If you’re thinking about getting into tree planting, you’re probably aware of its reputation: tough work, long days, decent money, lots of bugs. All of that is true. But those are only surface details. What I didn’t realize before my first season, and what I hope to share here is how much more tree planting offers, both in terms of personal growth and in how it reshapes your relationship with work, community, and the land.

Tree planting is an experience that profoundly shapes one’s perspective on work, community, and the natural world.

While the job begins as a series of physical tasks measured by numbers and productivity, it quickly evolves into something much larger: a lesson in resilience, a practice in responsibility, and a direct connection to the environment. Each challenge, whether related to weather, insects, terrain, or long periods of isolation, serves as a teacher.

Throughout the season, I discovered strengths I had not realized I possessed, developed patience beyond my expectations, and cultivated a sense of purpose grounded not in immediate results, but in the knowledge that my efforts would contribute to long-term ecological and societal benefits. Planting a tree is, in essence, an act of faith in the future, and over the course of my first season, this philosophy became the foundation for my growth both as a worker and as a human.

At a glance, tree planting seems like a simple cycle: load seedlings, dig holes, plant trees, repeat. But that simplicity is deceptive. The complexity lies in the strategy and discipline required to succeed day after day.

Planting Across Central Canada

From the beginning of May until mid-July, I worked for one of the largest tree planting companies in Canada, completing my co-op term across two primary locations: Manitoba’s Sandilands conservation contract and privately contracted northern Ontario camps.

Starting in Manitoba was particularly unique for a rookie, as these contracts are typically reserved for veteran planters due to the good land quality and productivity potential. Manitoba is often referred to in the planting community as a “creamshow”, flat terrain with sandy soil, providing an opportunity for experienced planters to achieve high numbers and earnings.

After several weeks in Manitoba, I transitioned to planting on the Canadian Shield in northern Ontario, a place known for some of the most challenging terrain in the country. Here, the soil was shallow, the ground uneven, and the blocks were filled with rock, swamp, and bush so thick there’s a chance you’d have to remove your bags just to pass through.

These were ancient landscapes, and planting there felt like a conversation with time itself.

Each bag-up (loading hundreds of seedlings in your bags to take into land) became an exercise in endurance and care. While planting on this terrain requires careful technique and perseverance, it also offers a unique opportunity to engage with an ancient and awe-inspiring environment.

The work here demanded constant adaptation and reinforced lessons from earlier in the season, especially around quality, technique, and mindset. For anyone considering tree planting for its sense of purpose, the tough land will be where you’ll feel it most. You’ll earn every tree, and you’ll never look at a forest the same way again.

About the Work and the Work Environment

Before planting even begins, there’s often another layer of work. One of the essential tasks is unloading the refrigerated “reefer” trucks that transport millions of seedlings across provinces. These trucks keep trees viable in cold, humid conditions. Once they arrive, crews unload and organize the boxes quickly, stacking them into another trailer or onto tree trucks to avoid sun exposure, so they’re ready for the next day. The tree runners will create caches for each crew to access in their blocks in order to plant them in their land and the lead runner is often in charge of placing each crew in their respective block.

On planting days, van or bus rides to the block could take over an hour, followed by 8+ hours under the elements, sun, snow, rain, or relentless bug swarms, with the occasional gift of a cloudy, breezy day. Sometimes vehicles can’t reach the block, so you haul water, lunch, and gear for kilometers before reaching your cache. You then load 200–700 seedlings into planting bags, roots upright or forward-facing and carefully spaced, because crushing or drying them means dozens of failures in a single load. Carrying that weight for hours takes a toll, and gear inevitably breaks down: boots split, gloves wear through, buckles snap.

Duct tape becomes indispensable.

A crucial part of planting efficiently and safely is having the right equipment and ensuring it fits you properly. Shovels, for example, must be cut to the correct length for your height and planting style—too long or too short, and your back and shoulders pay the price after hours of repetitive digging. Personal protective equipment (PPE) varies by site and season, but typically includes gloves, steel-toe boots, whistle, sun and insect protection, and sometimes hard hats or safety glasses. Beyond standard PPE, personal gear is essential: water storage, food for the day, proper clothing (long pants and heat-appropriate tops and socks) , first aid supplies, sun and insect protection, duct tape for quick repairs, and spare gloves or laces. Even small items, like baby wipes or a microfiber towel, become indispensable over long days in the bush.

