Uprooted

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I t’s been twelve days since I got Emma’s text confirming I was in, and since then, I’ve poured every spare minute into gathering the essentials—and, let’s be honest, a few luxuries. She emailed me an initial list of must-haves—tent, sleeping bag, latex-coated gardening gloves—pretty much everything we discussed over coffee.

Then, a few days later, she fired off a second list of “nice-to-haves,” full of items I might not strictly need but would undoubtedly make my life less miserable in the bush:

Bear spray (just in case)

UV shirts

Leggings, shorts, pants

Town clothes

Comfy sweats

Moleskin for blisters

Duct tape (and lots of it)

Candy snacks

Sunscreen

Aloe vera

Foldable camping chair

Baby wipes (for emergency showers)

A pair of comfy slides

Sun hat

Headlamp

Hammock

Swimsuit

Headphones (to listen to audiobooks)

I spent days running around from outdoor stores to pharmacies, checking everything off, one by one, cramming it all into my gigantic duffel bag. It’s also been a week since my parents’ home transferred ownership to the new family, and two days since my parents boarded their plane. They’ve spent a lifetime saving for this early retirement. Now, they’re both practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of hopping from one European city to another for the next few years—maybe longer.

The night before they left, we shared a final dinner at my favourite bistro in the Old Port—a small table, dim lights, and more tears than I expected. Dad tried to be upbeat, rattling off phrases in Portuguese he’d memorized for their first stop in the Algarve, while Mom beamed at him like she was seeing her dream finally come true. Halfway through dessert, though, all our bravado cracked. I realized I wouldn’t just be missing them for a season of planting—I could be missing them for several years unless I manage the airfare to wherever they decide to settle next.

Dropping them at the airport was a surreal blend of panic and pride. The terminal buzzed with people scurrying in every direction, and Dad’s big arms wrapped me in a hug that didn’t let go for a long time.

“We’re so proud of you, Soleil. Stick it out and work hard, okay?” he whispered, his voice catching with barely contained emotion.

Mom smoothed my hair, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. “Remember, we’re only a phone call away,” she said gently, her eyes brimming with excitement for their new adventure.

My chest felt tight. I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace than anything else, stepping aside so my parents could pass through security. They each tugged their sensible carry-on suitcases behind them, turning back to wave until I could no longer see their faces.

Suddenly, it all sank in: I was on my own. The hustle of the crowded terminal pressed in on every side, an endless sea of people rushing to their gates. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to keep it together as the weight of reality settled.

This is it , I thought. I can’t go back home.

After they left, I have been crashing at Emma’s—a rough introduction to the discomfort I was bracing for. Between restless nights on her lumpy futon and groggy early-morning wakeups—I still had one more week of that dead-end desk job to grind through—I combed every outdoor gear store within fifty kilometres, clutching Emma’s hyper-detailed packing list.

My duffel bag now threatens to explode from the sheer volume of planting clothes, so I’ve had to add two extra bags. My sixty-five-litre hiking backpack is crammed full of everything from duct tape and baby wipes to a just-purchased sleeping bag rated for temperatures I pray I’ll never encounter. My new planting bags and shovel are wedged inside too. An older rolling suitcase is reserved for “essentials that aren’t really essential,” like extra blankets, extra shoes, city clothes, a Bluetooth speaker, and my favourite earphones. Then there’s my small carry-on backpack, which contains makeup, toiletries, and my laptop.

At least I can’t say I’m not prepared—though with three hefty pieces of luggage, I’m probably looking at oversized baggage fees when we fly. But hey, if I’m doing this, I’m going all in.

This morning feels like a lifetime ago, but I can still picture it: Emma and I, dragging our luggage down the front steps of her place. It was clear right away that we’d need an XL Uber—there was no way all our gear would fit into anything smaller. I tugged at the hem of my puffy vest, shifting my feet in their brown suede Uggs, while we stood on the curb watching our driver wrestle the suitcases into their SUV. Comfort was the goal, but I couldn’t help but second-guess my outfit.

