The hands-down worst day of my entire life I spent planting trees. And the second worst. And the third. And so on. There are a few reasons for this, but mostly it is because I am your basic ninety-pound wuss (give or take) with a body fat percentage of around point two. In planting it will snow or POUR icy rain all day long and you can’t get out of it. So for a guy like me with very little natural insulation and abysmal circulation in the extremities, cold is cold is COLD. When winter says “hello” out planting, I have to work at psycho-insane-turbo speed the entire day just to stay alive.

If that were all, I could probably just laugh it off. But there are bugs of every shape and size by the thousands. There are heavy, heavy trees and persistent lower-lumbar pains. There are venomous plants and surly bears and belligerent moose and irate squirrels. And you mustn’t forget the odd power-tripping logging company representative, the obnoxious planters, the overbearing bosses and the absolutely psychotic cooks. There are chafings and rubbings and sores and boils and heat cramps and heat stroke and depression and loneliness. There is beaver-fever. There is waking up in the morning with ice on your tent and putting on frost-encrusted boots. There are low prices and resentful town-people and repetitive strain injuries and bursitis and body-fungi of all colors and shapes.

Yet here I am again in Prince George. Preparing to plant trees. For the ninth season in a row. Why do I do this to myself? I’m not an overly stupid person. In my normal, non-planting life I don’t have any overt sadomasochistic tenancies. Yet here I am. Again. In Prince George.

The reasons are somewhat complicated. One summer and you can walk away fairly easy. Every subsequent summer the addiction grows exponentially until you eventually begin to refer as your non-planting time as the “off-season”. It’s a sick way to live, but you have to fund your decadent, extravagant, absent-minded bohemian artist’s lifestyle somehow.

The people, too, are great. Because you go through the trials of Hercules together on a semi-daily basis, you grow together like most people only get to do by going to war. There is far less killing on a cut-block (of people, that is) and even though you are actively participating as a cog in the “Rape-The-Forest” machine, at least you are the part that puts a little something back. You get to be in the woods among the mountains, which is nice, and you get to challenge yourself every day to achieve new levels of awesomeness.

Bottom line, though, is that I’m here for the people. I love the folks who work for me. I love stumbling around the forest, trying to figure out how to get them to believe in themselves – to achieve their utmost. If I yammer on and on about a few key principles (“You are not a victim. You can decide what to do with your life. You can make a difference. Etc.”) maybe they’ll sink in and a few less young people will spend their lives chasing after the Canadian Nightmare.