Once sorted into your crews and deployed into your land, your crew lead will divide the land for each planter to create their “piece”. The crew lead has access to the map of the land, including swamps, previously planted land and other crews. They will give you your area and ideally provide guidance as to how to most effectively fill the land with trees. Your leads should be in direct communication with other crews, tree runners and foresters to ensure crews are moved correctly, the right amount of trees are delivered to the right place and the quality remains consistently high.

Finding a viable microsite is an exercise in patience. You can’t just punch and go, you probe for depth, clear debris, adjust angles, and battle slash. A microsite should be clear of anything that may cover the sapling, allow for proper drainage (i.e. not in a pit or at the base of a slant), should have mineral soil beneath the sapling and be able to tightly (but not too tightly) hold the sapling perpendicular to the ground. Planting becomes as much problem-solving as stamina. Even bagging up is a mental calculation: how much weight can you carry without burning out before the next break?

Every movement has a cost, so you adapt by scanning meters ahead, spotting obstacles, and pre-mapping strides. The goal is never just to move, but to move with purpose. Beyond logistics lies responsibility. A tree too shallow dries out; too deep, it rots. Poor spacing stunts growth. Exposed or crammed roots fail outright. These aren’t abstract errors, they’re visible immediately and tied to your pride. Foresters and crew leads conduct daily quality and PPE checks, and failed trees cost not just time but contracts, and ultimately, the forest.

Then comes the mental game.

With no boss hovering, you are your own motivator, timekeeper, and coach. On hard days, progress comes down to rhythm and persistence: one more tree, one more row, one more box. Over time, this becomes second nature. The paradox is that while you work alone much of the day, your effort is never isolated in effect. Your trees connect to those of your crew, and together they rebuild forests that will outlast you. That awareness shifts your perspective: planting stops feeling like just labor and starts feeling like real ecological restoration. Gear becomes an extension of your ability to contribute, and trees stop being about paychecks and start reflecting your own growth, moments when you chose to stay present, stay disciplined, and keep going.

Life Beyond the Block: Living in Camp

Camp life further reinforced the balance between independence and community. Tree planting camps are small, mobile communities. Ours moved across provinces, following contracts, setting up tents, toilets and trailers in remote bush locations. These locations were often upwards of two hours from the nearest town, meaning that camp became a self-contained environment. While this demanded a high degree of self-sufficiency, it also fostered strong bonds among crew members.

You’re responsible for everything; your food on days off, hydration, medical needs, gear maintenance, and mental health. In the absence of convenience or comfort, you learn to simplify your needs, pay attention to your body, and make do with what you have. That kind of self-reliance sticks with you long after the season ends. Days started early with rushed breakfasts and ended with shared dinners. Stories at the end of long days and the presence of others navigating the same challenges created a sense of community that was essential for both morale and productivity. You learn to laugh off the worst conditions and celebrate the smallest victories. Even things like hot showers or dry socks become luxuries you talk about with reverence.

I was especially grateful for the cooks who prepared all three meals on workdays. After long hours on the block, having hearty, reliable meals waiting made a huge difference for both energy and morale. They even went out of their way to accommodate requests, special treats on birthdays, and a full feast for our makeshift Christmas celebration, reminding us that every role in camp, even behind the scenes, is essential for keeping the crew supported and motivated.

We made an effort to play just as hard as we worked. On nights off, we celebrated together, played sports, made music, and shared trips into town for food, laundry, and the rare luxury of hot showers. Many towns immediately recognized us as tree planters and welcomed us with open arms. Local businesses offered venues for a night-off celebration, special meals, and sometimes even discounts, making these brief trips into town feel like a true reward and a connection to the broader community beyond camp.

There’s no escaping each other, and surprisingly, that becomes one of the best parts. That also means the bonds you form with your crew are real, fast, and deep. You’ll learn to depend on others, and they’ll depend on you. More often than not, you’ll hear the most interesting stories you’ve ever heard come from the vast variety of people from all walks of life who choose to plant. I had planned to travel across the country post season initially, but these people made it much more pleasurable getting to meet up with them all over.