On the other hand, Emma showed up in a forest-green sweatsuit—a matching hoodie and joggers that made her blue eyes practically glow. Honestly, she could wear a trash bag and still look amazing. She was already leaning into bush life, unfazed by anything or anyone.

Once we managed to thread our way through the crowds, something in me shifted. It was like I had left my life behind when I stepped through the terminal doors.

When we landed at the Calgary airport, my three bags were waiting for me in the oversized luggage section. I managed to get all three on a cart, but barely. Meanwhile, Emma was back by the regular carousel, craning her neck to spot her missing bag.

“Go on,” she says, waving me off when I offer to wait. “Find Gabe. I’ll be right there as soon as I track this stupid bag down.”

Oh, right. Gabe had texted Emma that he was in town, and we could all drive to camp together.

I weave through the arrivals hall, scanning faces for a guy I’ve never met. Emma’s description wasn’t exactly detailed: blond, lean, and likely taller than me. “A hot tree planter? I don’t know, he’ll be the cutest guy in the crowd,” she’d said, punctuating it with a shrug. And even though I’ve technically seen a picture of him already, it was from behind—so unless these dudes all spin around so they’re not facing me, I’m not going to recognize him by his cute butt.

Around me, the terminal is buzzing with energy. People rush past, clutching their bags and coffees, while others are caught up in teary reunions. Just a few feet away, a family of four practically collides in a messy group hug, the kids squealing excitedly. And here I am, weaving through the arrivals hall, looking for someone I’ve never met. Another couple, just steps in front of me, reunite in an awkward, open-mouthed kiss—sloppy, wet sounds and breathy moans echoing around them. I cringe, taking a half-step back so I don’t get clobbered by flailing elbows. Part of me wants to shout get a room , but another part can’t help thinking good for them, I guess.

Still, watching all this public affection makes me feel uneasy. A sad reminder that at the end of this summer, nobody will be waiting for me back home. The emptiness of that realization stings more than I want to admit.

Before I can dwell on it, my gaze lands on a guy standing off to the side, arms crossed. He has a lean build, and a navy baseball cap shadows his face, but there’s something confident—almost too confident—in how he holds himself.

His dusty-blond curls peek out from under the cap, and the denim jacket he’s wearing makes it hard to tell exactly how big he is. Wide shoulders, though. Definitely strong-looking. He lifts his head, and piercing blue eyes scan the crowd, flicking over me momentarily before moving on like I couldn’t possibly be who he’s here for. But then, almost as an afterthought, his gaze darts back, his expression shifting slightly.

It has to be Gabe. Emma’s description is too spot-on.

I force my feet to move towards him and manage a small, polite smile. “Hi,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. “Are you Gabe?”

For a second, he looks at me like he’s sizing me up. Then he nods, short and stiff. “Where’s Emma?”

“She’s coming,” I say, pointing back toward baggage claim. “She’s, uh… missing a bag. I’m Soleil, by the way.”

His eyes drop to the pile of luggage trailing behind me on my cart, and his brow furrows. “Those aren’t all between the two of you?”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “They’re, um… not,” I mutter, my voice awkward and way too quiet. “These are all mine.”

His eyes are on me—sharp, heavy—and it makes me feel small. Like I’m some rookie who has no idea what she’s doing. Shy. Unprepared. Overpacked. Out of my element. He’s certainly not wrong.

He exhales, sharp and quick, mutters something under his breath I can’t make out, then jerks his head toward the exit. “Wait here. I’ll grab the truck and meet you outside.”

Not exactly the friendliest hello from someone who’s basically my boss, but maybe he’s just all business. Still, the part that really gets me? He doesn’t even offer to help with my bags. And here I was, thinking Albertan men were supposed to be all polite and chivalrous. Clearly, I got that memo wrong from binge-reading too many cowboy romances. Instead of a charming guy on a white horse who says “ma’am” and “thank you,” he’s more of the grumpy bush-caveman type who probably thinks chivalry is overrated.

