Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
B y the time I finish breakfast and get my teeth brushed, Gabe’s already wrangled everyone into this loose semi-circle for a pep talk. We’re gathered around this massive, white, crew-cab truck—some hulking six-seater with a bench seat up front. From where I’m standing, the back of the truck looks like it’s built for battle: a tall, boxy canopy stretched over the bed, covered in a heavy-duty white tarp. The metal supports holding it up give it a perfectly rigid shape. It’s obviously designed for hauling trees and gear.
“All right, guys,” Gabe starts, standing in front of the truck like he owns the thing. “We’re heading out to a couple of smaller blocks over the next three days, so there’s gonna be some hopping around. Today’s drive is about fifty minutes, give or take.” He scans the group, pausing just enough on each of us to make sure we’re paying attention. “Now, I don’t want you to go crazy with your numbers today. I want you to focus on quality work—and yeah, no injuries this season. That’s priority number one. And believe it or not, I also want you to have fun.”
A few people laugh, but he keeps going. “If you do want to push for big days later, I’ve got your back. Think of me as your butler, not your foreman.” He flashes a quick wink. “I’m here to support you.”
Someone in the group shouts, “Woo-hoo! Butler Gabe!” and everyone bursts out laughing. Gabe just shakes his head and chuckles.
He speaks with this easy confidence—relaxed, but at the same time commanding the circle’s attention. He keeps scanning the group, making eye contact with each of us like he wants everyone to feel included while he talks to us. I can see why people warm to him: he does seem like he genuinely cares if we succeed. Unfortunately, half of what he’s saying flies over my head when he starts talking about planting specifics.
Then the group cracks up again—Gabe’s apparently landed another joke—and I realize I completely missed the punchline because all this planting jargon is foreign to me. But I can’t help smiling because the energy from the group is contagious.
He wraps up his little speech with a grin. “All right, let’s have a good season!”
The group cheers in unison, energy buzzing.
“Now grab your shit, and let’s get rolling.”
Planters start scattering, grabbing half-packed backpacks and throwing last-minute jackets into the truck bed. Someone near me is already wrapping duct tape around their fingers like it’s a pre-game ritual, smoothing it over their skin in tight layers. Emma told me, when we went out for coffee, to grab some duct tape. She said some people hate wearing gloves because they get too sweaty, or it limits dexterity when jamming a tree into the ground. I won’t be doing the whole duct-tape-fingers thing, but I still have a roll in my bag—just in case anything breaks on the block. “It’s cheap, tough, and by the end of the season, you’ll find it everywhere—on boots, gear, even holding planting bags together,” I remember Emma specifically telling me when I questioned its purpose.
I’m about to follow the other planters to get my bags and toss them in the truck when I hear my name.
“Soleil!” Gabe calls, his voice cutting through the chatter.
I pause, turning toward him. “Yeah?”
“One more thing,” he says, crossing his arms like he’s about to lay down the law. “You’re sitting up front, in the middle.”
“What? Why?” I ask, already feeling defensive.
He raises an eyebrow like the answer should be obvious. “Because you’re the smallest on the crew. And that seat’s tight. Tree planting policy.”
I narrow my eyes. “I highly doubt that’s an actual policy.”
He shrugs, totally unfazed by my attitude. “Maybe not, but that’s how it works on my crew. Now grab your stuff and hop in.”
I turn away in a huff and head to dump my things in the canopied truck bed. First, he mansplains how to put up my tent, then he eats my breakfast, and now he’s telling me where I have to sit? I bite my tongue, though, because I can practically hear his smug voice in my head: “I’m the foreman and you work for me.”
As soon as I slide into my “spot” from the passenger side, Gabe swings open the driver’s door and hauls himself into the truck. The seat dips under his weight, and I catch this faint smell of soap mixed with campfire smoke coming off him.
His broad shoulders and long legs sprawl into my space like the middle seat isn’t even there. I try pulling my knees in tighter, but I still end up brushing against his thigh. He doesn’t flinch—just adjusts the rearview mirror as his thick, hairy man arm grazes mine. He’s so… bushy.
“Why does it smell like coconut and vanilla in here?” he asks suddenly, voice low and amused.
I blink, mind calculating. “Coconut and—oh.” My face heats. “That’s, um… me. My body lotion.”
He leans in a fraction more, just enough to make the hair on my neck prickle. “Definitely you,” he confirms, a hint of a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “But you do know sweet scents attract bugs out here, right?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s just a myth.”
