Larry

I woke to the sound of a dog barking. Rolling over, I propped myself up on my elbows, eyes wide but not seeing. 

“Larry?” I heard a muffled voice ask, “Is there a bear, Larry?”

Larry only barked louder. 

There was a rustle followed by the sound of a tent zipper being ripped open. 

“Is there a bear Larry?” Jesse cooed.

The zipper on the outer shield of Jesse’s tent flew up, screeching as the teeth failed to hold it closed. Larry kept barking, reverberating off the trees and floating over the lake we’d settled beside. 

There was a moment when even the wind stopped blowing and I imagined Jesse and Larry staring silently at one another. Then Jesse’s voice pierced the silence, a quiet command. 

“Go get the bear, Larry.” 

Larry’s paws broke branches and scattered leaves as he tore through the woods, Jesse barging after, sticks at head heigh snapping as he pushed them away. 

He whooped into the night, “Go get the bear Larry!” 

*   *   *

A group of planters had gathered under a tree near the road the led into camp. They were cheering for the guy who attempted to climb up it, reaching his bare arm tentatively towards the shape that was cornered up there. I wandered closer, mouth falling slightly open at the yearling bear, just old enough to be separated for its mother. I stood back in awe as he literally poked the bear before jumping down to hollers and pounding hands against his back. His eyes glowed with adrenaline, his crooked smile with pride. 

Larry trotted out of the woods, golden tail high like a flag, and jumped up to prop his curly haired paws against the tree. Positioned like that, he was nearly long enough to make it halfway to the bear. He didn’t bark, rather, stared down the animal with curiosity, nearly a smile on his face, his tail lazily brushing the air. Him and the bear watched each other with the same fascination before Jesse came over from the campfire to grab his collar and drag him away. This signalled the disbanding of the spectators, as we followed their retreat. Jesse let go of the collar and I watched in fascination Larry’s discipline and the way Jesse’s curly haired bun bounced in time with his companion’s labradoodle body. 

*   *   *

Graham always sat next to me on the bus ride out to the land so I would have a shoulder to rest my head against. Jesse and Larry sat on the seat across the aisle, Larry splayed across Jesse’s lap. Jesse fell asleep before the bus even left camp, having been up all night again chasing the bears out. Scott had had his tent slashed a couple nights back; it made off with some toothpaste, which I guess is karma for poking the bear. 

We weren’t planting far from the camp so the crew bosses were all given bear bangers and air horns in case they were still hanging around. Graham and I planted in the same piece we’d nearly finished the day before. It was midday when I started noticing the scat and footprints. The sun was still high when I heard Larry start barking. Climbing up onto a rock, I scoured the clear cut land for Jesse’s hot pink hardhat. It moved between ten year old poplar bushes towards the back of my piece. Following their trajectory, I spotted Larry’s goal. Right at the tree-line stood what must have been the same bear. It was looking towards the sound of the barking, but, for a moment, turned its eyes towards me. I pulled up my whistle, ready to signal Graham that it was near by, but paused. Suddenly, it broke eye contact with me and turned for the trees. Larry stopped where it had been standing and Jesse turned around, spotting me. 

“I got it,” he yelled. 

I waved my arm in recognition and hopped down, picking up my shovel and continuing along my line. 

*   *   *

Larry sat just outside the mess tent, waiting for dinner to finish. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, a wide grin spreading through his curly beard. He stood to attention when Jesse rose from the table, lapping up his scraps immediately after they were dumped from the electric-green plastic plate. After cleaning the dish, he wiped his hands on his mud streaked pants and waited for the camp meeting to start, leaning against the pole just by the entrance, Larry’s head at his feet. 

Andy brought out dessert from the kitchen bus; this signalled the start of Tony’s meeting. As camp manager, we all respected him so all the seats were full and the smokers stood at the entrances on opposite sides, blowing clouds into open air. 

“I think we’ve all noticed that there’s been a bit of bear problem with camp,” he started. The crowd chuckled uncomfortably. “We’re not going to move the camp or anything, we just need everyone to be on the same page.”

He went on to review bear safety and to encourage us to be absolutely certain that there were no “smellies” in any of our tents. We would also be dumping all food waste into a separate garbage that would be scattered a little ways off from our position. This would hopefully encourage whatever bear had been hanging around and growing too comfortable to move its territory that way.

Larry and Jesse then came forward and Tony outlined how they would start staying up overnight, keeping watch and driving the bear away if it started getting too close. The two would sleep during the days, getting paid a day rate rather than the piece rate for trees planted. They were met with huge applause and someone even ran up to lift Larry high into the air, only making the thundering noise ripple louder off the cloth walls that surrounded us.

*    *    *

When we got back to camp, the provincial supervisor was there. He was a big man, bearded but with a soft smile. He was talking to Tony in the office, a rifle slung across his back. It was quieter than usual when we gathered into the mess tent for end of the workday soup and cornbread. 

