book, part 4

Back to our earlier scene though, Feral and the rookies there in the rain.
If you pulled the view back a bit more you would see several small huddled crews just like this one, crews spread over kilometres of clear cut, each of them listening to someone or other say something or other about planting trees. There was a small crew around Roxie, who was pumping her fist and giving the rock and roll sign, and telling them things like you plant hard, and then you fuk'n party hard--that's the life, man! It's all about givin'er! It's why we're fuk'n here!; and Padre showing them how to keep a cache clean because there's nothing shittier in the world than a shitty messy cache I'm serious he says, half-way annoyed about this already but trying to be kind, and Doug who wasn't trying very much at all to be kind, who was in fact slightly irritated and was telling them about how to check their trees for quality but not really interested in teaching them much of anything so much as he was scoping out all the cute new rookie girls, and so on and so forth, Sal hurrying around speaking endlessly into radio, looking at compasses and maps as he planned things, meeting someone or other from the logging company, or meeting a government person in their dark denims and unscuffed work boots, spending long days driving around and not getting too terribly dirty but still working under great professional stress all the same.


Yet who are they all, these random groupings of rain-coated lonesome pilgrims, and how did they all end up here? We could start with all of their childhoods if you wanted, or start with their ancestries, things far back in time like trans-oceanic immigrations and their great-grandparents meeting completely at random one day in a Depression-era cafe in North Platte, Nebraska, but instead we'll just start with this small little microcosmic part of things, start with the group of them like a huddled flock of rain-weary sheep listening to Feral tell them how to dance between the rain drops and how to hear the blissful roar of nothingness.
Listen, he'd say. Do you hear it? Rowwwrrrr...



Adam John Smith then, twenty-two years of age at the point at which this story begins.
How did Adam get to be here? And how did he get to be living at all?
He was born on January 16, in the year nineteen hundred and something-or-other and now, presently, twenty-two years four and one half months, twenty-seven days and six and one-half hours later, he's an orphan--a sad thing for anyone to be, certainly--and here he is standing in the rain, listening to Feral.
Now let's think back to a different time, to him sitting in what seems to be a factory work-place lunch room, the kind of place with Pepsi and sandwich machines and a small narrow window at the far white-lit end, safety and motivational posters on the walls that showed a clean and well-lighted, safe and tolerant multicultural workplace, and a scruffy young guy in overalls mentions to the whole table that he's going tree planting. Went last year he says, through a mouth full of sandwich. Fuk'n loved it. Babes, parties, you name it, man.
Where you do that?, one of the guys asks him.
B.C., he says. North. It's fuk'n awesome. The work sucks, but like, the rest of it's great. Fuk'n ladies man, everywhere. Like even in the showers and stuff.
They all nod. Impressed, envious, the thought of all that naked young smiling well-lighted multicultural flesh.
Is it easy to get jobs?, Adam asks suddenly, and everyone at the table reacts with a bit of a jolt, giving us the sense that he's not exactly known as a talker around these parts.
Naw, well... you gotta know someone eh? Why? You wanna do it Smith?
Adam shrugs. Maybe, he says, and keeps eating a sandwich of his own, plain salami on white, out of a Wonder Bread bag.



