wasn’t surprised when Debbie pulled away from me at the end of the evening, insisting that we retreat to our separate tents. This was her way, her first step in drawing our relationship to a close. Though she didn’t admit it, I got a sense that she was determined to rekindle her flame back home in Vancouver. I was too tired to think, and with a heavy heart I wandered back to my side of the woods and drifted off into a profound sleep.
The breakfast horn blew at 9:00 the next morning. By the time I arrived, half of the camp had already been torn down. The bright white and yellow canvas shell of the Quonset hut had already been stripped and folded, and only the metal frame was still erect, giving it the appearance of a giant prehistoric skeleton from a distance.
Barrett, his foreman and several veteran highballers were gathered around the only table still upright, some shaking their heads, some with incredulous expressions on their faces. When Barrett spotted me, his face lit up. Pointing in my direction, he called out, “There he is!” Motioning me to come join his circle of insiders, he declared that I was his top producer on the contract. I had planted more trees than even his most celebrated highballers. That felt pretty damn good, for a second or two; then I spotted Debbie toiling away in the kitchen trailer, helping Denny get things squared away. When she looked up and our eyes met, I detected no warmth, no longing, no affection. She wasn’t approachable. I kept my distance.
When the water taxis arrived to take us back to Mackenzie, Debbie boarded the second boat, choosing not to ride along with me in the first one. It was a long ride back to town. I isolated myself, avoiding the chatter that centred on topics like, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get to town?” and, “Who’s the first person you’re going to call?” The banter was too carefree, too untroubled for the state of mind I was in. The smokers on the crew, who had just endured four days without nicotine, sat with their eyes fixed straight ahead, rocking back and forth in their seats. We knew what their first move would be once we landed, and one would be best advised not to stand in their way when the boat docked.
Back onshore, after the trucks were unloaded from the barge and people began to claim their seats, preparing for the long journey back to Vancouver, Debbie pulled away from the crowd, walked over to me and said goodbye. Our eyes locked for only a brief moment before she cast her gaze downward. Her eyes were puffy and red from tears—somehow I found comfort in her sadness. Before I could ask whether I could reach out to her the next time I was in Vancouver, she gave me a hug and quickly retreated back to her truck.
I wondered if I would ever see her again. To this day, some thirty-six years and a good handful of meaningful relationships later, my love for Debbie endures. Whenever I detect the scent of mint oil, lavender or jasmine, a melancholy rolls over me, nearly reducing me to tears.
Crazy thing: when I arrived back in Calgary late the next afternoon, I half expected a victory parade. After everything I had gone through, I expected people to stand up, take notice and give me my due. Of course, after planting for the better part of three months at a pace that could only be described as reckless, I was entitled to such delusions.
Exhausted, heartbroken and desolate, I landed on my sister’s doorstep and retreated to her guest bedroom. The next two weeks are a blur. They consisted of long periods of deep sleep and ruminations over lost love. I was inconsolable. I couldn’t steer my thoughts away from Debbie. Barely a second went by when I wasn’t thinking of her in some way.
As the summer matured and I began to heal, my thoughts eventually turned westward. I was waiting for the phone to ring. I was waiting for that important phone call from Barrett. It finally came late in the summer, just as the leaves around my sister’s neighbourhood were beginning to change colour.
1. A riparian zone refers to an area where land meets a river or stream. The interface between land and water is often dynamic. These zones are defined and recognizable by the abundance of trees and lush vegetation that border them.
2. “Bug dope” refers to bug spray or DEET insect repellent.
3. “Cream” refers to an exceptional piece of land that has light slash and soft, yielding soil. Basically, it’s fast ground and easy to plant.
4. “Gang-plant”: a large group of planters who descend on an area, typically toward the end of a contract, forming a line, planting side by side until the area, or the trees, are exhausted.
Chapter Four
The Grizzly Corridor
It was the late summer of 1983. I was restless. Barrett’s phone call couldn’t have been better timed. The spring season that had such a positive and profound impact on my life was almost three months behind me. Barrett explained that he had just been awarded a treeplanting contract up Bute Inlet. I was invited.
We were to mobilize from Heriot Bay on Quadra Island in two weeks. After arriving at our destination, we’d establish a tent camp, though our meals would be provided by a nearby logging camp. It sounded good to me. I committed to the project without hesitation.
As soon as I hung up the phone, I searched for Bute Inlet on a map and was immediately struck by its geographic isolation. It stretched some eighty kilometres into the rugged coastal Interior from its mouth at Stuart Island to its head at the estuaries of the Homathko and Southgate rivers. There were no highways or roads leading in; access was by air or water only. The juices really began to flow when I learned from my sister that it was considered to be one of the most dramatic and picturesque waterways in the entire world. I was stoked.
Up until that time, my experiences in remote locales were limited to the Interior of central and northern BC. And as extraordinary as those regions were, veteran planters insisted that the coast, specifically the coastal inlets, was infinitely more wild and exciting. They regaled me with tales of glaciers, ice fields, giant cedars, boulders the size of condos and vast stretches of pristine wilderness. Bute Inlet, above all other coastal destinations, was given special standing for its exceptional beauty and mystique.
One day before I was to embark on the twenty-four-hour bus ride from Calgary to Campbell River, where I was to spend the night before crossing over to meet the crew on Quadra Island, I came down with a nasty flu virus, one that nearly knocked me out of the picture. My mom, being a registered nurse, didn’t hesitate in hooking me up with medication she thought might help take the edge off of my long journey. Before I hopped onto the bus, she handed me a small bottle of pain-relief pills, some with codeine, some without. We didn’t realize it at that time, but I had an allergy to codeine, one that produced hallucinations and extreme anxiety.
I was five hours into the first leg of my journey when the sun began to set over Rogers Pass. I found myself unable to settle my nerves, partly due to my feverish state, partly due to my excitement and anticipation over the prospect of a new adventure.
As night began to descend over the mountain pass, I thought about home. I thought about how much I was already missing my friends and family. I thought about my mom. I then remembered her care package and promptly put back two of the larger white pills, hoping a sense of calm and quiet would sweep over me.
From that point on, my memories are fragmented and vague. I remember an unfamiliar sensation sweeping over me. I remember becoming fixated on the jagged black shapes of the mountain ridges on the horizon. I traced their near vertical contours all the way down to where they transitioned into complete blackness below the edge of the highway. Everything had a somewhat surreal and interesting quality
