To plant seedlings, or not to plant seedlings,
That is the question, often I ponder.
Whether ‘tis saner in the mind to suffer
A summer’s worth of Murphy’s Law and pain,
Or to pack thy tent and to a cubicle,
For to spend those warm and primal months of life
Safe from slash and sweat and tendonitis,
From spruce rash and The Claw and yellow flagger.
Surely we have all dreamed of dropping bag
And hurling shovel, a perfect triple arc,
Thunking neatly into the nearest stump,
And walking triumphantly off the block?
Aye, such a dream must heavy each planter’s heart
From time to time, and yet, dare we to act,
To shrug off the burden of endurance
And the spurns driven deeper into our backs
By over-zealous, self-righteous checkers?
Indeed, why withstand us the hordes of horse flies
Thicker than the hide God giveth to a moose,
Logged slopes more treach’rous than the Gates of Hell
With their hidden pitfalls, a thousand feet
Down, to land amidst ravenous cougars,
When we might, by the virtue of our own two feet
Liberate us from the Almighty Block?
Ah, but who among us hath crossed over,
Dropped DEET and run for civilization,
And returned to tell of what evils await?
It seems we would rather an evil known
Than one that looms essentially formless.
The weight of one’s bank account after all
The boxes are in the ground, weighs rather
Pleasantly in the aching, tired mind.
Thus we are shown slightly irresolute
In our choice, the lesser of two evils,
We are frozen not particularly
Desiring either of these demons be,
Yet planting seedlings in out active doubt.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Requiem for Will by Dusty Blowhard
Aimless, drinking too much coffee, stoned again, waiting for Dougie to finish work, it was the day before the Oregon Country Fair, where all the hippies love to go. We would drive down that night and get drunker than drunk and higher than high (as was my fashion in those days) and I’d see for myself if my hippy friends were right about it being a really fucking cool gig.
I wasn’t planting that year. I’d ignored the tendonitis for months, working through the winter, and had fucked myself up to the point that even WCB, those prickliest of pricks, agreed; I was too mangled to work. The repetitious impact syndrome, as my doctor called it, was as sure a sign as I’d ever get that hitting things with shovels and axes and chainsaws was not a career that I should be doing. I ignored him, being me, but happily took the Worker’s Comp stipend, agreeing to rest up for as long as it took.
I wasted it getting wasted, like I had the rest of my youth, not educating myself out of the rut I’d dug. Having fun, playing video games with career criminals and reprobate hippy scions of great wealth, moonlighting as a dope-grower’s labourer, I did nothing of value for months and months. I got really good at some video games and listened to a lot of jungle music, as drum and bass was called then. That was all. I wrote, but all I wrote was garbage.
So there I was, sitting at the café on Yates and View, reading a paper, when Kent walked up. He was looking even more bugged out than usual—not just half-mad this time, but fully crazy, and as always with that dangerously energetic spring in his heels. He looked that way generally, but much less so. I could tell immediately something was wrong, and wondered what new bad news he had.
He and Will had got popped for a sizeable grow-show some months before, and still reeling from the heavy fines and the loss of their crop, both had gone out planting to try and make up some of the loss. Will hadn’t planted in a couple years. I’d been stoked when he told me that he had gone back to straight bush work; he didn’t have the head for details that successful criminals need. And, he had become super-fat. I’d entertained the notion of going out with him on his gig, briefly, but the WCB checks were too delicious, and my arms still hurt a little.
“Pete!” said Kent.
“Kent!” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“Will fucking died."
“His fucking heart exploded. He was planting for Honeycutt and he never showed up at the end of the day so they went out looking for him and they found him dead at the back of his piece. Massive fucking heart attack. He’d been born with a defective one and it fucking exploded. The fat fuck. Hey, I gotta go. Later.”
“Uh…okay…hey, you okay? Kent?”
“Nope!”
Neither was I.
And so, he left me there at the café, both of us out a friend. It wasn’t the first time I’d lost a buddy to random death, but Will, the mad bastard, was one of my favourite people in the world. I was a rookie again, and Kent was too I guess, to the very new, very ancient truth, that everybody dies and you don’t get a say about the who and the how and the why and the when. Everybody I’ve buried since then proves that for me at least, it doesn’t get easier, no matter how many times it happens. I’ll always be a rookie at death.
The Oregon Country Fair sucked that year. I’m told it was one of the best ever. But for me it was miserable. I, with characteristic foolishness, ate too many mushrooms, and moped alone, making no friends, alternately feeling pissed off and utterly gutted. I ran my mind over the fact of his death like a tongue over a broken tooth not yet numb. It’s half a lifetime later, now, and it still ain’t numb yet .
I wondered, then, and still do today:
The day you died, William old boy, did you feel any different, when you went to work that morning?
Did you have your walkman on when your ticker popped? Of course you did: you always did.
Were you singing, as you climbed that hill, annoying your fellow planters with your semi-melodic howling?
Of course you were; you always were.
What was the song, Will? If I go to the block you died on, can I catch the echo? Is your voice still in the wind?
Of course I can’t, of course it isn’t. It doesn’t work like that. And even if it did, even if you went ghost, you’d’ve picked a better spot to haunt than some fucking clearcut.
And; what did they do with the trees in your bag? Did they stash the bundles right then and there, to wash their hands of your curse, like I probably would have done, or did they plant them out in the shape of a big “W”? Not likely. I’m told nobody even liked you on that contract, that you kept so totally to yourself, everybody figured you were just an asshole. Hell, maybe they weren’t wrong to think so. You never did much care what people thought of you.
So, Will--who finished your piece? Was it spooky as hell? No doubt it was, no doubt it was.
And--who got your money?
You were a stupid genius, Will, or a very clever moron—I could never figure out which. You were a far cry from the athlete you were, and you seemed as old as the hills you planted, but you died at 25. I’m a lot older now than you ever got, but you still seem older.
I met some of the guys who’d been on that crew, who’d dragged your massive ass off the slope and notified your mom and dad that their son was dead. I asked about you, but they didn’t want to talk about It.
Of course.
