Rookies and Rocks

In the southern interior of British Columbia, the hills roll endlessly in a haze of sunshine and glinting rapids, amidst farmland bespeckled with cows, sheep, and other grass eating fauna. Snuggled amidst all of the beautiful scenery are cutblocks hidden deep in the mountainous jungle, only to be accessed by the rockiest of roads.

As I plant my trees slowly but surely, I catch the faint reverberations of the clink-clinking shovels pummeling rocks off in the distance. The land is worth 19 cents of straining muscles, sweat, and exhaustion, where water and mineral soil are your best friends. The weather is chilly in the morning and sweltering in the afternoon, forcing planters to shed their layers hour by hour as the sun singes the land. Mounds, stumps, and boulders hinder any fast movement, causing the numbers to be low and the planters to be more frustrated than usual. The highest that I have managed to put in after my sick leave has been a measly 1300 trees, two hundred dollars no less. I have yet to enter "pounding mode", for my motivation is slightly lacking due to a couple bouts of replanting. It's very debilitating to plant an entire massive hillside quickly, only to have your foreman ask you to check every tree after finding only a couple of shallows. The contract requirements are strict as ever. Every tree must be perfectly planted, the right species in the right microsite, and with seven trees per plot spacing on the nose. I feel like a rookie again learning the new overly technical land, but I'm confident that in due time I will begin to get the knack of it.

My tent is metres from a large river, which happens to be metres from a set of train tracks. Every morning and night the train both puts me to sleep and wakes me up with its deafening horn. Yet I've grown accustomed to the noise pollution so much that it's proven to become quite soothing. My tent is bedded with a quilt I purchased for a dollar from a thrift store in the middle of nowwhere, with a foamie hidden underneath. The sleeping bag is warm enough to make up for the hard spine-adjusting ground, and the ipod lulls me to sleep with dreams of my life back home.

Last night was the Great Goat night, the tumultuous 69th anniversary of the legendary goat, who as planters often claim, saved a planter from a bear attack by berating the beast with its horns. Another tale tells of a planter getting lost in the woods and finding a goat, who haphazardly lead the planter back to home safely. The party was loud and raucous, with long tables filled with dirty hippies slamming beers and shouting "yeehaw" with every swig. A talented rapper, with the alias Lazza Gun Soundsystem (insert laser gun sound here) MC'd the night with some killer planting beats, which were later followed by a wicked bongo jam session. It was certainly a wild and crazy night, and I feel the remnants of it lingering in my system still.

Alas my bronchitis has settled into a minor head cold, and I can sleep without coughing every five seconds. It's been a brutal couple weeks, but things are looking up. I feel healthy and fit, and I've obtained a voracious appetite. For instance, on burrito night, I consumed a whopping two fetus sized burritos and topped it off with a freezie. I was fuller than a fat kid at Mandarin, but boy o boy was it ever worth it.

I haven't much else to say at this point. I've made a few new friends here and there, and I'm happy to be around familiar folk. I miss the sweeter comforts of home, yet the lavish scenery is making up for it. It's strange to think I'll be returning to a new home, but as Sheryl Crow adamantly states, "a change will do you good". At least that's what I figure.

Anyway, my grubby fingers are tired from typing, and I'm going to meander over to the ice cream shop for some day off bliss.

Until next time,
Jameso

over and out.