camp just outside of Fort St. James.

In the morning, my crew was responsible for tearing down the mess tent before we went off to the block. We planted until 6:00, and drove back hurriedly, hoping to make it all the way to Prince George by that evening. We collected all of our personal belongings, took down our little tents and packed everything into vehicles. I managed to do this very quickly, and walked down to the campground shower to clean up before the four-hour drive.

There is a mobile home between my old tent spot and the showers, which are themselves half way between my tent and my old crew. Along my half finished journeys, I had often played with a friendly cat that lives here. Today, there were four Indian children outside, between the ages of three and five. As I walked past they all started to follow me, teasing me in unison as kids will do on playgrounds, by calling me "poopy-pants".

'POOPY PANTS POOPY PANTS POOPY PANTS POOPY PANTS'

I walked into the showers, laughing. My pants are covered with mud. I have worn them every day of what has been a long and hard five-day shift. All of my planting clothes are possessed of a sweaty, soily, body grime that covers me and makes me stick to my sleeping bag at night. My tent smells like a hockey bag. Everything is slightly damp.

I got into the shower, which felt good. I had no soap, so I just stood under the showerhead rubbing brown dirt off of my hands and face, taking care of what was visible. We don't have a day off between these two contracts, so I am not sure if I will be able to do my laundry and wash my sleeping bag out before I begin what will be another five-day shift. I really hope so.

When I got out, I had the feeling that my body had been waxed. The kids were waiting for me outside. They began with the Poopy-pants thing again.