You will never be forgotten, Will—not by your friends, and not by the poor bastards who had to haul your carcass back to the truck.
Rest In Peace,
William Plaatjes of Squamish.
1970—1995, or thereabouts.
I wasn’t planting that year. I’d ignored the tendonitis for months, working through the winter, and had fucked myself up to the point that even WCB, those prickliest of pricks, agreed; I was too mangled to work. The repetitious impact syndrome, as my doctor called it, was as sure a sign as I’d ever get that hitting things with shovels and axes and chainsaws was not a career that I should be doing. I ignored him, being me, but happily took the Worker’s Comp stipend, agreeing to rest up for as long as it took.
I wasted it getting wasted, like I had the rest of my youth, not educating myself out of the rut I’d dug. Having fun, playing video games with career criminals and reprobate hippy scions of great wealth, moonlighting as a dope-grower’s labourer, I did nothing of value for months and months. I got really good at some video games and listened to a lot of jungle music, as drum and bass was called then. That was all. I wrote, but all I wrote was garbage.
So there I was, sitting at the café on Yates and View, reading a paper, when Kent walked up. He was looking even more bugged out than usual—not just half-mad this time, but fully crazy, and as always with that dangerously energetic spring in his heels. He looked that way generally, but much less so. I could tell immediately something was wrong, and wondered what new bad news he had.
He and Will had got popped for a sizeable grow-show some months before, and still reeling from the heavy fines and the loss of their crop, both had gone out planting to try and make up some of the loss. Will hadn’t planted in a couple years. I’d been stoked when he told me that he had gone back to straight bush work; he didn’t have the head for details that successful criminals need. And, he had become super-fat. I’d entertained the notion of going out with him on his gig, briefly, but the WCB checks were too delicious, and my arms still hurt a little.
“Pete!” said Kent.
“Kent!” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“Will fucking died."
“His fucking heart exploded. He was planting for Honeycutt and he never showed up at the end of the day so they went out looking for him and they found him dead at the back of his piece. Massive fucking heart attack. He’d been born with a defective one and it fucking exploded. The fat fuck. Hey, I gotta go. Later.”
“Uh…okay…hey, you okay? Kent?”
“Nope!”
Neither was I.
And so, he left me there at the café, both of us out a friend. It wasn’t the first time I’d lost a buddy to random death, but Will, the mad bastard, was one of my favourite people in the world. I was a rookie again, and Kent was too I guess, to the very new, very ancient truth, that everybody dies and you don’t get a say about the who and the how and the why and the when. Everybody I’ve buried since then proves that for me at least, it doesn’t get easier, no matter how many times it happens. I’ll always be a rookie at death.
The Oregon Country Fair sucked that year. I’m told it was one of the best ever. But for me it was miserable. I, with characteristic foolishness, ate too many mushrooms, and moped alone, making no friends, alternately feeling pissed off and utterly gutted. I ran my mind over the fact of his death like a tongue over a broken tooth not yet numb. It’s half a lifetime later, now, and it still ain’t numb yet .
I wondered, then, and still do today:
The day you died, William old boy, did you feel any different, when you went to work that morning?
Did you have your walkman on when your ticker popped? Of course you did: you always did.
Were you singing, as you climbed that hill, annoying your fellow planters with your semi-melodic howling?
Of course you were; you always were.
What was the song, Will? If I go to the block you died on, can I catch the echo? Is your voice still in the wind?
Of course I can’t, of course it isn’t. It doesn’t work like that. And even if it did, even if you went ghost, you’d’ve picked a better spot to haunt than some fucking clearcut.
And; what did they do with the trees in your bag? Did they stash the bundles right then and there, to wash their hands of your curse, like I probably would have done, or did they plant them out in the shape of a big “W”? Not likely. I’m told nobody even liked you on that contract, that you kept so totally to yourself, everybody figured you were just an asshole. Hell, maybe they weren’t wrong to think so. You never did much care what people thought of you.
So, Will--who finished your piece? Was it spooky as hell? No doubt it was, no doubt it was.
And--who got your money?
You were a stupid genius, Will, or a very clever moron—I could never figure out which. You were a far cry from the athlete you were, and you seemed as old as the hills you planted, but you died at 25. I’m a lot older now than you ever got, but you still seem older.
I met some of the guys who’d been on that crew, who’d dragged your massive ass off the slope and notified your mom and dad that their son was dead. I asked about you, but they didn’t want to talk about It.
Of course.
You will never be forgotten, Will—not by your friends, and not by the poor bastards who had to haul your carcass back to the truck.
Rest In Peace,
William Plaatjes of Squamish.
1970—1995, or thereabouts.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Bare Roots by Bob Winegar
the date, June 22, 1972
my birthday
the birth day of Norman White's daughter
who entered this world
amidst the tumult and rage
of a lightning storm
that swept up the Kootenay Lake above Kaslo
John Morton, Bradford Cowern and I stood
high above the lake that afternoon
peeking above the rain swollen clouds
looking down upon jagged spikes of lightning
buffeted by their thunderous reports
hooting and screaming
electrified by the aerial spectacle
behind us
just outside the small cook tent
a massive wheel of cheddar cheese
with a cruising axe embedded in it
just the tool
to cleave a slab
for a sodden, rustic meal
Planting the early days
Bob Winegar
Mendocino CA
Thursday, February 19, 2009
And his name was Rancor the bear by Aaron Veldstra
It may have been my rookie treeplanting season, but it wasn't my first time out in the bush. I had spent summers previous wandering around BC. I was used to not being in a town, and well used to the idea of camping out in the middle of nowhere with potentially dangerous wildlife around. In fact the only thing new to me about treeplanting was planting and the tent. I had never bothered with a tent in the past, preferring instead to camp out in the open with a tarp and sleeping bag. The Camp we were staying at was anything but what I had imagined treeplanting camps were like. Friends of mine who had introduced the idea of treeplanting had never mentioned something like this before. They told me: camps were usually in an old gravel pit or some clearing in the middle of nowhere, and no one used the sub-par showers. This place was pretty much the opposite. This was an old logging camp with buildings, flush toilets, plenty of hot water, and 5 seconds from the highway. Sure the buildings smelt of mold. Hell, the foundations and buildings were sinking into the ground. But to a planter, well, it is much better than sleeping in any spring soaked tent. This was pretty much an opulent treeplanting resort relative to what I had heard. When I first arrived I decided to prove my hardcore attitude right then and there. Instead of finding a room in one of the cushy dormitories I set up my tent outside. A couple of crusty vets were doing the same. In doing so I was brought into a conversation on how this camp was going to make rookie marshmallows. I agreed and regaled them with tales of living in the woods out on Vancouver Island just to prove beyond a doubt that I was no jet-puffed-deelite. It worked and was my first step toward becoming something other than a pestering rookie--a great ingress to the fold if ever there was one.
