The yellow truck ahead stopped and the boys turned white. Usually when the yellow truck with the green tree painted on the side stops, ten to twelve hippy looking boy/men get out. Each straps a thirty pound bag of seedlings around his waist, picks a hodad and heads off into the barren desolation.
A hodad is an extended heavy duty hoe with a mattock handle designed to scrape away slash down to the dirt and lever out an eighteen inch deep four inch wide home for the trees.
One by one, they follow a line of trees left by the one before. One seedling punched into the ground every seven feet. He may see or hear the rest of the crew or he may find himself planting alone connected to the others by the green line ahead.
They plant one tree every seven feet or in four by four foot squares around the unplantable piles of twisted and splintered logs and limbs baked grey by the sun; slash. Dig down two feet into the debris, if you don't find soil move on.
Today however, illness real or imagined took hold of the crew. They were emotionally stuck to their seats.
If the topography was sloped enough for dirt to stick, it couldn't be seen from the fifteen passanger Dodge van called a crummy. Ground fell away at a frightening rate from the road. Blue gray mountains rushed down on the far side into a misty canyon below.
The up hill side was a sheer cliff into which the road we was cut.
Was this the unit?
Was he just checking his map?
They pondered and grew ill, unblinking eyes wide on the Weyerhaeuser inspectors yellow truck ahead.
Anxiety rose to the perfect punch line moment timed by a master comedian when a six foot long, two inch diameter cylinder rolled out from under the fearful truck.
His drive-line had broke clean off the truck and was rolling out from under it and down the hill. The fifteen passenger dodge van levitated an inch or so as the tension broke into guffaws. Deliverance, everyone out.
The Lamby Pies, as they were collectively known, stood around the landing surrounded by ghosts from last years logging operation. The toot toot of the whistle echoing before the powerful yarder tower engaged ripping up the steep earth as the workers called choker setters scrambled for a safe haven behind a root wad or cleft in the rock.
All was silent now except the quiet conversation of boys looking out at the awesome black pyramid raising above them in the mist.
Black Butte, where grown men cry.
Air pushed sweet and fresh as they wait for word from a knot of men in hard hats busily discussing papers and maps held down against the wind a top the yellow trucks hood. The quiet was occasionally interrupted by clicks and hissing from a VHF radio to which one man was connected by the toggled microphones coiled chord.
Each boy rolled his own thoughts around.
Thoughts of other days on Black butte.
Days when the wind blown sleet whipped up the mountain cutting exposed faces.
Days starting sunny and warm turning suddenly to winter leaving them stranded in tee shirts beyond the crummy's safe haven when each prayed his own little prayer of deliverance over and over and over till the day was done.
Discovering the fern lush fantasy land in ravines below untouched by the cruel machinery of industry. A chrystal jellied orb the size of a soft ball extracted from its rushing stream. Some kind of eggs, beautiful, other worldly.
Thoughts of the tree planters picnic remained close, never mentioned outside initiated circles and then in hushed tones with a grin.
Or the divergent group known to plant trees wearing only boots gloves and hat. This "bare root" planting was saved for warmer days and left Wayerhouser officials chigrined.
One wiry young man betraying his French Canadian origin struck a medative pose. His right arm was around his waist holding his left elbow in right hand and chin perched on his left fist. Looking off into the valley he proclaimed some essential wisdom shared by all but spoken by no other.
"Some dazs I hate ze tree planting, and some daze I hate ze tree planting."
Boredom set in and the inevitable fight ensued from the left over piles of spring snow.
Well the French Canadian must have been a ball player in school. Frenchie had a brutal fast ball which he squeezed into ice. Deadly accurate.
Injury seemed inevitable so the foreman stopped the fight but Frenchie hadn't finished.
Steve Cohen, six foot five two hundred fifty pounds towered over the rest of the crew like some kind of Biblical giant. A gentle giant for sure. Steve took his hodad and headed off a little ways. Then he dug the obligatory hole in which to relieve himself.
We all knew the refreshment of mountain wind blowing winter rain up uphill onto the bear behind while unloading. I'm sure Steve anticipated such relief.
What he hadn't anticipated though was that after he had dropped his drawers and was beyond the point of no return, Frenchie found him out.
We implored Frenchie to stop. The giant growled fumed and threatened but the Canadian continued.
Cohen must have been a true Christian. Frenchie lived to plant another day.