Larry wore a leash, tethered to Jesse’s side. It was the first, and would turn out to be the only, time that I witnessed Larry on a leash. It was also the only time other than the camp meeting that Larry was allowed in the mess tent. Tony stopped everyone before they could head to the campfire outside. We overflowed the tables and chairs, breathing in deeply the tension that thickened the air. I turned to Graham seated beside me, question in my eyes.

“Bill’s here,” he said. 

“Yeah, so?” I asked. 

“I think they’re going to kill the bear.”
“Kill it?” my heart rate accelerated and I looked for Larry, head resting on Jesse’s feet. 

“Bill’s got a rifle,” his brow creased and he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “The bear isn’t going away and it costs too much to remove it. They got someone from the company and they’ll hope it scares them enough to stay away.” 

“Is that legal?” I matched his low tone.
“Definitely not.” 

Tony stood in the middle and introduced us all to Bill. He wasn’t wearing the rifle anymore. I barely heard the order not to leave the tent until further notice. Bill and Tony left after that and Graham slung an arm over my shoulders. Some people tried to get card games going but the laughter was forced as we waited for the inevitable to happen. 

They never actually said they were going to shoot the bear, but I flinched twice at the two gunshots that rang out, one after the other. Graham’s arm tightened around me each time. They split the silence, splintering against the pressure weighing down on each person’s shoulders. I looked at Graham and was met with a look of anger riddled with guilt and grief. 

Suddenly, another shot was fired. I looked to Larry, Jesse’s knuckles white around his collar, the only thing that betrayed his calm face. Larry stared at the sound, but made no effort to move, instead leaning back to press his body against Jesse’s leg.

Precarity

I don’t even remember who it was that told me that the black spruce trees we were pounding into the ground by the thousand would be hacked down, dragged out of the forest, and processed into toilet paper Americans everywhere would wipe their asses with. 

At our block of clearcut land, I strapped my bags to my hips and apologized to each tiny sapling as I piled them into the pockets. I pondered all the ways we would eventually stop the mass destruction of forests so that the very trees I held in my hands had hope for life longer and more fulfilling than becoming literal ass wipes. I vowed to each tree, putting them into the ground slower and more carefully than before, that I would do everything in my power to ensure that future for them. 

“I found something,” my crew boss said when he spotted me. 

“Oh yeah?” I asked, wiping sweat off my face and straightening my back completely for what felt like the first time that day.

“Come check it out,” he smiled with an edge I was unfamiliar with. 

We planted together back to the meeting place by the road. Once we’d dropped our bags at the cache, he led me down the logging road towards the back of our clearcut area. I stared at my feet and the bright yellow duct tape that wrapped around my ankles, keeping my laces from catching on debris.

“Look,” he said, lifting a few pieces of the leftover tree cuttings in the slash pile to reveal a rusted oil drum, “They’re all empty.”

We pulled back pieces of wood, tossing branches and dried moss away until all the scraps of metal were revealed. Each was rusted at varying stages, the ones at the bottom clearly more protected than those placed right on top. The smell was long gone, but the ground around them was sunken from a weight that was no longer there.

“We have to report this,” I choked. 

“Definitely,” he replied. 

“What’ll happen?” I asked, removing my shirt and using it to push one of the barrels aside. 

“They’ll fine the company that logged here,” he said, helping me lift the part I held onto.

“Probably cheaper to take the chance of a fine than dispose properly.”

“Which is why they do it,” he ran a gloved hand through his long hair and pulled his phone from its waterproof pouch.

We dragged the pieces of slash away until all the barrels were visible. We counted them, a total of seventeen, some in complete shambles. He took photos from every angle, making sure the scale of the pile was evident. Scattered around were pop cans, beer cans, and other miscellaneous wrappers, in full colour in the shade of the barrels. I took a can of Blue Ribbon beer, and an empty bag of regular cheese Doritos. He picked up a glass bottle that must have held Coke and a crumpled wrapper from a Joe Louis. We carried as much of the evidence of the loggers as we could back to the cache. I stopped for a moment to stare into the ditch and the water that pooled there. 

“How long ago was this block cleared?” I asked.

“Probably at least ten years by the size of the poplar bushes,” he replied, stopping to see what I was looking at.

“Ten years,” I repeated, unable to tear my eyes from the rainbows that danced across the top of the puddle, rippling back and forth when the breeze ran its fingers along the surface. 

We walked back to collect more of the trash and I stared at my hands, fists clenching and unclenching as I attempted to put words to my anger. It was only his feet that I saw stop, sudden enough to make small dents in the packed down dirt. His hand grappled blindly for my arm. 

“What,” I demanded, snapping my eyes to his face, but the expression there silenced any further question on my lips. 

I whipped my head around to stare at the pile of leftover tree cuttings stacked half as high as that of the barrels in front of me. Mirroring his face, my jaw went slack and my eyes wide as they met the clear blues ones belonging to the grey wolf standing atop our handiwork. Leaner than a German Shepard but with the same long nose, it watched us coldly while we waited for it to make the next move. I latched onto its eyes with desperation, unable to let go of the cool gaze that held us accountable. All rational thought dissipated from my mind while it stared back at me.