It was a very nice evening all things considered. The second shift into the contract. After the snow day and before the seemingly endless cold rain. One of those anomalous days of early spring where the weather is just right. Dinner had been a delicious curry that warmed the belly as it spiced the soul. Dessert was chocolate covered frozen bananas which finished off the meal quite charmingly. Following dinner there was the standard smoke session outside. I stood in and listened to each person tell their stories. Lingering long enough to polish off about 2 or 3 cigarettes. Then left for my post dinner walk, usually around a 4 or 5 km stroll, just something to aid in digestion. It’s a habit I picked up when I was young. Some exploring had been done in the days prior. This evening's walk would prove to be a much more interesting stroll.
As I left camp a couple of dogs came out with me. Their names were Zeke and Sasha, owned by Arno Marx and Matthew Pilon respectively. This had been the norm since dogs are also avid walkers and can smell one of their kind. I noticed almost immediately that the dogs were more high strung than usual. They tore circles around me. Stopping periodically to smell and pee on things slightly less than usually. I am not much of an animal behaviorist, but I do know when a dog is following a scent. That is what these dogs were doing. Then BAM! off they shot, barking with mad fury. Not too far off I heard a surprised grunt, then a huff, the snapping of branches and claws on tree bark. When I got around the corner of the trail, there was a spectacle that seemed to be a scene from some slap stick cartoon from the '50s. An immense bear had clawed half way up a tree which looked ready to snap from the stress. It swayed unsteadily on the toothpick tree for a half a minute, the jaws of the dogs snapping mere inches from the bear bottom. The sight was ridiculous. This huge bear afraid of two little dogs, stuck in a tree that was far too small. It looked at me briefly with this look of "Oh shit what do i do now?"
I couldn't help myself. It probably wasn't the nicest thing to do, but I started laughing. The bear slipped a little ways down the tree. Immediately the dogs gave him a little pinch. It tried to jump back up. Instead... FFFHWUMP... down he came. The dogs easily skirted the rapidly descending buttock. Moving in, once lead-arse had landed, for a few quick nips. By this time I was laughing so hard that I wasn't paying as much attention to the situation as I should have been. The bear didn't stick around for long though. He was off and running seconds after impact. Then I clicked back too. Shit what about the dogs!!! I called their names but all I heard was barking fading off into the distance. So I ran back to camp to fetch the owners of the dogs. It wasn't too long until the dogs came back to Arno and Matt's calls, and everything appeared safe. We went back to camp and smoked a few more cigarettes. I told the story various times throughout the rest of the evening. Laughing about it a little more each time I told it.
When all the excitement faded from the story and the light bulbs started to dim, it is was time to turn the tin can in and go to bed. Probably the best time in any planters day. Off I went to my tent. Took out my contacts, got naked, and into the sleeping bag for a nice peaceful pass out. I must have slept for about an hour or so. As soon as I just settled into a nice dream of candy bars and cold beers I was startled awake by something. It sounded like an extremely loud pedophile huff accompanied by what sounded to be claws on plastic. I thought it was some cruel vet playing a mean trick on me. So I half whispered "knock it off." Hissing "I MEAN IT." When whatever it was did not stop doing what it was they were doing i I raised my voice a little. "HEY!" Now it sounded like tooth enamel on plastic. "KNOCK IT OFF." Then the hollow flop of plastic dropping a small distance to the ground. Then some faint padding around to the side of my tent. By this time I was damning my sleeping neighbors. I yelled "WHO IS F*CKING OUT THERE. THIS ISN'T FUNNY." I half knew at this point it was a bear. I was fully aware it was a bear when I heard a good chomp onto the side of my tent.
The bear had bitten and grabbed a hold of my guitar case through the wall of the tent. It started pulling. My tent fell down around me. I started yelling to my neighbors. "HEY RYAN, NICK, CARRIE, A BEAR IS EATING MY TENT." My tent moved what felt like a few feet in the direction of the forest. Then I heard someone cursing at their zipper and yell "I AM COMING MAN-- HOLD ON." At that point the bear dropped my tent. I lay there for a motionless moment. The zippers of two tents opened in sweet harmony. zzzzzzZZZZZZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP. I could see pools of light pass over the tent which was pillowed around me. "I don't see anything, Man... OH! HOLY SHIT, (silent pause) there is a bear." Others came out their tents, some clad only in underwear. They started yelling at the bear. I heard the bear slump off into some bushes. I took this as my cue to get the hell out of the entanglement I was in. I fumbled around for some glasses, put my pants on backwards and looked for the zipper. It felt like forever but was only a couple of minutes, a shock of chilly air met me outside. The bear was about 10 metres off standing at the edge of the forest. I recognized him, I could have picked that bear out of a line-up if asked. The same fat coward from before. He didn't seem as scared this time. In fact with the way he was huffing I would have said he was a bit pissed off. We threw rocks at him for a bit. Then some management came out and started a truck. They drove as close as they could to the bear and laid on the horn. He didn't budge. In fact, he even went so far as to sit his ass down and stare at the truck. His defiant stance was only somewhat startled by the use of bear bangers. Eventually he shuffled a little deeper into the woods. I went back over to my tent and surveyed the wreckage with a borrowed flashlight. Total chaos. There was a large hole in the wall and one of the poles had been mangled. After I folded it a couple times it was no big deal to drag it over to one of the buildings and haul it inside.