Cut to a few years earlier even, and a younger-looking Adam is sitting across the desk from a mid-forties woman whose desk and unkempt appearance suggest a certain stressed out disorder, but with sympathetic eyes, and she's holding a file folder. Liz S. K-No MacKenzie, the nametag on her desk says.
Sitting in a chair beside Adam is a young girl--fourteen maybe, or fifteen.
Well, Adam, the woman says, if you choose it, you would become your sister's legal guardian. And if not, she would, ahem, become a ward of the province of...
Children's Aid, Adam says, interrupting her. Like a fucking foster kid. And then Sorry, he says, about the swear.
Um... oh, yeah yeah, no worries, she says. Her eyes are tired, but still soft with sympathy. Yes, she says, Children's Aid. But, uh, perhaps you and Chloe would like to discuss your options?, she asks, looking now at the girl.
There are no options, Adam says. We've talked about it. She's my sister.
Chloe?, the woman asks, and the girl nods.
I want to stay with Adam.
Okay, well, we'll begin the processes, and, uh, okay, we have your phone number here, so...
The phone is... we, uh... Adam looks down at the floor now, his certainty of a few moments ago having vanished.
It's okay, the woman says. It's fine, I understand. Your mother didn't have a lot of money when she, um, passed on? And my condolences, to both of you, by the way. I lost my mother too when I was young. About the same age as you, Chloe.
Chloe nods, mumbles something about thanks. Adam nods too, but doesn't raise his head, keeps looking at the floor, counting the purple threads in the otherwise grey-brown carpet, multiplying the number of threads in this one square by the number of squares the entire office will contain. Thirty-six hundred, he thinks to himself. And forty-two.
So perhaps we can arrange to meet again next week, the woman continues, let's say Tuesday?, and until then, we can... uh... She stops, her eyes edged with thought. Do you have any resources?, she asks. D'you have any food?
Adam keeps looking at the floor. Chloe says nothing.
Okay, the woman says, okay, no worries, so what we can do for now then is help you get started, and Adam, we can talk about some options for work for you, and maybe some emergency money and food for now and, uh, are you working right now, Adam?
He shakes his head, says to the floor: I'm in university. My first year.
I see, the woman says. Okay, well, we'll talk about your options.
I'll have to drop out of school and get a full-time job, Adam says, raising his head and looking at her.
Fade out here, and now Adam is sitting at the factory lunch-room table, the option of tree planting suddenly in front of him and then cut to another interior scene, a dingy-small downtown Winnipeg apartment, Adam and his sister sitting at a kitchen table with a young man a few years older.




We want to move in together, Chloe is saying, looking at Adam, and then at the other young man. David is his name.
We... well, I... I love your sister, man. I have a good enough job, I can help her out while she does school, and...
Adam nods, chuckles. You're asking my permission? How old-fashioned. Geez... of course you guys can move in together. They all find it hard to look at each other now, but there's a feeling of joy.
They pour three shots in three mis-matched glasses, throw them back with a cheers. Cheers!, they all say. Let's go to Neighbour's, Adam says. Let's get drunk! They all laugh, and then it's out the door and onto Sherbrook St., half a short busy block of traffic coming behind them off the bridge and before it pours out into Portage Ave. and the North End, all this mid-level first-world poverty of West Broadway and northside just across the river and the street from all this first-world riches, and then they're laughing into the doorway, a pitcher of beer suddenly in front of them with some more mis-matched cups and Adam, charged with the good emotion of it all tells Zen, the bartender and owner, tells him: Chloe's moving in with this guy. Isn't that awesome?
It is, Zen says, touches their shoulders, he's so happy for them, they're so happy, corner of Sherbrook and Wolseley, small and northern-cold city, the ice-grip of winter and expectations of more so heavy on it now for so much of the year like grip of frost now like grip of age and disease and the grave.
And then the work lunch table again, Adam nodding, thinking about this tree planting thing, about the possibility of money, of adventure, of going back to school next year, and then the interior of the dingy-fair downtown bus station with wall-grimy grey, its grime-tiled floors and grime-light, multiple generations scattered about talking, burgers and fries with the cheap plate-clatter of coffee at Sal's, the buzz of life in the air. Adam's bags are piled in a wagon they borrowed from some kids in the neighbourhood because David, Chloe's boyfriend is a funny hippie anarchist guy with tattoos and a weird hair-cut who works repairing bikes with the kids at the local drop-in centre, teaching 'em art and giving 'em food and stuff, all that kind of stuff. For sure. The two kids who lend them the wagon, Preston and William, they want to follow along with them, because it's their wagon, and because they know the beginnings of an adventure when they see one. Where's your parents?, David asks, and I dunno they say, somewhere. Okay, well, c'mon. They tag along, two Cree brothers all of eight and six years old probably, Preston and Willaim, it's hilarious, the whole thing.
You're gonna have fun, Chloe is saying, squeezing Adam's arm. Adam nods, smiles a little.
I guess, he says.
Good luck, man, kick ass, says David, and then they all hug and Adam hoists up his bags and heads for the bus, turning to smile back at them once, and they wave, and the two kids wave as well and then he's out the door and onto the platform and handing his ticket to the driver and the two kids still stand inside there with Chloe and David, still waving. He settles on board into a seat now, adjusts his pillow against the window and then waits, waits as the bus fills up and then with that small troop outside still waving to him, Adam feels the diesel-heavy rumble as the bus drones out like an awkward dinosaur onto Portage Ave., onto the road that's already marked here as Highway 16.

