Uprooted

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

I texted Emma last night with the pin for my favourite local café and to meet me at 9:30am to pick her brain about tree planting a little more. I want to know how planters make their money, the work schedule, how many mosquitoes I’ll be swatting, etc. So here I am, thirty minutes early, huddled over a latte in this cozy little café. My nerves had me leaving the house way ahead of schedule, and now I’ve got too much time to sit and stew.

Before heading to the café, I did a last-ditch refresh of my inbox, hoping a decent environmental consulting job finally got back to me. No luck. All I had was an email from “ChadTech Biology Enterprises” advertising another shitty entry-level job— Unsubscribe immediately .

Part of me is relieved that I have another option, but at the same time, said option comes with many asterisks. And one of them just walked in.

“Hey!” Emma’s bright, bubbly voice hits me as I glance up. She waves a quick hand signal, saying, “Just a sec—grabbing coffee,” then makes a beeline for the counter. Less than a minute later, she’s sliding into the chair opposite mine, giving me a grin that belongs on a camp counsellor at the world’s happiest summer camp.

Emma’s fiery-red hair is pulled back into a messy bun—like she tossed it up two seconds before walking in the door. The brisk spring air has painted her cheeks a rosy pink. Beneath her unzipped puffer vest, she’s wearing an oversized hoodie with Silvertip Reforestation across the front in simple lettering.

“Thanks for meeting me, Emma,” I say, keeping my tone casual as I grip my cup a little too tight. “So… planting. Your dad mentioned you’re heading back to Alberta?”

“To Silvertip, yeah.” She nods, pulling off her vest. “I’m heading back there for another season to pay for the school year. Dad’s covering tuition, but rent’s all on me.” Her tone is casual, but I know that’s no small feat. My brain starts doing mental math with the numbers—six to eight thousand a year, easily. How many trees is that? How many times will she have to drive a shovel into the ground, bend over, and pop a seedling into a hole so she can chase that diploma?

“This year, we’ll be starting just west of a small town called Rocky Mountain House,” she says, taking a sip from her coffee cup. “Have you ever been out West?”

I shake my head.

“You’ll be hooked the second you see it. The mountains, the lakes, the fresh air… well, at least most of the time, except when we get smoked out from BC’s forest fires. It’s one of those places that once you’re there, you’ll never want to leave.” She plays with an escaped strand of hair. “I might move out there one day.”

Emma’s in her second year of a graphic design program at a fine art college on the West End. She originally wanted to go into theatre, but dropped out and went into photography instead, but then shifted her focus to what she’s studying now.

“When are you heading out there? And when does the season end?” I ask.

“We start the season in a few weeks and usually wrap up by early August, assuming Mother Nature doesn’t throw a tantrum. Gabe told me they once got a foot of snow dumped on them in August his first year of planting. You can never predict the end of the season accurately. Summers in Alberta are wild. It can get crazy hot during the day, and then bam—gusting winds, sideways hail, sometimes even snow in the higher elevations.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “So… what’s a typical day like?”

She sets her cup down and folds her hands, all business now. “You’re basically out in a bush camp, planting as many trees as humanly possible—typically thousands a day to make a decent wage. We get paid per tree—twelve to fifteen cents each, depending on what kind of ground we’re on. Sometimes, it’s prepped—where a machine prepares the ground, so it’s easier to find spots—and sometimes, it’s raw, meaning you plant in… shit. Well, not necessarily shit , just whatever is there, whether it’s dirt or moss or piles of slash.” Emma pauses and pulls out her phone, scrolling through what looks like numbers she recorded last season in her notes app. “My rookie year, I averaged around two hundred dollars a day,” she says, glancing over a neat row of figures, “but I’ve seen veteran planters easily make three or four hundred when the conditions are good.”

I do the math in my head. Or at least try to. “Fifteen cents,” I echo, eyebrows raised. “So, if I plant a thousand trees in a day, that’s… a hundred and fifty dollars?” How does anyone do anything a thousand times a day without losing their mind? How does their back not ache with that much repetition?

Emma’s eyes dance with humour. “Exactly. You’ll be bending over so many times a day that your hamstrings and back will hate you at first. But eventually, it gets easier, and the money gets better. Just make sure to stretch a lot.” She pauses, tapping her nails against the tabletop. “Of course, if you don’t feel like bending over a thousand times, I guess you could try bending over just once to make that kind of money on OnlyFans.” She grins mischievously.

I snort, nearly choking on my latte. “Noted. Bending over a thousand times it is.”