He shrugs, his gaze sliding back to the road. “Suit yourself,” he murmurs, then adds, almost under his breath, “Could be worse, I guess. You could smell like day-old sandwich meat.”
I scoff at his subtle, off-handed “compliment.”
The first twenty minutes of the drive are mostly quiet, aside from the tires roaring against gravel roads. Forestry Trunk Road is nothing but twists and turns through Alberta’s backcountry, built for logging trucks and people who come out on weekends to tear up riparian zones with their quads and dirt bikes. Gabe navigates it like it’s second nature. Eventually, he veers off onto a narrower side road, grabbing his radio and calling out into the static.
“Kilometre two, Jock Lake, empty,” Gabe says, his voice low and steady.
“Why’d you call that out?” I ask, curious.
He clips the radio back in place and doesn’t even look at me, just keeps his eyes on the road. Then, over the radio, we hear, “Kilometre three, Jock Lake, full,” from someone else.
Not even thirty seconds later, Gabe slows down and pulls over to the side of the road as far as he can. And that’s when a massive, fully loaded logging truck comes flying past us, kicking up a storm of dust and debris. Oh. That’s why .
“I called it out because this road is skinny and winding, and it’s hard to see other vehicles coming around corners or over hills. Think of it like playing hide-and-seek, except you can’t easily see each other, so you call out your position to avoid bumping into someone head-on. And sometimes that someone is a big rig hauling a full load of timber. They don’t stop on a dime and they don’t move out of your way.”
“Ahhhhh… Makes sense now.”
I hate to admit it, but there’s something about the way he handles our safety—one hand on the wheel, the other on the radio, his eyes flicking to the mirrors with this quiet confidence—that’s, well… kind of attractive.
But then, without even looking at me, he glances down at my leggings and says, “Those aren’t gonna last. You’ll have holes in ‘em by noon.” His words snap me out of my thoughts.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my tone a little sharp.
He shrugs, not even fazed. “Hopefully, you packed a real pair of pants. Otherwise, you’ll be heading back to camp half-naked.”
And just like that, whatever admiration I was feeling evaporated.
“Maybe I’m fine with that,” I mutter, shoving my legs outward against his to reclaim some space. I’m half hoping he’ll drop it, but from the smirk he shoots me, I know I’ve only made things worse.
“Trust me,” he drawls, that teasing edge back in his voice. “You won’t find it so funny when the mosquitoes start eating you alive. Then you’ll be whining about that too.”
I let out a sharp laugh, finally glancing at him. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to save all my whining just for you, boss.”
His hand tightens briefly on the steering wheel, his jaw ticking as he glances my way. “Careful, Rookie,” he says, his voice lower, slower. “That almost sounded like a promise.”
I stare straight out the windshield, mentally rolling my eyes.
After an hour of driving, Gabe finally slows the truck to a crawl. He eases it around a bend, and that’s when I see it—my first cut block. It’s massive. The whole thing looks like it’s been ripped apart by giants. Where there were once towering trees, there are now stumps—just jagged reminders of what used to be. Piles of discarded branches and bark are heaped up in chaotic mounds, and scattered logs lie everywhere, like splintered confetti marking the spot where a forest once stood. A dull breeze stirs the edges of the clearing, almost hesitant, like even the air doesn’t want to linger here. It’s surreal. And unsettling.
I knew this was what I’d be walking into—I had seen the photos and heard the descriptions—but seeing it in person is something else entirely. Part of me feels relieved that we’re here to help fix it, to at least plant something in all this destruction. But the other part of me—the forestry biology nerd—can’t stop wondering if there’s a better way. Less destruction means fewer water systems are jeopardized, and more habitats are left untouched. This place feels sterile, barren, and totally at odds with the lush green I’d been admiring on the drive out.
We all pile out of the truck, boots thudding onto the dirt as the early-morning sun warms my cheeks. Everyone starts moving—pulling gear, throwing on planting bags—but I just stand there for a second, trying to wrap my head around the scale of it all.
Gabe steps up beside me without a word. For a second, he just looks out over the scarred land, his expression growing pensive. “It’s pretty scary, huh?” he says quietly, keeping his voice low, like it’s just for me. “Hard to believe there was a beautiful forest here a couple years ago.”
I swallow hard, my chest tight with unease. “Yeah,” I manage, my voice softer than I intended. My eyes stay glued to the flattened expanse.
Gabe nods toward the far edge of the block, where a lone tree line still stands like a distant reminder. “Don’t let it get to you too much. I’ve planted with people who’ve been doing this for decades. They’ve seen blocks like this come full circle—sometimes twice.”
“Twice?” I echo, finally dragging my gaze away from the destruction to look at him.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. It won’t be the same forest as it was, not really. But we keep building houses, using paper, and living the way we do. At least we’re trying to put something back. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe in thirty or forty years, this’ll look like a forest again.”
I manage to give him a small smile while simultaneously swatting a mosquito buzzing near my ear. For a split second, as Gabe glances at me, I swear I see actual empathy in his eyes—like he gets how overwhelming this is. It’s almost sweet the way he seems to share my unease about this wrecked landscape.
But then, in the blink of an eye, his shoulders go rigid, and his expression shifts back to that smug half-smile. “You might wanna swat faster,” he says abruptly. “They love the smell of coconut.” He turns and heads toward the truck to grab his shovel, leaving me standing there, mosquito-swatting hand poised midair, thinking, oh my God, there he goes again—why am I even surprised? The whiplash from nice to jerk stings almost as bad as the bugs.
“Jerk hole,” I mutter under my breath, though the word doesn’t carry much heat anymore. He’s still annoying, sure, but the all-consuming animosity from yesterday has faded into something closer to mild aggravation.
“Jake, Dan, Rolland—this is your stop. That’s your cache for the day. You’ve got enough trees to finish the pieces, but I’ll be back to check on your trees in an hour.”
The guys nod and head off without hesitation, already talking about how many trees they’re going to bag up first. I glance at the tarp structure they’re heading toward—the cache. It’s just a white reflective tarp draped over a few cut logs, making this tiny open-faced shelter. Unimpressive, really, but apparently vital for keeping the seedlings insulated and shaded.
Gabe’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Soleil, you and Emma are with me. We’re heading further down to the second cache.” He doesn’t wait for an answer; he just starts walking with his shovel in his hand while Emma and I grab our gear. I scramble to follow, my backpack straps slipping down my shoulders, my water jug sloshing in my planting bags, and the shovel across my shoulders already feeling heavy.
When we reach the second cache—just a few hundred feet down the road—there are about ten white rectangular boxes sitting under it in a neat row. Each box is open at the top and has a label plastered on the side, probably indicating quantity or tree species it belongs to.
Gabe points out Emma’s piece first. “You see that big stump over there? The one that’s kinda leaning?”
Emma leans over his arm. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Good. Flag a line straight for it and plant to your left. I gave you a creamy piece since it’s your first day back, but part of is shnarby—there’s a small gulley.” I follow his gaze, trying to figure out what creamy means. Honestly, the whole thing just looks like shit. It’s evident that tree planting isn’t what most people imagine—neat rows in soft dirt. This is walking over uneven rows of cut stumps, rotting logs, and piles of shredded bark and debris known as slash piles.
“Soleil,” Gabe says, snapping my attention back. “You’re going right of her line. Stop at Rolland’s orange flag.”
I shade my eyes and scan the block. “What orange flag? I don’t see it.”
Gabe exhales, a note of impatience slipping through. “That’s because he hasn’t strung it yet—he’s planting toward that wind-snapped spruce I showed him on his bush line. On the way there, he’ll tear little strips off this,” he says, raising a small roll of fluorescent-coloured plastic tape, “and tie them up high so his boundary is clearly marked. It helps me see whose piece is whose, and some planters use the flagging to mark their trees so they don’t double-plant. Got it?” His voice is all business now, and weirdly, that makes me feel a little more grounded.
“Got it,” I mumble, tightening my grip on my shovel.
He launches into instructions again—spacing, tight holes, no J-roots—but the words mean nothing to me. Emma nods like she’s got it all down while I struggle to keep up. He flicks his gaze from Emma to me. None of it sticks, and I’m pretty sure he notices me zoning out because he snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“Soleil, you good? You look like I just asked you to solve quantum physics.”
I blink at him. “I’m fine.”
“Good, ‘cause this isn’t that complicated.” He kicks a box of seedlings for emphasis. “Take thirty percent of these,” he nudges another box with his boot, “mix it with seventy percent of those, and stick ‘em in the ground every two-point-seven metres. Give or take.”