“Sure, I’ll just wait for Emma,” I call after him, but he’s already out the door.

Rolling my eyes, I let out an exasperated sigh and push the baggage cart toward the automatic doors, the wheels squeaking like crazy against the floor. I can’t help worrying that this cold first impression might define the entire summer. He doesn’t seem thrilled about having a rookie join his crew.

Emma finally appears, weaving through the crowd to meet me. “Hey! Did you find him yet?” she calls, her voice light and a little flustered from having to wait for her baggage.

“Yup. Found him.” The grumpy bushman who’s already annoyed with how much luggage we brought?

Before Emma can answer, an older Ford Explorer pulls up to the curb. Gabe steps out, takes one look at our bags, and grimaces. “No way we’re fitting all your crap in my truck, ladies,” he says bluntly.

Emma doesn’t seem fazed. Instead, she squeals and runs over, throwing her arms around him. “Gabe!” she exclaims, hugging him like they’ve been apart for years.

I watch as his shoulders drop, the tension leaving his frame. For the first time, he smiles—a wide, genuine grin that lights up his whole face. He wraps his arms around her easily, and I can’t help but notice the way his denim jacket pulls taut across his back, like it’s just seconds from bursting at the seams. It’s stupid—annoying, even—but of course, I’m thinking about how ripped this man is underneath his Canadian tuxedo.

“Hey, Em. Good flight? You ready to highball this summer?” he asks, his voice lighter now. Then his eyes flick to me, and they land on my Uggs. “Your friend has real boots for bush work, I hope?”

Emma laughs, completely unfazed. “Don’t worry, Gabe. She’s got boots in her bag. I told her to wear her hikers or slides on the plane, but she’s not a bush girl yet. We’ve got to ease her into it.”

I narrow my eyes a little. “I’m right here, you know. I was going for comfort,” I say in my defence.

Gabe doesn’t respond as he opens the back hatch of his SUV and then strides over to our mountain of luggage. He grabs Emma’s bags first, setting them gently in the back, but when he gets to my oversized suitcase, he hefts it up with one swift motion and practically flings it into the trunk.

“Careful!” I blurt out. “There’s fragile stuff in there.”

He pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Fragile? What do you need for planting that’s fragile?”

“My laptop,” I say, quickly snatching the backpack from his grip before he can toss it.

He shrugs, slams the trunk shut, and jerks his chin toward the back passenger seat. “Climb in. And take this.” He hands me my large hiking pack, practically bursting at the seams. “No more space in the back. You’ll have to put this one on your lap.”

I clamp my mouth shut, hugging my backpack like a security blanket as I climb into the back seat. The interior smells like old car upholstery mixed with lingering campfire smoke. A rolled-up memory foam pad leans against the folded-down passenger seat, accompanied by a plush sleeping bag meticulously rolled up, a pillow wrapped in a luxurious high-thread-count case, and a sleek toiletry bag neatly tucked in the corner. Gabe’s personal gear amounts to one small black duffel bag—neat, minimal, and nothing like the rugged bushman image I’d had in my head. In fact, he looks like someone who enjoys his creature comforts.

Emma buckles her seat belt and then starts fiddling with the AC vent. “So, what were you doing in Calgary, anyway?” she asks, leaning over to watch Gabe climb into the driver’s seat.

“Visiting my folks,” Gabe says shortly, his tone leaving no room for questions. Emma doesn’t push.

“Have you met Soleil yet?” she asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, her voice bright and a little forced.

“Yup,” Gabe answers flatly, slamming the driver’s side door and putting the truck into gear. There’s a brief pause before he adds, almost offhandedly, “Oh, by the way—Logan’s back this season.”

Emma’s shoulders go rigid, her smile faltering for just a heartbeat. “Oh?” she says, voice trying to sound casual. “Cool.”

Gabe arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Thought you’d be more excited.”

Without missing a beat, Emma turns to the window, as if hoping to hide the faint flush warming her cheeks. “Yeah,” she manages, her tone a little too forced. “I am.”

I blink, thrown off by the sudden shift in her energy. “Who’s Logan?” I ask, glancing between them.

Emma waves her hand dismissively. “Just another foreman.”

Gabe huffs a quiet laugh, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t push her. “He’s a solid foreman,” he says simply, keeping his eyes on the road. “Runs a tight crew.”

Emma crosses her arms, huffing under her breath. “Yeah, well, I’m not on his crew anymore, so it doesn’t matter.” Her tone is defensive, but there’s a flicker of something else there too—something like relief. I can’t help but feel like there will be more to learn in the coming days. “Besides,” Emma continues, glancing at Gabe, “I’m not the same as last season. I’ve matured a lot this year and don’t need any… distractions.”

Gabe’s smirk twitches slightly, but he doesn’t say anything else.

I sit back in my seat, suddenly more curious than ever about this Logan guy. Emma’s whole demeanour shifted when his name came up, and while she’s clearly trying to play it cool, it’s obvious there’s some history there.

Somewhere between Calgary and Red Deer, I finally cave, popping in my headphones and letting the rumble of the road lull me to sleep. I’m not sure how long I’m out, but I wake once we’re off the main highway, a thin line of drool smearing my chin. My legs are nearly numb from my bag that has been resting on them, and I have to bite back a groan as I shift it as much as I can toward the middle seat.

By now, Gabe is talking a bit more, his deep voice rolling through planting jargon as he fills Emma in on who is coming back for the season—a conversation that flies straight over my sleepy head. Emma responds with an eager nod every now and then, while I try to discreetly wipe away the drool.

Staring out the window, I remember why I’m here: to plant trees. Not just for my own paycheck, but for the land itself. I’ll be reforesting places that have been cut down to bare stumps.

Yet a part of me can’t help wanting to preserve all this lush, untouched green instead. Meanwhile, my environmental biology coursework is in the back of my mind—every lecture on sustainable forest management—and I can’t help wondering if Alberta’s putting any of it into practice.

Time blurs as we leave Rocky Mountain House behind, the last real pit stop before camp. Emma’s out cold in the front passenger seat—has been for nearly an hour—while Gabe drives in moody silence. I pretend I’m checking out the scenery, but really, I’m obsessing over how full my bladder is. I should’ve just said yes when Gabe asked if I needed a bathroom break in town, but apparently, I love making life hard for myself.

The highway stretches on forever, with nothing but towering spruce on both sides. No civilization, no roadside diner—just endless forest. I try to ignore the pressure in my stomach, but it gets to a point where even shifting in my seat makes me wince.

I clear my throat, finally working up the nerve to speak. “Uh, Gabe?”

He eyes me through the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”

“Do you think we could maybe stop?”

“Why?”

I can’t believe I have to spell it out for this man. “I have to pee.”

“Didn’t I ask you in Rocky if you needed anything? You said you were fine.”

“Yeah, well… I changed my mind,” I say, trying not to sound too pathetic. My bladder is about to explode.

“Fine. I’ll pull over, but make it quick.” With a heavy sigh, he flips on the signal. Except there’s no actual place to pull over—just a wide-open shoulder that drops off into the ditch. He slows the SUV and eases onto the side of the road.

I lean forward, peering out the window. “Right here?” I glance around. “There’s no rest area… or side road we can pull over on?”

He taps the steering wheel impatiently. “Nope. Not until we’re almost at camp. Can you hold it for another thirty minutes?”

In the passenger seat, Emma snores lightly, oblivious. Meanwhile, I’m about to burst.

“No,” I mutter, already unbuckling. I climb out and circle around the back of the SUV, scanning the road and the trees to make sure no one’s coming. It’s dead quiet. No cars. No people. Safe.

