Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
I hoist my planting bags over my shoulders, ignoring the burn in my arms that has been building all morning. The hum of the crew cab is already fading behind us as it drives further down the gravel road, leaving Emma and I at our cache for the day. A pair of ravens fly overhead, and for half a second, I am jealous of their wings—the ability to fly anywhere they want, while I’m stuck here, weighed down by the aches in my body and the stress in my mind.
I glance over just as Emma drops to her knees beside the box of spruce seedlings, rummaging for a fresh bundle—when, out of nowhere, a loud, unapologetic pffffft erupts. She barely blinks.
“Excuse me!” she says all chipper, still rummaging like nothing happened.
I just stare at her, completely stunned, before cracking up. “Did you seriously just?—?”
“Yup,” she replies, perfectly blasé, as if farting in front of a captive audience is the most normal thing in the world. And honestly, I kind of envy her for it—she carries herself like she was born for the bush, no shame or hesitation. I still remember her telling me how that first season was a hot mess of blisters and drama, yet here she is, confident enough to pass gas among her coworkers like it’s part of the job description.
We have known each other for what seems like forever, but not like this —tree planting has given us a space where we don’t have to put on our polite ‘masks’, and to be honest, I’m really enjoying that. There’s something about this job that forces people together fast, whether they want it or not. Farts and all.
As I duck under the cache—which is full of white, wax-coated boxes, full of baby trees—I feel my stomach tense up. Even though it’s only day three of tree planting, the pressure to hit that elusive thousand-tree mark has kept me awake at night.
“Ugh,” I groan, dropping to my knees and rubbing my lower back. “If I have to bend over one more damn time…”
Emma nods in sympathy and pulls out a handful of trees from a box, loading them into the Silvicools of her planting bags. “Any time I started doubting myself last year,” she murmurs, “I’d remind myself that every veteran planter was once a rookie, too.”
I want to believe that, but my anxiety isn’t letting me off the hook. “Yeah, but I keep thinking if I don’t hit a thousand soon, it means I’m just not built for this.”
Emma frowns. “Okay, but if you legit hated this, I’d tell you to quit. But you don’t. You’re just stressed about getting good at it. That’s not the same thing.” She slings her bags over her hips like it’s nothing. “Everyone has that moment—like a switch flips and suddenly your body just… gets it.”
“Easier said than done,” I grumble, tucking a bundle of seedlings into my own bag. My hands tremble from the strain, but I tighten my grip around the edge of my Silvicool to push the trees down further, willing myself not to spill them when I walk into my piece. The last thing I need is Gabe rolling his eyes at me again.
Emma tilts her head, red ponytail swinging. “Let’s plant together this morning,” she offers. “I’ll show you how I pace myself, how I find my spots—just, like, how to stop overthinking it.”
“Wait, seriously?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, I’m fucking with you,” she says, nudging me. “Of course seriously. I’m not letting you flame out by day three. I like having you around in camp—way more fun than my piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend from last season.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s the story there?”
Emma sighs, grabbing her shovel. “Ugh. Not worth my breath. But basically, he went planting without me, told me to stay behind, I showed up anyway—and he got super weird and jealous—and this was after we broke up. Pretty much killed any shot I had at a hot summer rebound.”
I snort. Okay, the Logan stuff is starting to make a bit more sense, even if they still act like middle schoolers around each other.
“Thanks, Em,” I say, softer this time as we start walking to our pieces. I feel a little lighter, even if I’m still kinda awkward. “Sorry if I’ve been… I don’t know, a little distant before.”
Emma shoots me a lopsided grin. “I mean, if you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a disaster in regular life. My plants always die, my phone’s never charged, and I’m allergic to timelines. So yeah, I get why we didn’t really connect before. But now we’ve got the time.”
I smirk. “Yeah. We do.”
We reach her piece first, and she stops to tie a strip of neon pink flagging tape to this sad little branch sticking up. “I wasn’t always this confident, by the way,” she says. “Last season? I was so freaked out I cried in my tent every night that first week. But now? I cry out here on the block like a real tree planter.”
I sputter a laugh, and the tension I’ve been carrying since dawn loosens just a bit. Something about Emma’s honesty feels like a permission slip to admit my own fears. “I worry I won’t make enough money for the fall,” I admit, swallowing hard. “And I’ll end up at some shitty dead-end job again.”
Her eyes soften. “You’ll get it.” She flicks my shovel handle while sporting a playful grin. “And if you’re still struggling? I’ll share my block candy with you as motivation—one piece for every hundred trees you plant. Deal?”
I laugh. “You drive a hard bargain, but… deal.”
“Alright then,” she says. “Follow my lead.”
