Napoleon in rags

The second to last day of treeplanting in a region called Temagami, desperation was starting to show. Bad money, no sleep, no booze, weird headspaces, drizzling rain. Bodies starting to wear after what would be a seven day shift. Days spent tapping rock, exhaustion, anger, and in everyone's eyes a burning desire to just go home. I was closing mental doors and steeling my head towards new circumstances, so for me it was a case of balls, meet wall. We slouched off the bus at the end of the day and threw our gear out of the way of the pickup trucks. No one cared enough to put it where it belonged. Trudged into the mess tent, ladled soup, drank our last few beers, sat around and stared, cracked a few cynical jokes. Half the camp was still planting and wouldn't be back till midnight. Someone put on Like a Rolling Stone. The harmonica wailed and suddenly everyone, with dirt on their faces and blood on their knuckles, ragged and haggard, really just Napoleons in rags, sang along to it. It was heartfelt and defiant, and it would have been clichéd anywhere but the Ontario wilderness.

Photos of misery: