MOUNTAIN LIFE - Blue Mountains | Spring 2020

48 “You need your appendix out.” The doctor gave me a pat on the knee and left the examining room. “That’s serious,” said my tree-planting buddy. “I’m sorry Mel, but I have to get back to the bus.” With a hug and kiss, he turned and left. I wanted more than anything to go back to camp—to reminisce about the night before when our entire crew of plaid shirt–wearing planters stood on the bar tables, fists pumping to The Hip. Suddenly, a jab to the gut reminded me where I was. It started this morning, on our precious day off. Walking around downtown Hearst, Ontario, picking up supplies—duct tape, candy and bug repellent—I noticed kicks of pain immediately after eating; by afternoon, I was vomiting. I was uncurling my legs as the pain receded, and the doctor returned: “Aha! So it’s not your appendix, dear. It’s giardia … Beaver Fever.” What was worse: removing an organ, or a parasite chopping away at my guts? How did this happen? Water, that’s how. Every morning we were told to add a capful of bleach to our water. No wonder. This was 1993. Only three weeks into my first tree-planting experience, I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t. At five cents a tree, averaging 1000 trees a day, and $20 camp costs, I needed tuition. A taxi dropped me off into the bush. “You sure you want to stop here?” the cabbie asked. With no streetlights and few dozen tents off a dirt road, it looked like the Manson Family ranch. My empty stomach churned as I slid into my sleeping bag—the last thing I ate was a stack of pancakes at breakfast. Zipping up to my neck, I coiled my knees back up to my chest. Three mornings later, still coiled up, unfurling only to use the bathroom, I practiced squishing mosquitos on my tent wall to pass the time. I never knew the time of day. Between fits of weird dreams and groggy wakefulness, I’d a kill a mosquito, then fall back asleep. If I gave into the hunger and ate, I immediately vomited. The parasite wanted out. Every morning, I lifted my head long enough to hear the bus sputter and drive off. Sometimes the cook came to check in and talk. One night I sat with the planters during dinner. Watching them eat heaps of food, second and third plates, I was envious and felt more alone than ever. By day four my pants were slipping off my hips. Day five, I went for a walk. Day six, I was ready for planting, if only to relieve boredom. Feeling sorry for me, my supervisor gave me the creamiest land: a beach in the bush. That day, emboldened by the sun and a sense of purpose, I planted faster than ever. The sweat felt good, my legs came alive. When the school bus pulled up at the end of the day, everyone chanted my name to help me “bag out” my last few trees. I’m so glad I didn’t go home. –Melanie Chambers What was worse: removing an organ, or a parasite chopping away at my guts? The Sickness: Tree Planting in Northern Ontario LUC FORSYTH