I slept on a couch in the rec hall that night, my gear bunched up in a shredded nylon bag that used to be a tent. Sleep was fitful for the rest of the night. I never got back to candy mountain or cold beer. Bear patrol was on for the rest of the night. Periodic horn blasts were heard throughout the night. The dogs remained locked in doors but were subject to fits of barking. I lay there thinking about what had happened, what a strange evening indeed. It made me rethink what I had thought earlier about this camp. This was pretty hardcore after all. I had spent plenty of nights prior to treeplanting out in bear even grizzly country. I had seen many bears before this encounter. Each time I respected them and kept my distance. Luckily enough they had kept a mutual respect for me and I never had any problems. Often times these encounters were when I was alone. Just me and the bear. One on one. No back-up but no real reason to fear each other. What was different this time? Eventually I dozed off for a few nods just before sunrise. In the morning I went out to see what might have fallen out of my tent the night before. When I arrived at the former location of my tent the ground was littered with evidence of bear. I picked up my water jug. There was a considerable hole in it, large enough to discount it as a vessel for bearing liquid. My hard hat was equally fondled, still functional in that it sat on my head. However the plastic had been compromised so much that it would never sustain an impact stronger than a swiftly swung nerf bat. My small nalgene that I carried around in my back bag was also rendered useless.
It had taken a crap next to my planting bags but did not chew them. My shovel handle had a few bite marks but nothing to render it useless. It was when I saw the sandwich that everything became clear. I had found the sandwich all squished up at the bottom of my block bag the day before, an ugly PB and J, I would have eaten it, normally. However the bag had burst and the sandwich had gotten all dirty. When I found it in there at the end of the day, I had immediately thrown it out side my tent with intentions of disposing of it properly later. The reason for chucking it out of the tent was purely to keep food smells out of the tent. Naturally I had forgotten about throwing the sandwich outside when it was time for dinner and proper disposal. I saw it now naked and unscathed. It had about as much radiance as is possible for brown bread to displace. It was a clue. This bear was not there to have a cheap snack at the expense of some dirty treeplanter, as we often dismiss most bear interactions with the planting population. This rancorous bear was out to do me in for laughing at it. I had hurt its feelings. It had sought me out for revenge, not my tasty waste. The evidence matched, the only things harmed were the things that would inconvenience me but not truly screw me over –my water jug and my hardhat. I have to thank the bear for not actually taking a crap on my stuff. Next to it was a nice touch though. The experience gave me a new insight to the lumbering oaf of the Boreal. We don't give these animals enough credit. They may be animals but they know when they are being laughed at, and brother they don't like it either.
The moral of this story:? Don't fuck with the bears, they are more vindictive than you think.
It was a very nice evening all things considered. The second shift into the contract. After the snow day and before the seemingly endless cold rain. One of those anomalous days of early spring where the weather is just right. Dinner had been a delicious curry that warmed the belly as it spiced the soul. Dessert was chocolate covered frozen bananas which finished off the meal quite charmingly. Following dinner there was the standard smoke session outside. I stood in and listened to each person tell their stories. Lingering long enough to polish off about 2 or 3 cigarettes. Then left for my post dinner walk, usually around a 4 or 5 km stroll, just something to aid in digestion. It’s a habit I picked up when I was young. Some exploring had been done in the days prior. This evening's walk would prove to be a much more interesting stroll.
As I left camp a couple of dogs came out with me. Their names were Zeke and Sasha, owned by Arno Marx and Matthew Pilon respectively. This had been the norm since dogs are also avid walkers and can smell one of their kind. I noticed almost immediately that the dogs were more high strung than usual. They tore circles around me. Stopping periodically to smell and pee on things slightly less than usually. I am not much of an animal behaviorist, but I do know when a dog is following a scent. That is what these dogs were doing. Then BAM! off they shot, barking with mad fury. Not too far off I heard a surprised grunt, then a huff, the snapping of branches and claws on tree bark. When I got around the corner of the trail, there was a spectacle that seemed to be a scene from some slap stick cartoon from the '50s. An immense bear had clawed half way up a tree which looked ready to snap from the stress. It swayed unsteadily on the toothpick tree for a half a minute, the jaws of the dogs snapping mere inches from the bear bottom. The sight was ridiculous. This huge bear afraid of two little dogs, stuck in a tree that was far too small. It looked at me briefly with this look of "Oh shit what do i do now?"
I couldn't help myself. It probably wasn't the nicest thing to do, but I started laughing. The bear slipped a little ways down the tree. Immediately the dogs gave him a little pinch. It tried to jump back up. Instead... FFFHWUMP... down he came. The dogs easily skirted the rapidly descending buttock. Moving in, once lead-arse had landed, for a few quick nips. By this time I was laughing so hard that I wasn't paying as much attention to the situation as I should have been. The bear didn't stick around for long though. He was off and running seconds after impact. Then I clicked back too. Shit what about the dogs!!! I called their names but all I heard was barking fading off into the distance. So I ran back to camp to fetch the owners of the dogs. It wasn't too long until the dogs came back to Arno and Matt's calls, and everything appeared safe. We went back to camp and smoked a few more cigarettes. I told the story various times throughout the rest of the evening. Laughing about it a little more each time I told it.
When all the excitement faded from the story and the light bulbs started to dim, it is was time to turn the tin can in and go to bed. Probably the best time in any planters day. Off I went to my tent. Took out my contacts, got naked, and into the sleeping bag for a nice peaceful pass out. I must have slept for about an hour or so. As soon as I just settled into a nice dream of candy bars and cold beers I was startled awake by something. It sounded like an extremely loud pedophile huff accompanied by what sounded to be claws on plastic. I thought it was some cruel vet playing a mean trick on me. So I half whispered "knock it off." Hissing "I MEAN IT." When whatever it was did not stop doing what it was they were doing i I raised my voice a little. "HEY!" Now it sounded like tooth enamel on plastic. "KNOCK IT OFF." Then the hollow flop of plastic dropping a small distance to the ground. Then some faint padding around to the side of my tent. By this time I was damning my sleeping neighbors. I yelled "WHO IS F*CKING OUT THERE. THIS ISN'T FUNNY." I half knew at this point it was a bear. I was fully aware it was a bear when I heard a good chomp onto the side of my tent.
