It is here, I can feel the pull again and again. The nervous twitching in my heart, the monkey on my back, the chip on my shoulder. VHS machine memory of the gorge still wakes me from the dreams of yesterday. A cold breeze of emotions rattles the attic window. A rocking chair grandparent, all pipe smoke, ghosts and mirage.
It is here again, the call for the bridge – the way trucks make it raw. The yellow sign stained too many times with finger prints and hope. One rapid crashes to the next, large waves, larger than my brain wants to understand. Then hydraulic jumps, formations that dance. Before we were legion, the dreams of the pack united, with thanks, we supported each brother stronger with each stroke.
I ache to go again, to the belly of the earth. To play the harp that has us dancing, to sing in the womb of it all. The slither of water a crack in the earth, more than we wanted and all that we hoped for.
It is a chance to see our own beauty in the places we do not dwell. A place we no longer understand, the place we never look at. What this river gives, what it allows is a full stare at the creature lurking in our minds eye. We all know the creature, the one of our soul. It sits in cracked windows, all shadow and cold. It dances for no one. Its pleasure is fraught. With dangers and annoyance finding the secret it entombs. Our life keeps on living, as if we didn't know, the place we call our soul and the access we fight for.
This is the reason and the process alone. This place called the Stikine a place to take us home.
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