Some Basic Rules To Travelling

• Do not talk to drunk men on the street when you are alone
• Do not tell them your are alone, have no place to stay, have no phone, and that no one knows where you are
• Do not accept invites to drunk men's hotel rooms
• Do not follow them into the bar they are in and accept drinks
• Do not get into a cab with strange men, and not know where you are going
• Do not talk to near naked homeless men who have a better tan and body than you 
• Do not shower in strangers hotel rooms, especially when all of the above applies
• Do not proceed to fall asleep feeling completely at home and safe in a room full of strange men, who are drunk.

If, however, you may have an amazingly great night, and make new friends with some hilarious and good hearted guys.

(Just so you know Myles, I re-illustrated "The TRUTH." And Andre, despite being in the same situation as the night I met you guys, I didn't meet anyone as great)

I don't even know how to describe the journey I've been on for the last 6 days, but I really can't understand how its been happening.

In two weeks I will write it all down. Until then I need to digest all that has happened.

Falling Trees

This week started in a forest. The day after our block tried to kill us.

Blocks occasionally have high standing trees on them that do not have the protection of a surrounding forest. And because of the area that we were working on was pretty mountainous the wind was murderous, causing trees to crack and start falling as we planted.

One girl on my crew was missed by a few meters and scavenged a piece of the tree that could have crushed her. Later, after it was decided it was too dangerous to work on our block another person on my crew had a close call. This time with the heavy metal doors of the box truck slamming shut, almost closing on him and crushing body. The sound of the crashing bang and Greg shouted a warning as Maddy jumped out of the way was terrifying.

We all pulled out cigarettes and laughed after that, turning up the music on the truck and taking photos, Maddy looking pale and shaken.

The Block

Many people don't really understand where exactly we plant trees, including a fair amount of unfortunate souls who get hired for the job and find there way on a crew.

The first misconception is that we plant on a grassy field that is flat. No. No it's not like that at all. Instead, usually, there is a fair amount of debris, logs, trees, hills (and cliffs) and multiple places where you can't plant, and a few places you can. The places where you can, once you find them, need to be spaced properly from another and you start by following the tree-line.

Which is why last Monday was just fucky; Our camp was comically planting on a grassy field. Well, everyone but my crew. We were in a mother-fucking forest. Our tree-line was where the trees ended. We had to make our way through dense foliage attempting to plant trees where there were already trees. This wouldn't be so difficult if our trees, bags, and dibbles would float their way behind us instead of getting snagged on literally everything, causing constant spectacular failure at mere walking.

And we still have to have the right tree density. Hopefully, it is not hard to understand that it is hard to find our little 6 inch tall trees among fully grown ones. And ferns. And many other plants that are the exact same color. Your flagging had to be impeccable, just so that the person trailing a few meters behind you didn't miss your line of trees.

And the worst part, is after we carried our heavy bags through the woods we would reach the end of the forest and look out to the beautiful field where dozens of our friends were planting. None of them tripping or looking out for dangerously cracking trees. And you'd have to turn around, despite the overwhelming urge to to simply plant one tree, just one tree, where it was nice. But you couldn't.

Camping

Five days ago I lived in a tent, which I had stayed in for three weeks. While working. It was damp and cold and muddy, and I barely got to shower during that entire time.  It was both a trying and spectacular experience and so much has happened since I last posted that my thoughts are in a constant cluster-fuck. I'm only going to mention some of the important events though and I can post about the others later.

Living in my tent was nothing like camping. For one thing, it was not optional and there was no retreat from bad weather. When we got torrential downpours everything got drenched and it never dried out. We would go to our blocks, and then proceed to spend the next 10 hours slipping and sliding on logs, smothered in dirt and mud, boots filled with water, and freezing our very little butts off only to come home to be wet for the rest of the night. Collectively we would join around fires attempting to dry out our boots, socks, and feet, smoking and drinking beer to help sleep reach us. When we entered our rarely dry tents we would bring in the constant moisture that carved its way into our bones. Every day was a repetition of this.

