Greenstorm's Journal

Probably one of the last field days of the year at work. Persistent warm rain. No leaves left on the deciduous. Roads mushy and slippery with mud, maybe this is our last unfreeze. This is a late winter; we had -9 without much snow. I'm hoping we get snow before we get much colder than that or it'll be hard on the plants. On the other hand I'm hoping not to get snow before Sat afternoon when I get snow tires on my truck.

I began listening to a delightful podcast known as "Future Ecologies" today and got through six episodes. Highly recommended.

Meanwhile my jurisdiction (British Columbia) is starting the concrete, public-facing steps of radically revising our forest policy. It's been coming, it's a bit overdue, and it's about to hit like an avalanche. The first step has been deferring (if in agreement with the relevant First Nations) an awful lot of cut for two years.

I often forget that something like a bush partner isn't part of everyone's working life. Doing outdoor work in landscaping or forestry you often end up paired off with a particular person for the duration of a job or a season. The two of you drive to site together, work together, drive home together. There's definitely technical talk and silence. There's also a very specific kind of companionship that comes from achieving shared goals, and lots of time for all kinds of conversation.

There's an art to these relationships. It's unbearable to be with someone who expects immediate constant responses for eight to ten hours every day. It's challenging to be with someone who doesn't talk at all. Low-level landscapers and foresters aren't known for their interpersonal skills but pretty much everyone I've been paired with has some way through what is essentially a very intimate relationship. Some people pour themselves out immediately and then can rest. Others barely dip their toes in with small-talk until they know it's safe and then inch in millimeter by millimeter. On any given day, depending on mood and energy and a million other things, "are you doing anything this weekend?" might lead to a discussion of instant pots, the place of old growth forests in society, hydraulics on mountain bikes, parental trauma, or just a shrug and a comfortable silence.

Your bush partner doesn't owe you much. They need to show up, be pretty well prepared ideally, and have or be able to learn or teach some skills. When you're using your body day after day there will always be slow days and fast days. There will always be days of conversation and days without and whether you read those as brooding or tired or lost in daydreams you may never get an explanation. Over time the two of you will develop your complementary skills, will settle into unspoken and efficient routines. Usually someone will lead some things and someone else will lead others: she usually puts music on, I usually call lunchtime. When we get to the worksite I automatically get these tools ready, you automatically go pee in the bushes then unload the quad.

I've been in the bush a couple days a week over the last little while and I didn't know how much I missed this kind of relationship. This is how I like humans: not rushed, using skills they've honed, working together, taking their time to learn each other, not trying to find a place to fit into each others' lives but just there for awhile and with the knowledge that there is a way out if needed. I like the daily things: tired today, doctor's appointment tomorrow, maybe I'll do this or that tonight. I like the deeper things to have the space of routine and alternate activities around them: you run that tape measure out fifteen meters or dodge those potholes while you think of an answer, there's no hurry at all. I like fitting skill-to-skill, problem solving together: I'll comb through the map and you drive through the dodgy road, I'll do the heavy work if you'll catch the details. I like not having to worry about interrupting heavy thought-work. I like having shared experiences, like rain or bugs or a particularly lovely view. I like it. I'd missed it.

It's letting me have positive regard for humans again. I think a lot of people lost that during covid and have still lost it. It's an important part of me. Being able to just be around someone without a relationship agenda of some kind really helps this (and I mean small-r relationship, that is, any interpersonal interaction of any kind is secondary to getting the work done).

Don't get me wrong, working in the bush is spectacular for so many reasons. It's great to be outside, to see things no one else gets to see, to do force-times-distance type work with my body, to experience ecosystems, to get information other folks don't have. But. It's also a good kind of getting to know someone that isn't fraught.

Things that aren't fraught are important right now.

This is something I'd lose doing remote-only work. I'm too slow in the bush to do production work -- that is, to do the basic and most common types of work out there. That leaves checking on the production folks or doing weird fringe things. Hm.