Using the car as a shield from the road, I crouch down to handle business. Relief hits almost immediately, and I let out a soft sigh.

Then, the SUV jerks forward.

“What the?—”

It keeps moving.

“Gabe!” I yell, panic flaring as the distance between me and the vehicle grows wider. My leggings are around my knees, and I’m mid-squat—I can’t exactly leap towards it. “What the hell? Stop!”

The car rolls another foot before it jolts to a halt. My heart’s racing as I scramble to pull my leggings up, nearly tripping over my own boots. My foot slips on the gravel, and I land awkwardly against the SUV.

I yank my leggings the rest of the way up, grimacing at the small wet spot on my Uggs. My face practically ignites with anger as I round the side of the vehicle.

Gabe’s smirk is unmistakable in the side mirror— that bastard .

“Seriously?!” I shout, flinging open the back door and collapsing onto the seat. My cheeks burn so hot, I’m convinced they could melt steel.

He has the nerve to raise both hands in mock surrender, grin still plastered on. “My foot slipped off the brake. Honest mistake.”

“Honest, my ass.”

Next to him, Emma snorts awake, blinking at the sudden commotion. “What’s happening?”

“Oh, nothing,” Gabe says, shifting into Drive again. “Just a little pit stop.”

I’m sitting in the back, seething, my boot now literally marked with my own pee, and I am absolutely mortified. This is the worst .

Emma’s been calling this place “camp,” but one look out the window reveals it’s really just a glorified gravel parking lot hacked into the forest, barely off the highway. Near the entrance, a crooked sign announces SHUNDA CAMP in thick black letters. Neon-blue and pink flagging tape dances around its edges like makeshift streamers, welcoming each ambitious newcomer. Beyond the sign, the gravel pad sprawls out, hemmed in on every side by towering evergreens.

Gabe drives over to an open flat spot that’s surrounded by a half-circle of tents. He parks his vehicle, and without a word, he hops out, pops the back hatch, and starts hauling my bags onto the ground. One lands alarmingly close to a muddy puddle, and I let out a tiny squeak of horror.

I’m about to protest, but Gabe’s already tossing out the next suitcase. I catch it just in time to grab it from his hands.

“I’m good; thank you for the help,” I snap at him, piercing him with a look.

He responds with a grunt.

Emma hops out of Gabe’s SUV, radiating excitement as if she’s just arrived at summer camp. She swiftly grabs some of her gear, barely acknowledging the muddy puddles where she’s walking. With an enthusiastic sweep of her arm toward the rows of tents, she beams as if unveiling a five-star resort. “Well, here it is! Home sweet home!”

There must be around thirty personal tents scattered across the clearing, crammed wherever someone found a semi-flat patch of ground. Some have bright-blue tarps stretched taut over the top for extra protection, while others look like they’re barely clinging to life, poles slanting and corners sagging. A few sit up on higher ground near the tree line, probably to avoid flooding from the creek trickling nearby.

Emma takes me on a quick tour, leading me toward the four large vinyl tents set up in the centre of camp. “That one’s the kitchen,” she says, pointing to a square-shaped structure with two enclosed walls and two open sides. Next to a few tall propane canisters, there’s a food pantry for canned goods and dry food bins out back covered by a ratty tarp. “We grab our meals here,” she adds. “There’s a planter rotation for dish duty at night, so keep an eye on the schedule.”

We move on to a long, rectangular tent. “Mess tent,” Emma says, waving me inside. “This is where we eat. Cutlery is over there”—she gestures to a plastic tote in one corner—“and trash goes by the door. If you’re up early, you can pick the music on the stereo.”

Next, we pass two smaller tents. The first has a sign reading FIRST AID; I can see a plastic patio table from here, with a few first-aid kits set on top of it, plus a stretcher propped against the far wall. The second, smaller tent sports a metal chimney poking through its roof—Emma explains it’s the gear-drying tent. “When it rains,” she says, “you’ll thank the universe for that little stove when all your clothes are wet.”