But, despite all the wet, the not showering, the being cramped into a small tent with your gear, it was a wonderful experience. I bonded with more people during those weeks than I did for the month and a half I did in res., simply because there are no doors as barriers.  During our time there we had wicked evening bonfire parties, and we ate constantly; stuffing our faces with trail mix, deep fried potatoes, and whatever else that can be consumed. We were secure in knowing that not showering despite smelling worse than a putrid garbage pit was not anomalous. Bush camp was an experience that I can sum up as being both amazing and horrid, and I'm fairly sure I would do it again. I may, however, be a sadist.

Today, while planting, I stabbed myself with a stick. I now have a small circular hole in my side in addition to the bruises and scratches. And a sunburn.

Tree Planting, the First Shift (Prince George)

Holy mother of Zeus, tree planting is ridiculously hard. And though I imagined it would be back breaking work I willingly admit that knowing that it will be hard and going through the motions of tree planting are vastly different. One involves the frustration and pain of Mother Nature trying to fuck you over with every twig, rock, root and red-rot she can cram into your dibble. But I'm determined to keep on trying my best, and so far, despite being probably my crew's low-baller, I am slowly gaining surety in my work and speed.

Here is description of what my day is like: I get up at 4:15 am and make breakfast (high in complex carbs for energy) gulp down a cup of instant coffee, pack a lunch and lots of water,  change into my dirt and mud-streaked gear and then head out to the trucks for 5:30 am. Once everyone on my crew has gathered we load up the trucks with trees, numerous boxes of spruce and pine and then drive 45 minutes on winding bumpy roads to our block. The ride is always filled with laughter and good music, pumping up for the upcoming day.

Now, I want to make a point of explaining what a "block" is. Imagine hell, where every flickering flame is instead a sharp thorny sticks. Sometimes there are giants piles of logs and bush that you need to scramble over. Technically, a "block" is an area that's been clear-cut; it's land stripped of all it's surviving healthy trees, and what's left behind are stumps, debris, rocks.  I'm 100% sure that the people who created the term purposely did it just to fuck with any naive tree planters to be. And I work on one four days on, one day off. For at least 10 hours.

My body, due to my attempts at trying to plant as many hours as possible my body is littered with bruises and scratches. My hards are have blisters and sores. For the first three days I wrapped them in ducts tape, hearing that many planters preferred it. The result was my fingers and knuckles being shredded. They're still healing.

Additionally, if you muck up, which is ridiculously easy because there has to proper spacing between trees no matter the shape of the block and the trees need to be planted properly, you have to replant. Which means you plant trees for free. For hours. the EXACT same ones you already did.

So, basically, I'm tired sore, and covered in dirt and bruises ALL the times, and absolutely loving it. I'm not really making any money though.

Eating Dirt (Peachland BC and late)

Everyone seems to have either an opinion or story about tree planting and wants to share it when they discover why I've been traveling to Prince George. Anyone who has lasted longer than a season will say is a horrible and wonderful experience. Anyone who didn't last a season will look at me and tell me blankly that it is horrible and then wish me luck. These words always follow brief summaries as to why they had a good or bad time in the bush. Charlotte Gill tells a story with all the grit; from being a soft rookie to being an experienced planter. To the parties to the bugs.

When my grandfather picked me up at the airport Thursday night he greeted me with a big smile, wide eyes, and a book he had heard about on CBC. It's title was Eating Dirt and the author Catherine Gill was doing an interview about her experience as a planter (20 years!) and what made her want to write about it a few hours before he was due to meet me. Impressed by Gills words and those of the planters who called in to relate their own perspectives he picked up the book on his way to the airport. I think he believed that reading another person's experience may save me from the shock from what I'll go through in the upcoming weeks.

Though I don't believe any number of books will do so, I think he has bought me a treasure. Eating Dirt is beautifully written, spinning a striking image of tree planting that is certainly not creamy.