The bear had bitten and grabbed a hold of my guitar case through the wall of the tent. It started pulling. My tent fell down around me. I started yelling to my neighbors. "HEY RYAN, NICK, CARRIE, A BEAR IS EATING MY TENT." My tent moved what felt like a few feet in the direction of the forest. Then I heard someone cursing at their zipper and yell "I AM COMING MAN-- HOLD ON." At that point the bear dropped my tent. I lay there for a motionless moment. The zippers of two tents opened in sweet harmony. zzzzzzZZZZZZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP. I could see pools of light pass over the tent which was pillowed around me. "I don't see anything, Man... OH! HOLY SHIT, (silent pause) there is a bear." Others came out their tents, some clad only in underwear. They started yelling at the bear. I heard the bear slump off into some bushes. I took this as my cue to get the hell out of the entanglement I was in. I fumbled around for some glasses, put my pants on backwards and looked for the zipper. It felt like forever but was only a couple of minutes, a shock of chilly air met me outside. The bear was about 10 metres off standing at the edge of the forest. I recognized him, I could have picked that bear out of a line-up if asked. The same fat coward from before. He didn't seem as scared this time. In fact with the way he was huffing I would have said he was a bit pissed off. We threw rocks at him for a bit. Then some management came out and started a truck. They drove as close as they could to the bear and laid on the horn. He didn't budge. In fact, he even went so far as to sit his ass down and stare at the truck. His defiant stance was only somewhat startled by the use of bear bangers. Eventually he shuffled a little deeper into the woods. I went back over to my tent and surveyed the wreckage with a borrowed flashlight. Total chaos. There was a large hole in the wall and one of the poles had been mangled. After I folded it a couple times it was no big deal to drag it over to one of the buildings and haul it inside.
I slept on a couch in the rec hall that night, my gear bunched up in a shredded nylon bag that used to be a tent. Sleep was fitful for the rest of the night. I never got back to candy mountain or cold beer. Bear patrol was on for the rest of the night. Periodic horn blasts were heard throughout the night. The dogs remained locked in doors but were subject to fits of barking. I lay there thinking about what had happened, what a strange evening indeed. It made me rethink what I had thought earlier about this camp. This was pretty hardcore after all. I had spent plenty of nights prior to treeplanting out in bear even grizzly country. I had seen many bears before this encounter. Each time I respected them and kept my distance. Luckily enough they had kept a mutual respect for me and I never had any problems. Often times these encounters were when I was alone. Just me and the bear. One on one. No back-up but no real reason to fear each other. What was different this time? Eventually I dozed off for a few nods just before sunrise. In the morning I went out to see what might have fallen out of my tent the night before. When I arrived at the former location of my tent the ground was littered with evidence of bear. I picked up my water jug. There was a considerable hole in it, large enough to discount it as a vessel for bearing liquid. My hard hat was equally fondled, still functional in that it sat on my head. However the plastic had been compromised so much that it would never sustain an impact stronger than a swiftly swung nerf bat. My small nalgene that I carried around in my back bag was also rendered useless.
It had taken a crap next to my planting bags but did not chew them. My shovel handle had a few bite marks but nothing to render it useless. It was when I saw the sandwich that everything became clear. I had found the sandwich all squished up at the bottom of my block bag the day before, an ugly PB and J, I would have eaten it, normally. However the bag had burst and the sandwich had gotten all dirty. When I found it in there at the end of the day, I had immediately thrown it out side my tent with intentions of disposing of it properly later. The reason for chucking it out of the tent was purely to keep food smells out of the tent. Naturally I had forgotten about throwing the sandwich outside when it was time for dinner and proper disposal. I saw it now naked and unscathed. It had about as much radiance as is possible for brown bread to displace. It was a clue. This bear was not there to have a cheap snack at the expense of some dirty treeplanter, as we often dismiss most bear interactions with the planting population. This rancorous bear was out to do me in for laughing at it. I had hurt its feelings. It had sought me out for revenge, not my tasty waste. The evidence matched, the only things harmed were the things that would inconvenience me but not truly screw me over –my water jug and my hardhat. I have to thank the bear for not actually taking a crap on my stuff. Next to it was a nice touch though. The experience gave me a new insight to the lumbering oaf of the Boreal. We don't give these animals enough credit. They may be animals but they know when they are being laughed at, and brother they don't like it either.
The moral of this story:? Don't fuck with the bears, they are more vindictive than you think.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Mounties' Coats by Bob Ploss
I was at my wit's end. There were a million loose ends to tie up and the barge was supposed to pull out at 8 am. The job was at the far eastern end of Powell Lake, up the Powell - Daniels drainages. I had to load 600,000 trees, 28 planters, five crew cabs, fuel drums, groceries, a harried cook, personal vehicles, and cavorting dogs. The whole circus was going into the bush with no road access for about three weeks. I had never run a show this complex before and I was having one hell of a tough day. It was about to get a whole lot worse.
We got everything and everyone on the barge. In those days, 1982, no one was too concerned about a crew riding on a barge. It was a long slow tow up the lake, about 40 km. It would take 4 or 5 hours. My foreman, Leon Pendleton, and I caught a ride with the MacMillan Bloedel checkers so we could scout for a camp site. Powell Lake is a typical glacial fjord, steep rock walls and deep, clear, cold water. It was a beautiful crisp spring day.
About half way up the lake we spotted someone standing at the base of the cliffs, waving a life jacket. We pulled into shore to discover a man and a woman who had just survived a plane crash. They had tried to land their small float plane on the lake to rinse off the sea salt. The dead calm surface had caused a misjudgement of height. The plane nosed over, flipped forward, filled with water, and sank. The pilot was badly injured. He had a broken leg, for sure, but he had hit his face hard against something, and his neck was swollen and very tender—we were afraid of spinal injuries. His very plucky wife had pulled him out of the sinking plane, and towed him to shore.