Why is he talking to me like I’m a toddler?
He takes two exaggerated strides, kicking dirt to mark the space between his steps. “This wide. Ish. Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less. Got it?” He just looks at me with his piercing blue eyes as if he’s sizing me up for the day.
I glare at him, suddenly feeling self-conscious, but I nod to appease him.
He pulls a box from the cache and sets it in front of me. “Bag up.”
Emma’s already ahead of me, loading her bags with this practised ease that makes me feel like a complete rookie. She grabs each bundle of seedlings—roots wrapped in plastic—unwraps them, and lays them horizontally in her bags, alternating the stems and roots so they fit better. I watch her give one bundle a quick squeeze to drain the extra water, just as Gabe glances her way with a less-than-thrilled look.
She shrugs. “What? It makes them lighter.”
The second Gabe’s attention is off her, I start squeezing my own bundles, too, hoping he won’t notice.
Gabe watches her for a second, then grins. “Good to have you back, Ems. Think you can outplant Jessie this year?”
Emma laughs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, okay. Jessie outplants everyone. I’m never gonna be that fast.”
“You could be,” he says, giving her a quick, encouraging wink. And there he goes again. My eyes nearly roll out of my skull. “If you focused on your technique. Less flagging, more planting.”
She smirks, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re just saying that because she’s not on your crew this year, and you’re trying to squeeze more trees out of me.” Emma raises an eyebrow, adding, “You gonna miss her, though? Not, like, her, but her numbers? Since, y’know, you get paid off what we put in the ground?”
“Nope,” he says, straightening up to collapse an empty box. “Jessie is good—fast as hell—but her ‘me-first’ attitude pissed everyone off. Plus, I had to fix half her trees. Speed doesn’t count for much if the trees suck. Unless I’m planting them, obviously. Then they’re perfect,” he says, brushing invisible dirt off his shoulder.
Emma snorts. “Of course they are.”
He shoots her a glance. “I just think you’ve got it in you to highball this season. You could probably run a crew yourself in a few years if you wanted. I can show you the ropes—maps, camp logistics, whatever. You know Silvertip’s looking at a management shuffle, don’t you? So having someone reliable and ready to manage a crew would be a big plus.”
Emma grins. “Only if you’re still at Silvertip, because I’m not working for anyone else but you.”
“Obviously,” he replies, pushing up his sweatshirt sleeve to check his watch. The motion gives a quick flash of his forearm—veiny, strong—and I catch Emma eyeing it a beat too long.
“I really appreciate you taking me—and Soleil—this year. I just…” She pauses for a moment, letting out a slow breath to steady herself. “I need this summer to focus on planting. Especially after last season… and what happened with Logan.”
“That’s who wound up with Jessie,” Gabe says, his grin turning smug.
Emma laughs. “Oh, she’s gonna be pissed. Seriously, though, I kinda feel bad you took us instead of Jessie. You’ll probably make less without her on the crew.”
His grin widens. “I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. Let’s call it even for that favour you did for me this morning with old hangrypants.” He flicks a glance at me, clearly amused. “Now hurry up and get out there before I change my mind and hand you off to Logan.”
Emma blushes faintly, securing the last of her trees with a nod.
I hang back, watching their banter with a quiet sigh. He looks at me, smirking.
“Hangrypants?” I grumble, shooting him a glare. “Can’t come up with a better nickname?”
“Yeah,” he says almost too casually. “Sunshine.”
I blink. “That’s what my parents call me.”
“Well then, consider me your daddy now because that’s what I’m calling you for the rest of the season.” He laughs—big, booming, clearly delighted with himself. Meanwhile, I’m thrilled he finds himself so hilarious.
I’m mid-eye roll when his tone suddenly shifts, more serious. “Bag up and follow me.” He pauses, giving me that assessing look that consistently sets my teeth on edge. “Sunshine.”
My pulse does a weird little jump, but I tighten my grip on my bag straps, biting back whatever snarky comment wants to slip out. If he thinks I’m going to crumble under his teasing, he’s got another thing coming.
Emma catches my eye and gives me a discreet thumbs-up before heading to her section. I shoulder my half-loaded bags and shovel, trudging after Gabe into the block. My boots seem to find every twig and branch possible, and I stumble twice. He doesn’t even glance back, let alone slow down.