Granola (London, ON)

No one can get between me and my granola. Not even food additives and overpriced boxes have deterred me from stuffing my face with the crunchy delicious gold, though they did stall me for a few years.

As a student I'm pretty much permanently broke and somehow granola has become ridiculously overpriced, which means that for the most part my budget doesn't allow me to purchase the stuff. An irony considering it's still considered food for paupers.

I do however, have a method for getting around paying an arm in the leg for the stuff; I make it myself.

Buy:
Oatmeal (NOT instant)
Some maple syrup
And some light oil, such as sunflower or canola.

^These are the necessary ingredients.  The ingredients below just make your granola extra awesome.


Nuts
Dried fruit
Shredded coconut
Cinnamon
Allspice
Pumpkin pie spice
Peanut butter (only a little!)
Brown sugar

Proceed to mix the dry stuff in a bowl, and add oil. I don't measure because I rarely make a uniform amount. A light (barely there) coating is probably how much it turns out to be.

Then I add maple syrup, and by this point EVERYTHING has to be damp.

And now add extra spices (the more the merrier! And the less maple syrup you need to use!).

Put it on a cookie sheet covered in wax paper (it'll save you from cleaning up baked maple syrup) and put it in the oven at 350 C.  Flip with spatula after ten minutes or so, or when granola is beginning to brown. Be very careful though because it burns easily.

Also, it really gets crunchy when it cools, so don't over cook it.

Let cool.

INDLUGE. Do it. You can regret over-consuming the stuff tomorrow.

^How I made 12 cups of the stuff yesterday.

Burning Up The Night (Toronto)

 Alright. I've posted on my tendency to jog in the dark. In the middle of the night. Down dark streets. Often. Despite giving myself a heart attack more than a few ocassions. So I imagine that by now anyone reading this has a rather good idea as how little I fear late night adventures (or how little I fear them before I go on them). Which is why I found myself wandering the streets of Toronto at 2:30 am on a Saturday night, and absolutely loving it.

My face was split in half with glee, a smile plastered my face due to being ridiculously excited about the attractive bright lights and stumbling figures that passed me on the streets as I gawked openly as I explored. Even tourists would have been ashamed by my behavior. I was in a fog happiness. I even high fived a homeless person, who, now that I think about it, probably thought I was on ecstasy. He was very nice though.

Back to the point. Because I had been wandering around for hours my legs were tired and I was a tad hungry I decided to go on a journey to find a place to rest. There were plenty of bars and pubs to stop by, but I had little money due to paying the cover fee for a bar earlier that night and had no plans on doing it again. Eventually, after another twenty minutes of walking past late night Chinese take-outs and pizzerias I cam across a small Thai place that looked inviting despite being nearly empty.

Once successfully ordering something vegan I proceeded to text people randomly. This was more so due to not wanting to sit awkwardly alone than out of any need for human contact; I was unlucky enough to have forgotten my journal. Luckily I was saved by two things. First was a drove of boys my own age and  the second was my meal being brought to me.

The boys were loud, laughing about the "spicy challenge" and acts of manhood. Raucously inviting others to watch one of them, a lanky boy wearing thick glasses and crazy hair, to dine in a meal so spicy that success would result in free spring rolls. For life.

This resulted in the server to laugh and to pull out a contract for him. I want to take a moment to simply reflect on the fact that this food is so spicy that a contract has to be signed pre-consumption.  For legality reasons. Because it burns to eat it.

I do not blame him when his smile faltered as he questioned if anyone had died due attempting to finish the "spicy challenge." Nor do I blame him when he looked bleakly at the table when she replied that he may be the first with a knowing smile.

You could tell that he was going through a painful moment of deciding what was more important: The respect of his peers or his ability to digest food for the rest of his life. Like most young men he chose the former and soon his meal and fate was placed before him.

Here are the rules:

-You have thirty minutes.
-No one is allowed to assist you with the meal.
-You are not allowed to use napkins.
-You are not allowed to consume anything else during this meal, including water.
-You must have your picture taken after your attempt.
-And once you are finished you must sit for five minutes. To digest.