I nod, watching Emma work her way down the piece towards her bushline. Every movement is smooth—shovel in, lean back, drop the seedling, close it up, move on. It all just flows. She catches me watching and flashes a quick grin. I go to grab a piece of flag to mark my tree, but she interrupts me. “Don’t waste time flagging every tree—just mark off the bigger chunks when you finish them so you’re not second-guessing yourself. If you do flag, stick it somewhere high, like on a log or branch.”
She pulls another seedling from her bag and drops it in one clean move. “And never go back to a tree to fix it, unless Gabe tells you to. The only time you tighten up your quality is when you’ve been told to—otherwise just assume your trees are passable.”
I’m a few paces behind her, trying to match her speed while she just keeps moving. Emma’s already got three trees down, while I’m still nursing my first. “Always hit the minimums on your bushline,” she says, barely slowing down. “And pick your easiest ground. I usually scope spots for my next two or three trees while I’m planting the one in front of me.”
She moves to grab another tree from her bag. “I don’t carry too many—maybe three hundred, three-thirty max. I can get through those in forty-five minutes. When I get to the cache, sometimes I don’t even take my bags off. Just grab more trees, eat something quick, chug some water with Gatorade powder, and get right back to it.”
She throws me a quick wink and drives her shovel into the next spot, not even breaking stride. Meanwhile, I can feel sweat starting to drip down the back of my neck.
“Oh—and stab that shovel straight,” she says, not even looking up. “So you don’t get leaners.”
She points her shovel in three quick spots ahead of me. “There, there, and there—those are your next three.”
I nod, adjusting my grip, trying to mimic her pace while pretending I’m not completely out of breath.
It’s repetitive, but surprisingly satisfying. Sure, my back still hates me and I keep second-guessing my spacing, but I’ve stopped drowning in my own anxiety.
After a few minutes, she lets out a whoop. “Look at you! Not pausing for five seconds to panic anymore.”
I shoot her a fake glare but I’m grinning. “You’re so annoying. But seriously, thanks.”
She waves it off. “I expect you at my speed by the end of the day. No pressure.”
We slip into a comfy rhythm for what feels like hours—heading back to the cache only for water, snacks, and more trees. Each tree I plant comes a little easier, like my body’s finally clicking into the routine. Every time Emma gives me that small nod, it’s a little jolt of confidence that keeps me going.
By the time the sun’s high overhead, we’re both sweaty and sore but weirdly proud. Finally, we swing by the cache for a late lunch and my third bag-up of the day. My mood’s way lighter than it was this morning—until Emma suddenly tenses, eyes fixed on her backpack lying by the cache.
“Did you open my bag?” she asks, sort of casual but with a hint of uncertainty.
I shake my head. “No? I’ve literally been with you all morning.”
She walks over, lifts the flap. “I swear I didn’t leave it open like this.” Then she mutters, “Shit… my lunch is gone. What the hell…”
And then we both spot them—two smug-ass ravens tearing into her brown bag lunch like they own the place.
Emma groans, pointing at them. “Fucking crows. I hate how smart they are. They’ll get into anything.” Even though she’s clearly annoyed, she lets out this tired little laugh. “Happens at least once a season. If it’s not crows, it’s a bear.”
The situation strikes me as oddly amusing. Sure, she called them crows—they’re ravens… I am a biology nerd, afterall—but I still feel a bit sorry about her ruined lunch.
Fishing in my pack, I offer her some Nerds Gummy Clusters, plus half of my peanut butter sandwich. “Here. It’s not gourmet, but it’ll do the trick for the next bag-up.”
Emma lets out a grateful sigh as she slumps onto the dirt, legs splayed, exhaustion etched in her face. “Thanks,” she mumbles around a bite of sandwich. Then she looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “What are you at now?” she asks, referencing our tree counts.
I shrug, popping a gummy candy into my mouth. “750.” I say, echoing my previous frustration, but then I hold up a hand. “But it’s still early in the day.” I take a swig of water, the liquid bliss against my parched throat.
Emma’s grin is immediate, her eyes sparking. “I told you! Baby steps, but you’re getting there. By the last bag-up, you might break 1,200.” She throws in a wink, like she already knows it’s gonna happen. “Now we just have to get you to bag-up heavier.”
I snort. The thought of carrying more than a box right now is overwhelming.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’ll come. You’ll get strong enough to carry 600 trees one day because you’ll want to pound like a highballer.”
Honestly? For the first time, I kind of want to believe her optimism. Even though I’m sweaty, gross, and every muscle in my body is pissed off, I feel… good.
As we gear up and head back to her piece, I feel lighter—like I’m not carrying all this pressure alone anymore. Yeah, I’m still figuring things out, and I’m definitely not as fast as her, but Emma’s in it with me. And that counts for something.