“I don’t know, Soleil, I’m pretty sure there’s a niche market for ‘sexy biology nerd girl gone wild’ that you could tap into,” she teases, setting her cup down. “You wouldn’t have trouble finding subscribers with a body like yours.” She gestures to my chest for emphasis.

My eyes widen. “Please tell me you’re joking. I’m not that desperate.” I pause. “Just desperate enough to consider tree planting.”

She smirks. “It’s not just about the money. There’s a vibe—you feel like you’re a part of something bigger. It’s almost shocking to be alone again when the season’s over. You spend all that time in the same shitty conditions as everyone else, so it’s like there’s a bond. And those friendships can last forever.”

“How did you get into it?” I ask curiously.

“My then-boyfriend was heading out to plant trees, and I followed. Turns out he was a walking red flag. Meanwhile, I discovered I have a serious soft spot for Albertan boys. Too bad they live so far away.” She arches a suggestive eyebrow. “And, obviously, there’s Gabe, the ultimate Albertan hottie.”

I pause for a second, curiosity starting to percolate. “Who’s Gabe?”

“Oh, just one of the many attractive foremen who work for Silvertip,” she says, her grin turning sly. “Six feet of pure muscle, dirty blond, loose curls, and these blue eyes that’ll stop you dead in your tracks. He’s got this whole ‘nice guy meets lumberjack thirst trap’ thing going on.”

I blink at her, mildly amused. “Cool. A good-looking guy who knows how to plant trees.” I bet he stinks from not showering all week .

She continues, “He’s super chill too—never talks down to his crew and knows how to motivate people without being a jerk—unlike some of the other foremen. Everyone loves Gabe—he’s been at Silvertip for seven years and is always the one you can count on when things turn into a gong show. Honestly, he’s just the full package: smart, educated, funny, fucking hot…”

I clear my throat to redirect her attention.

“People keep saying he should take over for Mike, the owner, when he retires in a few years. If Gabe doesn’t step up, I’m pretty sure Silvertip won’t survive.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Why not?”

She shrugs. “No one’s interested in running a planting company these days—Mike’s son didn’t want to take it over, so he has no succession plan. Some companies either get bought out by the bigger outfits, which Mike refuses to do, or they break down into smaller crews. Gabe mentioned wanting to buy Silvertip, but he’s not sure he’s got the capital. His parents do, but they’re not on board.”

“That’s a shame. Sounds like he must really love it, then.”

“He went to school for engineering—apparently to work at his dad’s firm someday, but I don’t see him doing that. He loves fishing, hiking, mountain biking, skiing—he basically lives for Alberta’s backcountry. I doubt he’ll ever leave. If anything, he’ll end up hermitting himself deeper in the woods so nobody can track him down. Look, Gabe’s just one perk,” she says, turning serious. “The real appeal is the whole experience—pushing yourself, bonding with a bunch of crazy-fun people, and, if you’re so inclined like I am, drinking your ass off on party nights. You’ll get it once you’re out there.”

I nurse my drink, hoping my hesitation doesn’t show. “I dunno… I’m not sure I fit the tree-planting stereotype. I barely even drink these days.”

“Come on,” she says, mock-pouting. “You’re no fun. Don’t tell me you plan to go out West and be all work, no play?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, setting my cup down. “That’s exactly what I’m planning. Work hard, make some money, and hopefully not die of insect-related exposure or heat exhaustion. The end.”

“Sure,” Emma says, lifting her Americano to her lips with a knowing smirk. “Whatever you say. You might change your tune when night-off rolls around, and the beer coolers crack open.”

I manage a forced smile, trying to recall the last—and maybe only—time I got black-out drunk. At Jared’s lab intern holiday party, I made a colossal fool of myself by toppling into the punch bowl while using pickles—don’t ask—to illustrate migratory pattern shifts of native bird species following habitat deforestation. He was mortified, and things only got worse once we got home: I puked all over the balcony, leaving the air reeking of, oddly enough, pickle juice.

Emma’s voice pulls me back to the present. “So, you’ll need gear,” she continues. “A tent—nothing too big because it’ll get cold in there in early May. A sleeping bag—something warm and decent, not the kind we’d use when we were kids sleeping in my dad’s old camper. You’ll want a sleeping pad, too, like a foam one or the smaller inflatable ones.” She pauses, then asks, “Are you bringing a car or flying there?”

“Dad offered me his car, but I don’t want to pile on the kilometres driving across the country. So I’d just fly if I came out.” Emphasizing if as a subtle way of reminding both her and I that nothing is set in stone. “What else?” I press on.