I was the First Aid person for my crew. I had an "A" class first aid ticket and 8 years experience with emergencies and injuries. But this was a whole new level and all my carefully packed first aid gear was on the barge. Leon had first aid training, too. We quickly wrapped up the two cold wet people in all the coats and blankets we had on board—shock and hypothermia were our first concerns. We got on the boat's radio to the M&B Stillwater office. I carefully explained our situation and ordered a long list of special equipment—neck brace, spine board, leg splints, basket stretcher, a million bandages and 200 blankets.
30 minutes later a Beaver Float plane arrived with two Mounties and not one single piece of first aid equipment. We got over our shock and Leon and I quickly worked out a plan. The Mounties had lovely big coats. I asked them to take them off and, to their credit, they quickly did. We wrapped our aviators in nice dry RCMP coats. Then I asked the Mounties to take the M&B boat over to a float house down the bay and bring back a door and all the bedding they could find.
A broken leg is no fun, but every First Aid person dreads treating spinal injuries. Screw up a broken leg treatment, and your patient has a longer, more painful recovery. Screw up a spinal cord treatment and you put your patient in a wheel chair for life. We had to transport our injured pilot down over slippery rocks, onto the moving float, through the door, rotate 90 degrees, and anchor him in the plane for a takeoff and landing, all the while keeping his spine and head in perfect alignment and motionless.
We tore up a half dozen blankets into 6" wide strips and placed the door on top of the strips. Then Leon and I directed the six people present to slide their hands under the pilot's back. In a coordinated fashion, we lifted him onto the door. With rolled up blankets for padding and braces, we strapped him very firmly to the door. Very slowly and deliberately, we carried our door man down and into the plane. The entry was especially dicey, as we had to tilt him on edge to get through the door.
They both made full recoveries in hospital. We got a short article in the Powell River paper and a thank you note from the RCMP. The rest of the treeplanting contract was a breeze after that start. Leon went on to a long career in EMT work in Alberta. I will always fondly remember the day I got to disrobe two Mounties.
We got everything and everyone on the barge. In those days, 1982, no one was too concerned about a crew riding on a barge. It was a long slow tow up the lake, about 40 km. It would take 4 or 5 hours. My foreman, Leon Pendleton, and I caught a ride with the MacMillan Bloedel checkers so we could scout for a camp site. Powell Lake is a typical glacial fjord, steep rock walls and deep, clear, cold water. It was a beautiful crisp spring day.
About half way up the lake we spotted someone standing at the base of the cliffs, waving a life jacket. We pulled into shore to discover a man and a woman who had just survived a plane crash. They had tried to land their small float plane on the lake to rinse off the sea salt. The dead calm surface had caused a misjudgement of height. The plane nosed over, flipped forward, filled with water, and sank. The pilot was badly injured. He had a broken leg, for sure, but he had hit his face hard against something, and his neck was swollen and very tender—we were afraid of spinal injuries. His very plucky wife had pulled him out of the sinking plane, and towed him to shore.
I was the First Aid person for my crew. I had an "A" class first aid ticket and 8 years experience with emergencies and injuries. But this was a whole new level and all my carefully packed first aid gear was on the barge. Leon had first aid training, too. We quickly wrapped up the two cold wet people in all the coats and blankets we had on board—shock and hypothermia were our first concerns. We got on the boat's radio to the M&B Stillwater office. I carefully explained our situation and ordered a long list of special equipment—neck brace, spine board, leg splints, basket stretcher, a million bandages and 200 blankets.
30 minutes later a Beaver Float plane arrived with two Mounties and not one single piece of first aid equipment. We got over our shock and Leon and I quickly worked out a plan. The Mounties had lovely big coats. I asked them to take them off and, to their credit, they quickly did. We wrapped our aviators in nice dry RCMP coats. Then I asked the Mounties to take the M&B boat over to a float house down the bay and bring back a door and all the bedding they could find.
A broken leg is no fun, but every First Aid person dreads treating spinal injuries. Screw up a broken leg treatment, and your patient has a longer, more painful recovery. Screw up a spinal cord treatment and you put your patient in a wheel chair for life. We had to transport our injured pilot down over slippery rocks, onto the moving float, through the door, rotate 90 degrees, and anchor him in the plane for a takeoff and landing, all the while keeping his spine and head in perfect alignment and motionless.
We tore up a half dozen blankets into 6" wide strips and placed the door on top of the strips. Then Leon and I directed the six people present to slide their hands under the pilot's back. In a coordinated fashion, we lifted him onto the door. With rolled up blankets for padding and braces, we strapped him very firmly to the door. Very slowly and deliberately, we carried our door man down and into the plane. The entry was especially dicey, as we had to tilt him on edge to get through the door.
They both made full recoveries in hospital. We got a short article in the Powell River paper and a thank you note from the RCMP. The rest of the treeplanting contract was a breeze after that start. Leon went on to a long career in EMT work in Alberta. I will always fondly remember the day I got to disrobe two Mounties.
Rubber Ducky by Bob Ploss
The float camp on Muchalat Inlet was the perfect treeplanting camp, if you didn't mind being crowded. We were 20 people on a 40'x60' float. 17 planters, JC Bradford was the amazing cook, one-eyed Mario Dejarnais was my foreman, and I was the crew boss and boat driver. It was a big show, around 850,000 trees. We would be tied up along the shore of Muchalat Inlet, Tahsis Inlet and Nootka Island for about eight weeks. The year was 1990.
Moving camp was as simple as disconnecting the water line and tie-ups and hooking up to a tug. My favourite part was the drive to work because it was not the usual bounce along a logging road. I had leased a 24 foot crew boat with a 115 hp Mercury on the back. It took two trips to deliver the crew to the planting sites. There were oysters on the beach, eagles in the trees and I had two crab traps going at all times. Life was good.
The crew boat was a big hit – crab for dinner most every night didn't hurt. Someone found a little rubber duck on the beach. The duck got Shoe Gooed to the bow of the boat and she was forever after known as "Rubber Ducky".