On a signpost in front of the University, across the street from the tiny art gallery where Adam had gotten drunk one night at some random weird music show where he didn't know anybody and then people had him in the basement doing shots of Jim Beam and playing a drum and everyone was roaring and smoking and playing some kind of instrument or other and red and blue lights were on and a woman was singing something in French and the music just kept going, pulsing, everything kept going, everything was yes, it was one of the most weird and extravagant nights of his life, right across the street from this insignificant little green light pole where the road was marked as Highway 16, also called the Yellowhead, a road that runs from Portage and Main to far-away ocean, a road across the whole west, across the plains and farms and foothills and mountains until misty-sad Prince Rupert, northern sea port of heroin and mystery, town of hobo villages and of green mountains that rise from the sea, place where the road ended in a small unremarkable parking lot and then emptied itself at last into the ocean, a small sign marking it there too, looking northward to islands and to Alaska. The end of Highway 16, the road that began just down the street from where Adam now sat on the bus that pulled out past the art gallery and past the city into the plains and the sky that was forever.
And then, exactly forty-two and one-half hours later, he's in Prince George--exhausted and bus-ride dirty, only a few dollars and some change from completely broke. But he's ready to be a tree planter, whatever the hell that means.


Lyn.
Toronto. Pearson International Airport. An attractive fifty-something woman with a haircut and outfit that looks like she has a bit of money behind her is talking to a younger woman who's in her early twenties--a serious happy face with small round cheeks, dark short hair and big dark eyes. Pixie-ish. She looks Italian, or Egyptian or something if you didn't know.
Now listen, the woman says, if you don't like it there, you can come home. We'll get you out. Now... She waves away the protest the girl is mounting and continues, now I know we've always taught you to work hard and I know you've always done it, and I know you want to do this because your brother did it, but you don't have to go through with this just to prove something, okay? At any time, if you need to get out of that god-forsaken bush camp of yours, you just let us know and we'll buy you the first plane ticket home. I don't care how much it costs. Okay?
Mom please. I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'm tough.
Yes, well... you're not tougher than a grizzly bear.
Uh hmmmm...
They hug.
I love you. All I want is for you to be happy. And for god's sake Lyn be careful.
I love you too. And I will.
And with that, the young woman hoists her several large bags up and onto a cart, and pushes it along to join the line that waits to approach the ticket counter.
She gets to the counter and smiles, pulls out some I.D.
Evelyn Prince, she says to the woman. I'm going to Prince George.



And so just like that in so many different forms, so many different journeys begin--by bus, by car, by train, hitchhiking their ways up or down the only couple of roads that led into Prince George they arrived, a few thousand planters who descended onto this sleepy northern sub-arctic city like a swarm for a few brief weeks early each spring, turning it from a rough little pulp town into a mecca of sorts, a roadside chapel for travelers and pilgrims, for the penitents who had come here seeking something, or seeking to escape something, though maybe in either case they weren't sure of just what it was.