He tried, valiantly. As I, the server, and the chef watched as he struggled with a bowl of soup and what looked to be noodles. The chef was beside himself in malicious glee, watching the young man squirm as his friends teased and supported him at the same time. The chef, knowing that 200 people had tried before and only 6 had succeeded, had no problem informing this young man that he would not have the guts to be the 7th. He did manage to get half way through.

Afterwards, the chef, who had chatted to me as we watched, brought me a sample after in a small bowl. Driven my my own curiosity I slurped it down. This isn't so bad, I thought. Yes, it was undeniably hot. But not inedible. I smiled. Thanked them for the meal, promised to do the challenge the next time I was back, and left a big tip before heading on my way.

And then burning hit me and all I could think was Oh.

My mouth was on fire but that I could live with. My stomach, on the other hand, felt as though knives were being driven through me and my stomach gurgled in agony. I stumbled back to my friend's place, realizing that a full meal smothered in what had to be molten lava would have resulted in physical scarring.  Wondering all the while how he managed to eat half and why I thought it was a good idea to follow suite.

Daydream Running

Jogging is one of my favorite past times, especially at night. However, sometimes my imagination will get the best of me and my invigorating jog turns into a self created nightmare.

The jogging at night bit is causing every single person out there with a little bit of common sense to think, Woah, bad idea there. And yeah, it is. I can not deny jogging down a dark street at midnight sounds like an invitation to anyone who uses sharp tools on soft flesh as a hobby. But I promise you it's so totally worth it.  It's like taking a shot of adrenalin. Then crack. And then some more crack.

See, I have a funny habit of letting my mind wander when I run, especially at night. I literally create stories that suite my pace. And they almost always involve intricate plots that could be found in the bookshelf fiction enthusiast. And I'm completely enamoured by these daydreams. I get so caught up with the plot-line in my head that running becomes like a adventure. Which is ideally why I go at night.

However, this was not the case last night. See, usually my day dreams are a great accompaniment to my run, but because I have as much control over my daydreams as a puppy has over its owners this is not always so; sometimes when I run at night my thoughts become preoccupied with the plot of a horror flick.

This will happen to me when my thoughts will mix with the setting of a lit up street, surrounded with very non-lit up everything mother-fucking else. When this happen going for a jog turns into my own self created run the fuck home as fast as you can and cry session. Which really isn't the same as jogging as the former is much harder on the heart.

So last night, halfway through my jog, the street light above me went out.

And I made the mistake of looking behind me.

Never look behind you when you run at night. I don't care if you're on a street made out of cotton candy and sugar plums, because you will see nothing amiss. And seeing nothing remotely terrifying results in your rational mind taking that to mean that every single monster you've ever conceived is suddenly hiding behind those bushes to the left. Yeah, the ones that are oh so conveniently shrouded in shadows. The ones that you can sorta see, but you really aren't sure if that's a branch or a body preparing to chase you down and cut out your spleen. And you NEED your spleen.

And last night, when the street light above me went out I glanced behind my shoulder and saw nothing. Three seconds later I did it again. Nothing. Nothing but houses on one side and trees on the other. And possibly someone waiting in those trees. With a gun. Or an bow an arrow, so that they could shoot me down and no one could hear. Probably the last one because psychopathic murderers are sneaky fuckers.

Then I made my second mistake. I started wondering what I should do in case there was something preparing to kill me.  This is a really really bad idea for one reason;  trying to come up with a plan of action against your imaginary imminent death only makes it more real. And no matter what, there is only one solution and I bet you that you'll already be doing it in this situation; You have to run back home. Quickly.

So of course that's what I was doing. Because I knew it was midnight. And every horror story I'd ever watched had told me that if I ran to one of those houses I would trip. Twice. And then the door would be locked. And no one would answer. And I'd scream and bang on the door. And then, eventually, lights would flick on. But it would be too late.

