Last month, people from the forestry company came to the reserve looking for loggers to work in one of their camps. The pay was good — six dollars a cord — and the ministry gave free hardhats and boots to anyone who wanted to go, as well as two brand-new chainsaws for each team of three men. They guaranteed transportation to the camp but not back. At the camp, the loggers would get free room and board.

Alex and his two cousins decided they would go, no matter what their families said. They wanted to make money, lots of money. They bragged that they could cut six cords a day, and they were sure they could make two hundred dollars a week. They said they would come back from the lumber camp as rich as whites.

But when they got there, they were soon singing a different tune. They had to slog away from morning until night, and it took them three days to cut six cords.

They said the white loggers attacked the forest as if the trees were their enemies. They seemed happy to see them fall and die. They rushed around with their axes and saws as if they couldn’t get enough.

Alex and his cousins were used to cutting up dead wood for firewood, but chopping down fresh spruce was another thing altogether. They couldn’t understand why they had to cut down live trees, strip off the branches, cut them into four-foot lengths and then stack them in cords. So many trees! And the foreman was always in a bad mood. He said they were lazy and slow, said Indians didn’t even work hard enough to earn their meals.

At the end of the month, Alex and his cousins were fired. That was fine with them because they’d had enough of lumberjacking and had been talking about quitting anyway. Their pay for one month barely covered the tobacco, makinaws, Coke and chocolate that they’d bought on credit at the company store.

The camp cook offered to drive them back to the reserve in exchange for one of their chainsaws. They figured they had two, so they could afford to part with one. They told the cook he could have the saw in exchange for a ride and two cases of beer.

The cook thought about it for a moment. He knew there were big fines for selling alcohol to Indians, but he wasn’t really risking much because the RCMP tended to close their eyes when it was the whites who were making a profit.

So he accepted, on the condition that they didn’t drink in his car. He would leave them at the edge of the reserve and after that they could do whatever they wanted.

So yesterday, at four o’clock, we watched our three loggers march proudly down the street, their yellow helmets perched on their heads, their logger’s boots laced up to the knee. Eddie was at the front balancing the big chainsaw in his arms. The other two followed, each with a case of Molson on his shoulder. The boys partied noisily all night long to celebrate being back with their friends.