“You’ll need proper cork boots—like actual logger boots with spikes—or at least really sturdy hiking boots that have solid ankle support,” she explains. “You’ll also need real planting bags and a legit tree-planting shovel. No Home Depot spade unless you want the entire camp laughing at you.”

“They don’t hook us up with any of this?”

“Nope. This is planting, not rig work. I’d be surprised if the first-aid kits in the trucks had Band-Aids that weren’t, like, twenty years old.”

I raise an eyebrow at that.

“But hey, it’s really not a big deal.” She waves a hand, as if brushing off my worries. “It’s just part of the whole tree planter life. And if you think that’s bad, you should hear what the fruit pickers in Osoyoos have to deal with. I’ll shoot you an email with a full gear list and where you can buy it. There are Facebook groups and stuff, too, where seasoned planters sell their old gear dirt cheap.”

“Right, I’ll remember that.” I say, a hint of gratitude slipping into my voice. “Thanks for, you know, helping me figure all this out.”

“No big deal. I just really hope you decide to come. I just have to text Gabe about getting you on the crew first. This is pretty last minute, so if you want to plant trees, you basically need to decide… today.”

“Sure, I can do that,” I mumble, the weight of this decision pressing down on my chest.

Emma catches my tone but doesn’t push. Instead, she leans back, her grin returning. “Look, it’s gonna be tough. It is one of the hardest jobs to do in Canada. But trust me, from experience, you’ll survive. And who knows? You might even end up loving it.”

I can’t believe how much Emma has changed since that random house party a few years back. It’s obvious that tree planting has played a huge part in her growth. She used to be so immature and obnoxious, but now she’s blossomed into a poised, confident woman—and I can’t help but respect that.

“And who knows?” she adds. “Maybe you’ll end up hooking up with a handsome outdoorsy bushman.”

Nope, scratch that—she’s still very much Emma.

“No, I’m good. I just want the experience for my résumé.” I try to keep my voice relaxed, but let’s be honest: I’m panicking a little about my future. If I go planting, I’ll have to keep job-hunting in the evenings or days off—assuming there’s even a shred of Wi-Fi—so that I’ll have something lined up by fall. At least then, I won’t be stuck back home on someone’s couch, looking like the undergrad who still lives with their parents. Which, realistically, is exactly what I was doing.

Emma tilts her head, amused but not pushing. “All-business Soleil. You are such a good girl. Don’t worry, I’ll be your wingman so you can finally get laid.” She looks me up and down.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Have you been with anyone else since your ex? What was his name? Jerome?” she says, snapping her fingers as she tries to remember.

“Jared.”

“Right. Jared. His friend seemed nice.”

I snort as she takes a casual sip of her coffee. “I’ll be fine,” I say, brushing off her concern for my personal life. “I don’t have the energy to meet anyone right now,” I lie. But I can’t justify hooking up with a random guy on the internet. So instead of casual sex, I’ve opted for self-manifested pleasure in the interim.

“By the way, I heard you’re looking for a place in the fall?” she asks nonchalantly.

I hesitate, forcing a casual shrug. “Might be.” Translation: I’m desperate for stable housing.

“My roommate’s moving out at the end of summer. She’s moving in with her boyfriend, so there’ll be an empty room. If you need a place, I can hold it until you decide.” She launches into the details before I can open my mouth. “The apartment’s just a few blocks from the river. There’s a spacious kitchen with the works—stove, fridge, dishwasher, some sleek stainless-steel hood fan I’ve never figured out how to clean correctly, plus an in-unit washer-dryer. Even air conditioning,” she adds. “And the room comes with a bed and dresser if you want it.”

That does sound promising, I think to myself.

“Anyway,” she says, her voice turning breezy, “it’s there if you want it. It’s not a bad deal because you only need to pay for rent—utilities are included. Think about it.”

Emma’s younger, still a student, and I’m pushing twenty-five. Living with her feels like I’m stepping backward instead of forward. But it could be worse—she’s not a random stranger who owns snakes as pets, and it’s not my aunt’s guest room. It’s a neutral zone. A definite maybe.

My brain starts mapping scenarios: Survive the summer, plant a million trees, pocket enough cash for first and last month’s rent, find a job that isn’t a total dead-end, and rent with Emma if I need to. It’s not ideal, but it’s a plan.

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll keep you posted,” I say, aiming for a casual tone, trying not to sound like I’m clinging to her offer like a life raft.

“Take your time. I won’t fill it right away. Just let me know before summer is over.”

I nod, absorbing this slight reprieve. Knowing I don’t have to commit right now is a strange kind of comfort.

“Oh, right, I almost forgot—what about showers?” I ask, half expecting her to say we’re out of luck.