Because I'm the dumb blond who goes for a run late at night at the beginning of the movie and dies. Y'know, that girl in the gore filled moment that cues the ensuing blood bath. The one that dies usually before the movie's title and main cast is introduced. Which unquestionably sucks, but that doesn't stop me from going back out at night. Daydream running makes it worth the panic attacks and possible murder.

Also, I want to add that I bet it would be my best friend who would survive the film, because she's smart, a brunette, and owns a treadmill.

My Mum's Babies

I've visiting my mother's house and I'm adjusting to some new members.

Recently, due to a death in the family my mother and her fiancée have acquired a pretty awesome cat and two footballs. And by footballs I mean two yappy, needy, annoying fuzzballs that I want to kick.  A lot. But I'm not allowed to because people frown on animal abuse.

Which is the ironic part. I like animals. It's my thing. I've given up food groups to protect them and such. I carried home a raccoon once to try and save it from imminent death after being hit by a car. But these dogs just make me want to enact Darwin's law.

Maybe I should explain why they're so annoying.  One of dogs is a pomeranian. He is about ten years old and waddles around my ankles, alternatively yapping for attention and doing these wheezy little sighs when I glare. My mum charmingly calls him Poo-Bear. This one I tolerate.

The other, who is never far behind Poo-Bear, is Sasha.

Sasha is the most neediest little rat-thing that has ever been dared to be called a dog. I've been told it's a Bichon Frizee; that was more believable before they shaved it. Previously she looked like a annoying piece of lint that been incubated under my bed, now she looks like a variety of shaved unpleasant looking animals. Recently I think I've narrowed it down to goat, rat, cat and ugly.

Additionally, Sasha, is not old and slow like Poo-Bear, and thus does not evoke any form of pity or tolerance from me, only pure malicious spite. She wines, she yelps, she needs to be let out to use the bathroom every two minutes, and she steals the cat's food. And I'm not allowed to kill her.

The cat is pretty awesome though.

The Introduction

Hi,

I'm Adeya. I'm 20, blond, silly and have a tattoo. I'm a student. So I'm also poor and tired and often desolate in the face of homework.

BUT.

In exactly ten day I'm going to be doing something that I've always wanted to do. I'm going to be going on the adventure that I've always wanted to go on, and hopefully, I will not die.

I'm going to travel across the country to go tree planting. I'm taking two buses, one plane, and staying in three cities on my way from Sackville, NB to Prince George, BC. In ten days I leave and in another ten I'll be at my destination. 

I'm seriously on the brink of a full out psychological meltdown with excitement, even when I'm facing my essays.

I can't stop thinking about the amount of pure epic I'm going to get up to.  You know how, when you were 6 years old and really wanted one of those little motorized death-jeeps you would have shanked your most beloved for one? Well, I feel that for traveling. Except my deep urge never was satiated by turning 16 and being able to drive a big motorized death trap. Until now that is. And I didn't even need to shank anyone. I do, however, need to get through two papers and an exam. Which is much much harder because at least your not graded on the quality of your shanking.

Back to the point. Tree planting. Those of you out there are probably questing my ability to be the happiest-I've-ever-been-in my-20-year-lifespan by the opportunity to run across Canada to proceed to dig holes a hole in the ground and put a tree in it. And then doing it again. A lot. In the rain. But believe me, the above situation is not the reason why Mother Theresa could eat a puppy and I'd still be shitting rainbows of glee. It's the opportunities that I can gain by the above situation. Tree planting = money. A lot of it. And I need a lot of it.

The reason why I need a ton of cash is not because of school. Or an apartment. Or a new car. It's because I'm planning on taking a semester off next year. So, the plan is to work until I bleed tears of sweat every single day so that I can do the following:

Cherry pick in either BC or go to England.
Go to England or go fruit picking in Australia.
Go to Australia or go to India.

I have to do three things on that list in the next 9 months in addition to tree planting and I'm mother fucking determined.

This blog is me keeping track of what will happen in the next nine months, and will hopefully help me keep my drive.

I'll totally succeed though.