Well, it's still early evening but I'm very tired. Time to sleep. Be well.

Today was another day in the bush. I went to a sample site I for sure had to do, fairly close to a quite disused logging road called the Kuzkwa South. This was south of where I'd been working before by about 20km. I had my suspicions halfway up the road and then recognised it very suddenly when an unmistakable cliff loomed through the trees.

Inzana is a wide bowl with lumpy soil-and-tree crusted lumps those 20km north.

The Kuzkwa South road snakes up and down and up and down with astonishing potholes and quick corners though abrupt topography until grey-streaked peach cliffs suddenly loom up on one side and a little lake sparkles downslope through the trees on the other. The cliff is fringed with rubust, healthy-looking douglas fir and the lake is ringed wit birch. Everything looks so inviting to play on: the rock cliffs look like they're easily climbable, fractured like ladders, though the long talus slope leading up to them suggests keeping to the edges and to the anchor-points of clumps of trees. The lake is so sparkly, not distant at all but not close enough to have road dust: it it looks like just ten minutes of climbing through trees to get there.

I'd been there once before, briefly, in 2015, for work as a summer student. That moment of coming around the corner and seeing the cliffs and the little lake, the highly interactive landscape, has never left me. The spot is only just shy of two hours' drive from town and only really 20km off the pavement (the last 10km is very slow!) and I was giving serious thought to going back there camping when a pickup appeared going up as I was going down. He didn't have a radio so we did the truck-negotiation of backing up into a wide spot so we could go past each other and I figured this was not the weekend to go up. Hunting season, also likely not great timing. I wouldn't want to do that road in snow either. It took careful maneuvering to get around some of those potholes without getting stuck even with them dry and with a lot of traction.

I'll still keep that place in my heart. There are so many places in my heart.

The actual spot I was working wasn't bad either: there were clumps of huge aspen trees, 30m or so (well, huge for the area) and a spaghnum wetland that was nearly dried out so I could squelch across it if I didn't stand too still: it opened out into a pond that was still filled with water. This is probably the only month I could have walked that wetland: it had aquatic weeds on one edge.

The road in had those improbably large moose tracks and an equally large wolf track dried into some of the mud.

It was just pretty. Nice. It felt like home. I listen to podcasts on my phone when I'm out since I've given up my project of memorizing poetry: it's important to make noise constantly when you're out so the bears know you're coming and can make good decisions.

I can see the shape of my loneliness best when I enjoy things. I want to go home, tell people about them, take someone out to see those sudden cliffs and go scrambling up them together. I want that not always -- some spaces are just for me -- but sometimes. I want the option.

Either way, the landscape is doing its best to comfort me these days and I appreciate it.

Every year I try to schedule a bush day on my birthday -- that is, working out and away from town. On eyear I managed to be at logging camp, which is fabulous when someone can hold down the animals: walk around outside all day and come back to your choice of meals and a shower, then go out and do it all over again.

I managed it today too and it was as good at it usually is. A new set of delightful summer students helped me, and they were both competent and friendly. We had a long high view of the lake, we were working up in the south-facing douglas fir (there's not a ton of douglas fir around here, but what there is grows on rocky south slopes and is adapted to a frequent burn disturbance regime. Of course this hasn't been burnt lately, but it's lovely and I enjoy how strange the interior douglas fir are, so completely different from the coastal ones, but still familiar with that deeply rifted bark.

It was hot hot hot and we went through a kilometer or two of blowdown with roughly 50 fallen trees per 30 meters (we were there to measure) and then another half-dozen hilly kilometers through cut ground. It was a good workout. I don't believe I wrecked my stitches, though I did notice my cruiser vest waistband (think of it as a comprehensive backpack) sitting on it from time to time.