“There’s a small flat-deck trailer we turned into a shower house. It’s nothing fancy, but it works?—”

Whew. At least I won’t have to wait four days to hit town for a rinse.

“—but hot water is, uh… sparse.”

Right. Still better than nothing, I guess.

Later that evening, I find myself drumming my fingertips against my phone case, ignoring how cramped my room feels with half my worldly possessions spilling out of cardboard boxes. Officially, I’m packing , but if I’m honest? I’m mostly scrolling through Emma’s Instagram—last summer’s tree-planting photos, to be exact.

Her feed brims with snapshots of grinning planters covered in mud, ragged stumps in the background, and endless forests filling the horizon. There’s Emma, beaming ear to ear with a shovel slung over her shoulder, that fiery-red hair caught mid-sunbeam. Another photo shows a cluster of tents in a clearing, the sky awash in rosy sunset hues. Around a crackling firepit, a group of planters raise their cups in a cheerful salute, the moment captured in a burst of pink-tinged light. And yet another: Emma stands on a dusty logging road, her back turned to the camera. She’s topless, and her arms are holding her shovel over her head.

The more I swipe, the heavier the ache grows in my chest. I want that. That sense of freedom—no big-city rent, no responsibilities, no expectation. She looks gloriously happy in every photo, as if she found something that makes her feel alive.

I freeze mid-scroll, eyes snagging on a single photo. There’s a man front and centre—tall, muscled, and wearing brown denim work pants that cling to his very robust butt in a way that practically demands my full attention. A dirty white T-shirt stretches across his back, the fabric tight enough to hint at the muscle underneath as he’s balancing two white tree boxes over his shoulders. His back is to the camera, so we can’t see his face—just a glimpse of blond curls peeking out the sides of his backwards baseball cap—and yet he radiates an aura of backwoods masculinity. The caption reads: World’s BEST Foreman . Ah, so this is the infamous Gabe. Maybe I was a little quick to judge him based on Emma’s stories because, wow—he’s got an amazing butt. Just laying eyes on him sends heat racing up my neck and into my ears—like I’m staring straight at the sun: risky and undeniably off-limits. Emma warned me that he won’t date anyone who works under him, all to dodge the messy drama.

I’m still bruised from my relationship with Jared—trust issues cling like burrs. No matter how attractive Gabe might be, I’m not signing up for that heartbreak all over again. Still, I can’t stop my mind from drifting to what he’d look like if he turned around. I linger on the shot, taking in the rugged silhouette and the quiet confidence that radiates—dirt, sweat, and all.

But I’m not heading out there to chase some handsome bush-guy fantasy. This is about earning money, resetting my life, and adding “field work” to my résumé, not reenacting some wild cowboy romance.

With a determined sigh, I close Emma’s feed and refuse to dwell on him any longer. The only reason I’m going is for me .

I send Emma a single text.

Soleil: I’m in.

I think.

I toss my phone onto the bed and eyeball my half-filled suitcase. My gaze drifts to the clothes strewn around—old, oversized sweatpants; worn-out leggings; old hoodies; the sort of “utility chic” that would be considered stylish nowhere. Perfect for tree planting. I start shoving them into the last large duffel bag that hasn’t been used for moving.

My phone buzzes, yanking me out of my haze. It’s Emma’s reply flashing on the screen:

Emma: Let’s go!!! But let me text Gabe first before we get too excited!

Oh right. There’s still that aspect of it.

I pause my frantic packing, telling myself I really should wait for that employment confirmation before getting in too deep. And so I head downstairs for something to eat, hoping it’ll settle my nerves. The kitchen is empty except for a few cabinets with old cups and plates that Mom insists she wants to keep, only to donate later. I fill my cup with water, grab a bag of old stale trail mix, and pad my way back upstairs. I’m not even in my room when I see Emma’s name on my phone.

Emma: Hopefully, he will get back to me soon.

Emma: He said he’d check with Mike, the owner.

Emma: I promised him you were a hard worker, and I shared your Instagram handle to show him you’re a biology nerd.

Apparently, she’s a thought-by-thought texter.

Soleil: Thank you. Hopefully, we will hear back tonight.

Two minutes later:

Emma: Ok, he said you’re in. But he made me swear you come prepared to work your ass off this summer. His words: “I don’t have time to babysit rookies.”

Soleil: And this is the foreman everyone loves so dearly? I’ll be ready to work; tell him not to get his bush panties in a twist

Emma: …

Emma: He said he doesn’t wear panties in the bush

I laugh softly and set my phone aside, a smile spreading across my face. Alberta, here I come.