The Land as Teacher

The natural world will leave a mark on you. You’ll come to understand the land in an intimate, physical way, wet moss under your knees, dry soil crumbling in your hands, the sting of a blackfly testing your patience. I found myself growing more attuned to small details: animal tracks, plant species, the way certain terrains held moisture, the sudden shift in wind before a storm. I saw moose tracks beside my boot prints, and frogs leapt from mossy patches, reminding us of the delicate ecosystems we were helping to restore. Weather conditions varied from sun-scorched sand to rain-saturated mud, each day revealing the power, fragility, and complexity of the natural world.

Nature doesn’t accommodate your discomfort. You either adapt, or you don’t last.

It’s not abstract anymore, it’s under your boots, in your hands, all around you. Some days I cursed the terrain, but more often, I admired it. You work in places where people rarely go, and that solitude offers its own quiet lessons. If you’re interested in environmental work, ecology, or just reconnecting with nature, this job will change the way you see the land.

Over the course of the season, I planted over 40,000 trees, a number that might impress some, but what it really reflects is consistency. You don’t get there with luck, it takes showing up every day, managing your energy, and refusing to quit when your muscles or your mind tell you otherwise. That’s one of the biggest lessons tree planting offers: how to push through.

Injury is another reality of planting that often goes unspoken until it happens. The repetitive strain of thousands of shovel strikes and constant weight on your hips can push your body past its limits. Midway through the season I developed tendonitis in several places as well as a pinched nerve, and it forced me to confront the fine line between toughness and sustainability. Managing it meant taping, stretching, adjusting technique, and sometimes slowing down, choices that felt frustrating in the moment but ultimately kept me planting. Injuries teach you that planting isn’t just about endurance; it’s about listening to your body and adapting so you can last the season.

Some of the blocks I planted in Manitoba were later hit by wildfire. At first, that was disheartening but it served as a reminder that planting is an investment in possibility rather than a guarantee. Yet many of these trees will survive and thrive, contributing to ecosystems that will persist far into the future. Each sapling reflects the principle captured by the quote that guided me through the season: “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.”

You do your part, and nature takes it from there. But more important than the number of trees planted was what I learned between each shovel strike: how to persevere through discomfort, how to adapt in real time, and how to find meaning in slow, deliberate work that most people will never see.

Through the Lens of a Planter

The act of curating this photo essay has also been valuable as a tool for reflection. Revisiting these moments, some of them difficult, others beautiful, has helped me recognize how much I learned, both about tree planting and about myself.

This photo essay is more than just a collection of images, it’s a curated visual narrative that captures the full arc of my planting season. It offers:

• A view into daily routines and realities
• The scale and texture of the landscapes we worked in
• The relationships and dynamics of camp culture
• Small, powerful moments of reflection and growth

For someone considering tree planting, this essay is not a romanticized pitch or a cautionary tale, it’s an honest exploration of what it means to take on one of the most physically and emotionally demanding seasonal jobs in Canada. Here, you’ll find photos that show what the work looks like, but also glimpses of what it feels like.

What I hope to convey most is that tree planting is not just about planting trees. It’s about planting yourself, into discomfort, into unfamiliar routines, into an environment where effort is both isolated and collective. It’s about learning to push past limits and to find small victories in every seedling, every day completed, and every storm endured.

I chose the photo essay format because this job is visual at its core. The repetition, the scale, the exhaustion, and the beauty, all of it plays out across vast landscapes and unpredictable terrain. There were so many moments this season that words alone couldn’t fully contain: the way the morning light hit a dew-covered tarp, the expression on a planter’s face after a 4,000-tree day, or the view from a truck as it rolled over logging roads carting planters to another crew’s remote block to help finish the job on a contract closing day.

Final Thoughts for Future Planters

Reflecting on the experience, the blisters, the fatigue, and even the persistent insects now evoke a sense of nostalgia. Tree planting provided lessons in strength, perspective, and responsibility, as well as an appreciation for community, both human and ecological. It was a transformative co-op term, I am deeply grateful for this opportunity. This experience has solidified my interest in pursuing future planting contracts, both to continue developing professionally and to contribute meaningfully to the stewardship of Canadian forests.

If you’re ready to be challenged, to live simply, and to test yourself in ways you didn’t expect, this might just be the job for you. It’s not easy, but it’s real. And that’s what makes it worth doing.