“This is your piece,” Gabe says, nodding toward a chaotic stretch of ground beyond a leaning stump. “Same spacing I showed you at the cache. Watch for double plants along your boundary and look for decent microsites.” His tone is clipped, brisk. I think he’s about to walk off, but then he grabs a seedling from my bag and steps closer. “Get the plug snug in smearable soil. No junk. No dry fluff. Pine? Watch the laterals. Those are the small branches near the dirt plug. Spruce? Plant them a bit deeper.” He holds the seedling between his fingers. “Quality matters. Got it?”
Before I can answer, he reaches for my shovel, and his hand brushes against mine—it’s barely anything, but it sparks this stupid little jolt under my skin. I clear my throat, focusing on the dirt instead of the warmth that lingers from the touch.
He sinks the shovel into the ground with smooth precision, slicing a clean slit in the soil. With a practised motion, he leans the shovel back, then, almost effortlessly, props the seedling against the blade. It’s such a small, mundane action, but there’s something about the way his hands move—so practised, so sure—that completely throws me.
My cheeks burn as my thoughts wander somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t. For a moment, I just stand there, completely transfixed by the way his index and middle fingers glide slowly over the smooth, cold blade. The movement is effortless, controlled—almost teasing. A shiver races through me.
“That’s how it’s done,” he says sharply, snapping me out of it like a splash of cold water. He hands me the shovel, his usual bossiness firmly back in place. “Think you can handle it?”
My pulse stumbles, still rattled by that tiny graze of his hand, but I nod curtly. “Yup,” I mumble, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
His eyes linger on me for a moment, skeptical but with a flicker of something I can’t quite place. Then he kicks the hole closed with his boot, straightening the seedling with one swift motion. “No shortcuts. If you plant shitty trees, they won’t count, and I’ll make you replant every one. We do checks. Failed checks cost time.”
I clench my jaw, refusing to let his doubt sink in. “I was listening when you explained it to everyone else,” I say evenly.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then he mutters, “Okay, Sunshine. Good luck,” and turns back toward the cache, already answering some requests on his radio.
“Gabe—” I start, but he’s already twenty feet away, engaged in conversation over his radio with another foreman on a different block. I let out a slow breath, muttering as I jam my shovel into the dirt. “Fine. I’ve got this.”
I try to mimic what he showed me: neat slit, pull back just enough space, slide the seedling in straight, and press the soil snug. Maybe if I wasn’t so distracted by my grumpy foreman literally fingering a tree into a hole , I’d feel a little more confident about what I’m doing. But no, here I am, completely thrown off in a weirdly attractive way. But after a few tries—and double-checking the depth and tightness—I manage to get my first tree in the ground.
It stands there, tiny and kind of pathetic-looking, in the middle of all this chaos. One down. Only a thousand to go. I glance at my watch. That took… one minute? My stomach drops. This is going to take forever.
Emma told me I’d get faster once I stop overanalyzing and trust my instincts. The problem is, I have no instincts. Just this nagging fear of screwing up and giving Gabe another reason to think I have no business being here.
I move on to the second tree, then the third, and slowly—very slowly—start to find a rhythm. Strike, push back, glide, shut, move on. It’s clunky, it’s awkward, but at least it’s progress. Every so often, I catch sight of Gabe in the distance, radio in hand, making his rounds. He nods at Jake and Dan, tossing them a quick thumbs-up before stopping to point something out to Jake. They exchange a few words, and then Jake laughs, like whatever Gabe said was actually funny. A little ripple of jealousy—or maybe just insecurity—flares in my chest. I want that nod. I want that easy laugh. I want him to treat me like I belong here, like I’m just another member of the crew—not like the clueless rookie he has to harass every time he’s near me.
I glance back at my uneven row of tiny seedlings, now tucked into the Alberta dirt. Each tree stands there like a tiny, awkward victory marking my efforts. Even if I’m fumbling through this, it’s still something. And honestly? That feels surprisingly good. My back aches, and my big toes are already going numb, but every hole I open and every tree I plant gives me a tiny jolt of pride.
Maybe, eventually, all this back-breaking labour will grow into a beautiful forest. In forty years, someone might drive past here and not even know it was once completely barren. A logged landscape, now peppered with tree planters, who are working to pay off their university debts or their travel plans for the year. Or maybe this will all just end up as toilet paper or farmhouse-chic shiplap. Either way, for now, I just keep moving forward. One tree at a time.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m tallying up how many more times I have to bend over just to break even on today’s wages.