Finally, we reach the outhouse area. “Shitters,” she says pointing so we don’t have to get any closer. The two squat tents stand off to the side of camp, each with a homemade sign scrawled in Sharpie— Empty or Shitter’s Full .

How fun .

While I’m taking it all in, a tall guy steps out from behind one of the bigger vinyl tents. He’s at least half a foot taller than me and Emma, with brown hair and a neatly trimmed, dark beard. There’s something about his eyes—I can’t decide if they’re green or brown—and he carries himself with a mysterious, almost shy calm that makes me do a double take. And right behind him, a plump black-and-white dog with pink flagging tape for a collar waddles at his heels.

Emma catches sight of him and immediately starts rummaging through her backpack. From where I’m standing, I can practically feel the tension radiating off her.

He strides over, his smile stretching wide the moment he spots her. “Emma!” he says, voice lifting as though he’s caught off guard yet unmistakably elated. He clears his throat, half smiling as he adds, “You’re back.”

Emma nods, trying to play it cool. “Hi… uh—Logan, this is Soleil. She’s a rookie this season. And this,” she says while bending down and scratching behind the dog’s ears, “is Kiska. Logan’s dog. But really, he’s the camp’s dog. He’s really good at begging… and stealing food.” I can tell.

“Nice to meet you, Soleil,” Logan says, a genuine smile flickering across his face.

Kiska sniffs around my feet for a moment, decides there’s nothing edible, then waddles off.

I watch as Logan’s eyes slide back to Emma, softer now, before he refocuses on me. “If you need any pointers, I’m around. Happy to help.”

Emma presses her lips together, her cheeks going a little pink. “We’re fine,” she manages, though her voice cracks just enough to betray her nerves. “Just getting organized.”

Logan nods, and for a moment, it feels like he wants to say something else—something just for her—but he doesn’t. “All right,” he says quietly. “See you around.” He wanders off, leaving me wondering what the heck is going on between them.

Emma exhales the moment he’s out of earshot, quickly zipping up her bag.

I shoot her a sideways look. “He’s cute,” I say under my breath. “Why didn’t you bring him up?”

Her shoulders grow taut. “It’s… complicated,” she mutters, carefully avoiding my gaze. She hefts her backpack with a sigh. “It’s just—” She swallows hard. “Last summer, I hooked up with him—briefly. I didn’t know if he’d come back, so… yeah…”

I can tell there is more she isn’t telling me, but I decide not to pry.

Right then, the wind rattles one of the Shitter’s Full signs, and it flaps ominously.

“Oh yeah,” Emma laughs, pointing at the small beige tents. “Pro tip: don’t camp downwind from the shitter.”

I can’t help but laugh, though it comes out more like a nervous exhale. “Noted. Anything else I should know?”

She grins and slings her bag over her shoulder. “Remember to bring your own TP to the block, unless you want to lose a sock or a shirt sleeve for emergencies.”

“Wait, what’s a block?”

“Oh crap, sorry. Planting lingo. A block—cut block—is where we actually plant trees. A cache is where they keep all the seedlings. Let’s see… what else can I throw at you? Right, a highballer is someone who’ll totally cream you out.”

“Uh, cream me out?”

She flashes a smirk. “Yeah. Basically, they take your best land.”

“Gotcha. So highballers are, like, thieves?”

She snorts. “Not exactly… well, some of them. Really, they’re just the ones who plant the most trees on the crew—sometimes people call ‘em pounders.”

I give her a look that says I’m kind of lost.

“Relax,” she says, shrugging. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

I nod slowly. “Right… as long as I remember the TP.”

She just laughs again and starts walking toward the rows of tents. “Come on, let’s find a spot to set up your tent.”

I trail after her, boots getting muddier by the step.

Welcome to tree planting .