About half way into the contract Rubber Ducky started to act up. Gas consumption went crazy and the throttle control was very fussy. On the next day off I decided to take her into Tahsis to the marina for service. All went well along sheltered Muchalat Inlet, but when I cleared Bligh Island and rounded into Tahsis Inlet, the tide was running in against a stiff outflow wind. The chop was steep and nasty. Then something went very wrong with the controls. There were only two throttle positions that would not kill the power—idle and full open. I messed around a bit and ran the battery down trying to fix it. A tossing boat in open water is not a great place for amateur mechanics.
I decided that getting blown onto the rocks was a very bad option. That left going full speed into serious chop. This was very tricky and very scary; sort of like mogul skiing on amphetamines. I had to steer through the onrushing waves, trying to stay in the valleys. When I missed, the boat would be airborne and I'd have to cut the power, brace for a huge impact and then restore full power, all in a few seconds, with perfect timing. The good news was that at that speed, it was only about an hour to Tahsis.
My arrival at Tahsis was a combination of relief and a new set of problems. Screaming into a marina at full speed is a good way to get yelled at. I managed to cut power and arrive at the wharf without damage, but the marina dude was in a serious lather. I tried to explain the mechanical problem, but rather than listen, he wanted to blast me for my idiot driving. He cast off the lines, and before I could stop him, shoved off into the harbour to show me how it was done.
The wind had picked up and the chop was far worse, reflecting off the breakwater. He got a real quick lesson in high speed maneuvering. When we finally got back to the wharf, we were both very white in the face. He apologized. I walked up the ramp and kissed the ground.
Moving camp was as simple as disconnecting the water line and tie-ups and hooking up to a tug. My favourite part was the drive to work because it was not the usual bounce along a logging road. I had leased a 24 foot crew boat with a 115 hp Mercury on the back. It took two trips to deliver the crew to the planting sites. There were oysters on the beach, eagles in the trees and I had two crab traps going at all times. Life was good.
The crew boat was a big hit – crab for dinner most every night didn't hurt. Someone found a little rubber duck on the beach. The duck got Shoe Gooed to the bow of the boat and she was forever after known as "Rubber Ducky".
About half way into the contract Rubber Ducky started to act up. Gas consumption went crazy and the throttle control was very fussy. On the next day off I decided to take her into Tahsis to the marina for service. All went well along sheltered Muchalat Inlet, but when I cleared Bligh Island and rounded into Tahsis Inlet, the tide was running in against a stiff outflow wind. The chop was steep and nasty. Then something went very wrong with the controls. There were only two throttle positions that would not kill the power—idle and full open. I messed around a bit and ran the battery down trying to fix it. A tossing boat in open water is not a great place for amateur mechanics.
I decided that getting blown onto the rocks was a very bad option. That left going full speed into serious chop. This was very tricky and very scary; sort of like mogul skiing on amphetamines. I had to steer through the onrushing waves, trying to stay in the valleys. When I missed, the boat would be airborne and I'd have to cut the power, brace for a huge impact and then restore full power, all in a few seconds, with perfect timing. The good news was that at that speed, it was only about an hour to Tahsis.
My arrival at Tahsis was a combination of relief and a new set of problems. Screaming into a marina at full speed is a good way to get yelled at. I managed to cut power and arrive at the wharf without damage, but the marina dude was in a serious lather. I tried to explain the mechanical problem, but rather than listen, he wanted to blast me for my idiot driving. He cast off the lines, and before I could stop him, shoved off into the harbour to show me how it was done.
The wind had picked up and the chop was far worse, reflecting off the breakwater. He got a real quick lesson in high speed maneuvering. When we finally got back to the wharf, we were both very white in the face. He apologized. I walked up the ramp and kissed the ground.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Hot Rocks by Bob Ploss
It was a real snotty day on the top of the east side of the Okanagan Valley. We had been planting all day in a late season mix of cold horizontal rain, sleet, and ice pellets. By quitting time it was a full on snow storm.
That was an Evergreen Co-op show, circa 1977. In those days, we did not have hot showers to get the circulation restarted and the mud off. Every camp built a sweat lodge – a big circular pole frame covered with old rugs, tree boxes and canvas. Toward the end of the day the cook would light a big bonfire with a stack of melon sized rocks mixed in. When we got back to camp, someone would shovel the hot rocks into the centre of the lodge. When the rocks were ready, they would sing out: "Hot Rocks!" and we would all have a nice steamy, hot sweat together.
On the way home that day we were waved down by three high school kids. They had taken daddy's shiny new 4x4 out for a ride. We took a quick look and decided it was well and truly stuck. We offered them a ride back to camp. It was a tight squeeze. The kids were a bit uneasy, stuffed in a crew cab with six very muddy, smelly, hairy, hippy treeplanters. Something, I'm sure, right out of their parents' worst nightmare.
When we got back to camp, it was hot soup, fresh baked scones, tea or beer and some good BC bud. The kids clutched their tea mugs and huddled off to one side. Their eyes were as big as saucers – they were surely on the fast track to Hell.
Someone leaned into the cook tent and yelled: "Hot Rocks!" Everyone started tearing their clothes off. As soon as the boobs and the dicks started appearing, the three kids ran straight out the back door into the snow storm and disappeared.
I looked over at my friend, Richard Padmos. He shrugged. "Let's grab a sauna. We can pick them up on the road later." After a good, hot sweat I filled up a thermos, Richard drove, and we found them a few kilometres down the road, almost frozen solid. They couldn't even talk until we got all the way down to Penticton. Even then it was just a few terse directions to their homes. They finally managed a feeble: "Thanks."
For the rest of the contract all anyone had to say was: "Hot Rocks!" and everybody would just crack up. We may have permanently damaged those poor boys.
Bob Ploss, treeplanter/foreman/contract manager 1971 – 1991, +/- 850,000 trees
That was an Evergreen Co-op show, circa 1977. In those days, we did not have hot showers to get the circulation restarted and the mud off. Every camp built a sweat lodge – a big circular pole frame covered with old rugs, tree boxes and canvas. Toward the end of the day the cook would light a big bonfire with a stack of melon sized rocks mixed in. When we got back to camp, someone would shovel the hot rocks into the centre of the lodge. When the rocks were ready, they would sing out: "Hot Rocks!" and we would all have a nice steamy, hot sweat together.