I'm going to take tomorrow morning off, sleep in, sort out the trailer, catch up on picking raspberries, that sort of thing. This is the last weekend before Tucker takes off for some weeks to the east coast; we've both been anxiously watching covid numbers but he hasn't seen his other partner(s) in a couple years now so this is pretty important. While he's gone there will be some pig butchering, Josh will come up, and I will continue to return emails from folks.

And now to go home and wash the smell of ingrained sweat and douglas fir pitch off me, and evict anyone hanging out in my hair or underwear.

This counts, so far, as a good day.

Yesterday was the first field day I've led in awhile at work. I had one of the summer students with me.It got some stuff done but wasn't super productive; we're learning to estimate lengths and diameters from 7.5cm to 50m or so in various configurations which requires lots of guessing then measuring. It's easy enough to just to measure first, but then your eye doesn't get calibrated and you don't get to the much faster accurate estimation stage. I've also never really been a production-speed bush worker, and the summer student is new to the bush.

That is to say, this was not enormously more productive or meaningful than any other day at work. The summer student is a standard gifted young woman who'd eager to please and fast to learn, so pleasant to work with but not a particular connection.

And still at the end of it I felt so happy, and embedded in the world, and so much myself. I think I always doubt this when I'm not on the edge of it because I can't explain it well. Heavy physical work while inside doesn't have the same effect for the most part. Just being outside all day sitting in a chair probably also doesn't, though who can sit for that long outside? But the thing that I need to make me happy is to do physical work outside for several hours on most days.

It doesn't really have to do with the rest of my circumstances much at all.

Noteworthy event of the day: saw a juvenile sandhill crane by the side of the road driving out to the bush. It looked like a young ostrich that happened to be the colour of a fawn, very gangly and non-flighted as it ran along the ditch and scrambled up an embankment. So weird.

The southern interior is basically on fire right now after the heat wave and the ensuing lightning storms. There was at least a brief period where all highways that lead up here were blocked off, though one could still go through Alberta or take a ferry up the coast and drive at the cost of an additional day or two. This is the first time I remember a community being wiped off the map by fire: sounds like a train cast a spark from its wheels and about half an hour later Lytton was gone. Normally our firefighters are pretty amazing about protecting structures but there was barely time for most people to get out... and some did not.

Things are cooling down now so hopefully some of the fires get under control but they are running fast and far right now. Part of working in forestry is basic wildland firefighting training because we're all well-suited to be co-opted into firefighting efforts; there's a government requirement that we're trained and keep basic equipment in our vehicles in case we see and can put out anything while it's small in our extensive travels.

It's good to feel even-keeled again. I have a lot of field time this summer so hopefully I can keep this feeling on tap.

Today will be deboning entire pork shoulders (google the shape of a pig's shoulder blade for a feeling of sympathy), gardening, picking up feed, and doing some duckling things. I should also plan out my cures for the prosciuttos. Sichuan peppercorn? Star anise? It'll take thinking about. I'm also considering jerky-ing some in the liquid from jalapeno carrot pickles, which sounds pretty great, doesn't it?

So, my plan did not involve canning or brewing up here. I brought my bow, I was going to practice, and I was going to work a lot.

Well, I'm working a lot.

There is such abundance of foraging foods here, though; I guess that's what you get when you're not really in a city. There are so many dandelions and spruce buds everywhere that I've got supplies to do a small batch of dandelion jelly, one of pickled dandelion buds, and one of spruce tip syrup or jelly (likely the former). The Amelanchier alnifolia is in full bloom, promising a great crop in the summer. I suspect I'll do something about that too. I'll need to haul everything back down to Vancouver when I'm done here, but it's good for my soul to make these things.

I'm also cooking meals a lot. I have a lovely source of local beef, there are lots of greens growing around, I'm stocked up on flour and butter and bacon and potatoes. I've been making myself the kind of traditional meals that have different parts: a meat component, a starch component, a veggie component. I've never really eaten that way before, since so much of what I make has been single-pot foods like stews or soups or casseroles. I think the grill helps with this, since I can grill my meat and bannock or potatoes, and then just make veggies to go on the side.