Nine hours and a few stopovers later Lyn arrives, claims her bags in an airport that's not much bigger or less grimy than the bus station in Winnipeg.
And now we see Feral hopping out of an old rusty-red pickup, grabbing his bags from the back, throwing them over his shoulders saying thanks for the ride, buddy. Wolf Boy gives one last quick sniff at the other dog in the back there with him, they wag their tails and then he leaps out too and lands softly beside Feral, stretches easily and yawns, and then the truck pulls away with a bleeeep. Hart Highway, a sign says, and another says Prince George Downtown. An arrow points to the left, says 2 km. Feral and Wolf Boy wait for a break in traffic, wait and then head across the road. Feral is wearing grey overalls and a hoody, green bandana, work boots and dark-ish hair. He has a beard.
We see Hank getting off a bus, too, Hank just a few blocks down hill from where Feral is now, we see tall, skinny, mustachioed Hank, straw hat sideways on his head, army pants and old brown sweater, giant backpack on his back with a shovel stuck in the straps like a rifle, corn-blue eyes squinted like a philosophical cowboy in some old western movie. He's done this a few times before, you can tell. He has the look of the seasoned traveler or sea-dog, someone who knows where he's going and how to get there, and what to do if he gets lost.
We see Lyn again, Evelyn, claiming her bags at the airport, struggling gamely to the front door with two on the cart and one on her undaunted back, dropping everything with a bit of help into open trunk of a taxi. The driver, an old grey-haired Croat or Serb or something, Slavic, eastern, helps her, smiling paternal and kind. She gets in the front passenger seat.
Hey buddy, she nods. How's it going? Can I smoke in here?
You sure can, young lady, the driver says. As long as you open the window.
She looks over at him, looks at the window, back at him. Got a smoke?, she asks.





Now something you must understand about Prince George in the springtime was that it felt like one of the last stops of whatever might be left of the American-Anglo wild west, a sort of gateway to some pagan wilderness that no longer existed.
And sure, of course, those weird little end of the world outpost type places still showed up here and there, dotted villages ports and oases, research stations and forts that marked the final end of where the endless outward push of humans had stopped, and beyond all these places the part of the globe still standing lost to us, plains that stretched forever past isolated cities of Siberia or villages edging on African savannah or Australian outback, collections of huts and nurse's stations clinging to far mountainous coast of Chile, spots where humanity dropped off into oceans of caribou tundra, seas of camel-sand, eternities of whale and walrus ice. (NOTE: Draw Isle de Kurguelen, Queen Charlottes, etc)
Here though, here it was wasn't quite like Prince George marked the end of where humans had pushed. It just felt that way and in some ways too, on the map at least, it looked like it. Because from here there were only two ways to keep going--there was the west, far west along Highway 16 and over the mountains, a fourteen-hour drive from here to ocean, or else there was north--big, empty, forbidding north, places like Arctic Red River and caribou herds, frozen Mackenzie Mountains and deep riverside mines.
The river flowed through town here too, the Fraser, thickful of salmon and giant river-birds of the north, whole congregations of them who dined down on sand islands by the pulp mills and who debated their endless arithmetics through the night.
There it was. Prince George. Home of Lumber Kings hockey and migrant loggers and mill-workers, home to vagrant northerners and sad young prostitute girls, haul truck drivers and miners and oil-rig men drugging themselves into oblivion on their days off, and a few other things too, no one knew quite what, but something, yes, definitely. Definitely something. Families, churches, a small and active university and art museum or two, and the river. Always the river. The nazified dementia of a serial killer or two, maybe three even, maybe more, many more, shadowy numberless creeps along the Highway of Tears. All those missing women and the forest, a feel of it in every note, every tone of things, a feel in the air and the accents and water, forest and our collective failings felt in a certain fixedness of gaze, in the colour of sun and configurings of clouds.
And here was Lyn among them now too, Evelyn Rose Marie Prince, a face that blended in better than most, Italian or Egyptian if you didn't know but here they all are, all of them, night coming on slow into morning, random adventurers camping out in their tents by the river, or sleeping five to hotel room, all of it ready now all that land so expectant and waiting, Ben the future cop and his good rugby friend from Kitchener sleeping in back of pickup under tarp and blankets and stars in a Prince George field, everything sensing the energy of this big and quick westward migration of springtime, the mountains sensing what felt like the whole world arriving all at once onto them now, the whole world all at once just going on and on-going on, going on.