On the way home that day we were waved down by three high school kids. They had taken daddy's shiny new 4x4 out for a ride. We took a quick look and decided it was well and truly stuck. We offered them a ride back to camp. It was a tight squeeze. The kids were a bit uneasy, stuffed in a crew cab with six very muddy, smelly, hairy, hippy treeplanters. Something, I'm sure, right out of their parents' worst nightmare.
When we got back to camp, it was hot soup, fresh baked scones, tea or beer and some good BC bud. The kids clutched their tea mugs and huddled off to one side. Their eyes were as big as saucers – they were surely on the fast track to Hell.
Someone leaned into the cook tent and yelled: "Hot Rocks!" Everyone started tearing their clothes off. As soon as the boobs and the dicks started appearing, the three kids ran straight out the back door into the snow storm and disappeared.
I looked over at my friend, Richard Padmos. He shrugged. "Let's grab a sauna. We can pick them up on the road later." After a good, hot sweat I filled up a thermos, Richard drove, and we found them a few kilometres down the road, almost frozen solid. They couldn't even talk until we got all the way down to Penticton. Even then it was just a few terse directions to their homes. They finally managed a feeble: "Thanks."
For the rest of the contract all anyone had to say was: "Hot Rocks!" and everybody would just crack up. We may have permanently damaged those poor boys.
Bob Ploss, treeplanter/foreman/contract manager 1971 – 1991, +/- 850,000 trees
snow day by Michael Thys
june 25th, 2007 - snow day
though i am sad that in two weeks the lines of my skin won’t be obvious with dirt,
that i won’t hold my hand out the window of a pickup at the end of the day, the created wind turning it into a bird’s wing that i only feel, don’t look at, not wanting to miss each vivid instant of openings between trees and down creeks as they reveal and shut,
that the plateaued callouses which i held toward the falling snow this morning will soon be gone from lack of need,
and cobwebs of city life will begin to accumulate in my body once more and there will no longer be an easy filling out to the furthest reaches of my skin during that morning time first bag,
that the weather will again be something through a pane of glass that folks talk about to have something in common, rather than my cold arm from the sleeping bag to one more snooze button, or sandpaper shoulderstraps from yesterday afternoon’s overindulgence in the sun,
how my lifted fingernail patiently pushes out its black raven’s beak, and deep tributaries of the same colour in the valleys between my pointer and thumb, and the callouses on my palm underneath each finger welling up faster than they are worn down, how all of this becomes:
my own body returning to me fresh the marvel i felt as a child at the gentle and obvious power of my dad’s hands; him finally home from work and me unable to believe he didn’t notice when and couldn’t tell me how he got that cut and this blood blister,
soon enough these shin and forearm scabs will become purple lines then fade,
as will memories of whoops and yells and aye-yeayh-yeayhs as someone turns up the beats in the green dodge and a spontaneous dance party begins, with stomping in pools of logging road ooze and people smiling big and everyone in this together; a victorious moment because the snow is beautiful and jerry has made the call and there will be no trees planted today, it’s a long weekend now. this day is a gift.
and even though it is a gift, we all know we’ve won it, because as the elevation grew and the rain turned to sleet we somehow fought and hoped and closed our eyes and manifested heavy flakes and changed the lyrics of the choruses of songs to ‘snow!’ and we’ve pulled through, the day is ours.
so now peel off the fingers and throw the shiny and ready duct tape out the moving window, and we are back to camp before 10am for big joints and a drive into town to the aquatic center with its hot tub; or red wine, brandy, jokes and poker in the weatherhaven; or more than a chapter in the book and every mornings’ wish of back into the sleeping bag while outside rain spatters and rolls down the tarp. this day is a gift.
though i am sad that in two weeks the lines of my skin won’t be obvious with dirt,
that i won’t hold my hand out the window of a pickup at the end of the day, the created wind turning it into a bird’s wing that i only feel, don’t look at, not wanting to miss each vivid instant of openings between trees and down creeks as they reveal and shut,
that the plateaued callouses which i held toward the falling snow this morning will soon be gone from lack of need,
and cobwebs of city life will begin to accumulate in my body once more and there will no longer be an easy filling out to the furthest reaches of my skin during that morning time first bag,
that the weather will again be something through a pane of glass that folks talk about to have something in common, rather than my cold arm from the sleeping bag to one more snooze button, or sandpaper shoulderstraps from yesterday afternoon’s overindulgence in the sun,
how my lifted fingernail patiently pushes out its black raven’s beak, and deep tributaries of the same colour in the valleys between my pointer and thumb, and the callouses on my palm underneath each finger welling up faster than they are worn down, how all of this becomes:
my own body returning to me fresh the marvel i felt as a child at the gentle and obvious power of my dad’s hands; him finally home from work and me unable to believe he didn’t notice when and couldn’t tell me how he got that cut and this blood blister,
soon enough these shin and forearm scabs will become purple lines then fade,
as will memories of whoops and yells and aye-yeayh-yeayhs as someone turns up the beats in the green dodge and a spontaneous dance party begins, with stomping in pools of logging road ooze and people smiling big and everyone in this together; a victorious moment because the snow is beautiful and jerry has made the call and there will be no trees planted today, it’s a long weekend now. this day is a gift.
and even though it is a gift, we all know we’ve won it, because as the elevation grew and the rain turned to sleet we somehow fought and hoped and closed our eyes and manifested heavy flakes and changed the lyrics of the choruses of songs to ‘snow!’ and we’ve pulled through, the day is ours.
so now peel off the fingers and throw the shiny and ready duct tape out the moving window, and we are back to camp before 10am for big joints and a drive into town to the aquatic center with its hot tub; or red wine, brandy, jokes and poker in the weatherhaven; or more than a chapter in the book and every mornings’ wish of back into the sleeping bag while outside rain spatters and rolls down the tarp. this day is a gift.
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