Slowly, and with extreme care, I sat on the dirt, pulling him with me. We sat crosslegged and in complete silence, staying like that until the wolf hopped off the pile of trees, onto the barrels, then the ground, and loped into the forest. 

Flin Flon

We parked the two white Ford F-350s in the back of the Co-Op parking lot, the only store that carried produce in Flin Flon, Manitoba. I watched the crew file through the sliding doors from the middle seat in the back. The primarily Indigenous population pushed their shopping carts home down sidewalks, while a select few piled themselves and anyone else who would fit into a singular car. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another car, one that drove slower than the rest down the main road. It was an all black Maserati, sunlight glinting off the trident blazoned on the front grill. I couldn’t take my eyes off the tinted windows, but the locals barely seemed to notice. 

I jumped when one of the guys opened the passenger door. He piled his plastic bags on the ground and tucked his legs between them. 

“Did you see the Maserati?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” I watched it turn the corner and loop back past the parking lot. My stomach rolled as slowly as the tires. 

“Probably one of the mine managers or something, no one else has a car like that around here,” Sam continued, oblivious to the nausea that tied my stomach in knots. He bent over awkwardly to grab a box of Kraft dinner out the bag followed by an apple. He held them both up to me. “Fucking annoying,” he said, “these cost like twelve dollars.” 

“It’s back,” I said, watching as the Maserati completed its circle around the Co-Op. 

“Guess there’s nothing else to do in this shit hole,” he said, taking a bite out of the apple, “Nice fucking car though.”

Paul came out of the Co-Op, putting a cigarette up to his mouth for the walk across the street to the liquor store. He waved at us when he walked past. The parking lot there was just as full. One car stood out. Parked across two spots, the RCMP SUV was white against the run down backdrop. The driver ate a sandwich in the front seat while the passenger leaned against the hood, her arms crossed, surveying those across the street. She watched with a furrowed brow, eyes darting from families to singular people carrying too many bags to loiterers in the back of the lot, smoking and laughing together. The pedestrians gave nearly indiscernible looks their way. She appeared to have been standing there long enough to burn the tops of her white cheeks. Her eyes barely touched our trucks, instead focusing on the rusted ones nearly overfull. Paul tilted his camo hat in acknowledgement when he passed the officer. She returned the gesture, her brow relaxing for a moment, returning Paul’s yellow smile with pristine white teeth. 

The officer walked to the driver’s window, tapping on it and indicating for him to roll it down. He did, and they spoke for a moment. I couldn’t hear what they said from the car, but I watched the people in the lot still. Mothers took the hands of their children and the smokers pit disbanded. Even from inside the confines of the cab of the truck I could feel tension thicken the air. When she looked back at the parking lots, her brow furrowed again. The locals tried to act like movement of the officers hadn’t changed anything, but they walked with straighter backs and deadpan faces. 

We drove further north to find the planting camp. We were staying in a lodge, frequented by fishermen and hunters. I stared out the window at the water that peeked between trees. 

“My cottage is out here,” Sam said, “It’s beautiful on the water.” 

Nothing about the water was beautiful to me. 

Holy

It’s common knowledge that every roadside motel along the Trans-Canada Highway from Winnipeg to Timmins hates tree planters. 

We were staying at one on a small-town stirp a few hours from Kenora. We moved easily in two trucks as a small crew of twelve, picking up shit-bit contracts short drives down logging roads. 

Our day off was around the corner and we were full of eight hours’ worth of restless energy. Paul and Casey immediately claimed party room.

All rippers had a theme, so when we were told to bring all the Bibles from the bedside table drawers, no one thought to question it. 

By the time we were all in the same place, most of us were drunk and the rest were high. The TV was on, the hockey game blaring and bets being placed. Cigarette smoke rose from the ash trays and festered on the outdated bedding. 

It wasn’t until nearly two in the morning that Casey told us what the Bibles were for. Each room took theirs out to the parking lot, behind all the transport trucks parked for the night. Paul lit a cigarette and stumbled into the ditch to grab rocks. He made a ring of stones, the wings of his camo hat flapping, the light from the only streetlamp glinting of his reflective stripes. 

He directed us to drop all the Bibles in the middle of the circle he’d made. There were eight in total. Someone still had alcohol left, so we coated the pile with it. Paul’s cigarette hung loose out of the corner of his mouth, glowing between his grinning yellowed teeth as he lit the corner of one spine.  

One of the girls threw an arm around my shoulder and held a hand to her mouth as she screamed into the rock wall of the Canadian Shield. The light bounced off our moving bodies as we danced around the flames. We were coated in a sheen of sweat and our throats hoarse. The flames curled the pages, “white like wool, as white as the snow,” and Casey’s “eyes were like blazing fire.” Revelation 1:14

We scattered when the lights of the office came on. As we drove off shortly thereafter, wisps of smoke floated off the embers. Paul slunk down into his seat, the corner of his yellow smile pulling up. He flicked the ash of his cigarette out the window.