Eating Dirt

Tree planting: a plethora of memories, good and bad, flood to the forefront of my mind when I hear those words.  Well I did it again, officially signed up for another contract that could potentially warrent my death.  You may think I'm joking; hardly.  It's the type of job that will tear you down to the point of breaking, if you let it.  It will cause every last fiber of your being to scream in rebellion, begging you to stop, give up.  But you never quit, that word is not permitted in your vocabulary.  And so, with the ferociousness of a savage beast, hatred more intense than you've ever felt before, brewing inside and spilling over, you take the negative energy and transform it, pounding that earth, knifing your shovel into it again and again.  In frenzied movements, you tear across the land, a mere silhouette against the backdrop of a darkening sky.  Legs battered and bruised from slamming into stumps, knuckles torn and bleeding, stinging lash marks on your cheeks from branches whipping back in your face, toes blistered from slamming your foot into the earth thousands of times per day; but you don't seem to notice, you don't stop.  So, think you know about tree planting? Read about it somewhere?  Heard someone's stories?  Trust me when I say it doesn't matter, you have no idea until you've actually done it. 

I have a vivid picture in my mind of virtually every piece of land I planted.  I remember the insurmountable joy I felt as I planted my last tree in the ground at the end of last summer’s contract.  It was as though a tidal wave had crashed over me, dragging my limp body away from every care or obligation I had; the most liberating feeling, I remember like it was yesterday.  I thought that had been the last bus ride I would have to take that would rattle the hell out of my brains; the last seedling my dirt-stained, duct-taped, calloused hand would ever grab and methodically place in the ground; the last time I would kick the earth closed around it with the toe of my worn out, soggy boot; the last morning I would wake up at 5:30, wanting to plug my ears and scream as the alarm clock blasted in my ears, reminding me of the dirty routine that so ruthlessly orchestrated my life. 

There were those days when the menacing sky unleashed its furry upon us, relentlessly spewing forth from its bowels as if somehow we deserved punishment.  There was no shelter out there, no pity.  Black flies, mosquitoes and deerflies plagued us, swarming in clouds of a thousand or more, the sick, droning, buzz of their wings (they literally sounded like a bunch of 450's at the start gate, engines maxed out, ready to fight for the holeshot) threatening to deafen and craze anyone who cared to pay them any attention.  But how could you not?  They feasted on any exposed flesh; ravaging legs where pants had been ripped open until their little wretched bodies ironically drowned in the very blood they were trying to gorge their gluttonous selves on.  

But despite this repulsion, there is something enticing about it; loosing connection with the outside world to live in a remote wilderness, to daily find yourself an intricate part of the surreal tranquility of a beautiful yet sickly skewed landscape.  It offers a kind of meditative calm and the freedom to be yourself without fear of judgement. I confess to having a love-hate relationship with it.  Arguably one of the toughest jobs mentally and physically, there is something about it that elicits certain fervor, instilling an ineffable satisfaction as the competition intensifies, your name creeps up towards the top of the list and personal bests are beat.  

Strangely enough, there is something peculiarly appealing about this raw, rugged, nomadic way of life that is so opposite of the typical norms that permeate urban society. It teaches you patience, determination and proves what you're really capable of.  It also changes your perception of life, the way you see ordinary "necessities" that would otherwise be taken for granted.  Probably the most appealing aspect is that as a planter, you have absolutely no responsibility other than trying to make the biggest dent in that multi-million-tree contract.  The biggest decision you need to make is whether or not to wait in line for the shower or go to bed dirty. However, no responsibility comes hand in hand with no control.   You have next to no control over your life; everything is determined by someone else, from which town you will spend your weekend in to which crazy driver will get behind the wheel of the bus that will transport you.

Arduous job aside, there are the fond, unforgettable memories that accompany camp-life and the weekend hype.  There are relationships that are formed; it brings the most unlikely people together because while we all have our differences, we do have at least one thing in common. We are a bunch of hunched over, scarred up, sun-weathered, worn out, trench-footed beings who receive enigmatic gratification from planting trees. And unlike most stereotypical assumptions, we are not a bunch of tree-hugging hippies.  Well some might be, but generally speaking we are just ordinary people from all different walks of life; as diversified as the ground we plant.  So, in the heart of the North alongside those treacherous logging roads, mapped out like ravelled arteries; somewhere back there we left behind a part of our legacy.  And as much as we hate it, there is a magnetizing aspect; it beckons our return, and so we pull out our dirt-stained planting bags and shovels, purchase our plane tickets and soon we will reunite to pick up where we left off.