This was my first full week of bush work at work. That is, every day (it was a short week because of the long weekend, so just four days in a row) I put on heavy spiked caulk boots, headscarf, vest full of equipment, and hard hat and walked multiple kilometers in straight lines through a mix of underbrush, standing, and fallen trees. I am covered in sweat after the first ten minutes, which continues until I get back to the truck. The moose tracks never really went in the direction I was going. The work when we got to the plots was not particularly hard, though it too involved some climbing, but getting there is one of the more trenuous things I've done. There are tangles of trees that go on for great distances, so I need to walk on logs (thus the spiked boots) which is nice, or climb over them crosswise through spiky dead branches which is not so nice. There are swamps or thick underbrush areas that require high-kneed steps and have considerably more drag than walking through water. There are puddles of ephemeral orchids and green things unfurling and soon there will be flowers. Everything smells like pine and fir and spruce. There are so many bugs: flies that bomb past but can't get at me because I'm entirely covered except for my face, mosquitoes that make it hard to concentrate and stay away from my sprayed clothing so I just have to worry about them on my wrists and face, and these awful terrible bugs that fly straight into the eyes and stay there until they're pulled out. I imagine, awfully, that they are laying eggs. Believe me, it's a lot harder to walk on a log three to six feet up with no handholds when there are things shooting into your eyes. I don't walk on logs higher than that, or the really narrow ones, though I suspect that will come with time.

I am covered in bruises from the waist down, where I hit short sharp branch stubs while climbing over trees. I am full of thorn scratches. I have bug bites on my hands and to a lesser extent on my feet from when I take my boots off for the way home. I am tired a lot as I build strength. Last night, Friday night, I came home and showered and the feeling of being clean was astonishing. I am, however, very happy. I'm reminded that in order for my life to feel meaningful and fulfilling I don't need to necessarily do any particular moral thing, I just need to be outside for three to seven hours doing heavy work four days a week. I really miss people. I really miss physical contact. There are plenty of things I'd like to be doing but all I have time for is cooking, eating, sleeping, and working. But, I am happy.

I also have a feeling I haven't had much before: I feel completely unsexualized, but at the same time very pretty. I'm not sure how to describe this. No one is looking at me. I am covered head to tow in shapeless garments with equipment strapped over. Even my hair and throat are covered. My form, including the tan on my face, is a direct expression of the function I am fulfilling and is completely secondary to it. I do not view myself through the lens of desirability, do not think of it. When I look in the mirror I see myself happy, I am nearly always smiling (I pretty much only look in a mirror in the truck as I'm leaving the field and right after work to see how much dirt I need to scrape off each day), and I feel like a part of the outdoors I've been working in. That is beautiful. I really do feel like I'm outside the trap of sexiness.

I am not entirely outside the trap of surface though. I am meeting strangers all the time. I am careful what I say to them, especially in regards to poly etc. There are office politics. I do not feel completely comfy with anyone, and I am not sure I should. I am not always sure how to act. So though I am more comfortable with myself, I am also more watchful. This doesn't mean I don't enjoy the company of people up here, it just means I am always thinking, a little bit, about how I should be behaving.

It's hard and frustrating to be learning a whole new set of skills. I've been landscaping for a long time; I haven't had to learn a whole job from the ground up for a long time. I am literally learning from walking on up with this one. It's been thee weeks (admittedly only one and a bit in the field) and I feel like I should be competent. I am not. I want to feel productive and useful. Sometimes I'm not the one responsible for a lack of productivity -- a new GPS and software system mandated by the ministry for what I do is responsible for at least a week and a half of downtime as it gets implemented, other people forget to charge their equipment, etc -- but I like the feeling of making good progress and I'm not doing that right now.

It is beautiful here. I miss Dave. I get to eat outside. The earth is generous. So many feelings. Now, though, I will go make chimichurri sauce and pick dandelion flowers and stop thinking about it and just enjoy.