THE HOMECOMING

Article Tools

Image Gallery

Print

E-mail

Comments

RSS

Throughout the trip, I was well aware that I had a huge task ahead. It involved sorting through our old life, and making the major decision whether to take control of our old valley home again or to simply let it go. To say yes, without hesitation, would be ignoring the facts. That was then and this is now. What we had will never be re-created in quite the same way. But then again, the valley might speak to me as it did those many years ago when Jay and I first fell in love with the territory. No matter what the outcome, our home still did, in essence, own us and it was up to us to abide by her wishes.

I caught the enchantment on Nat's face the moment the magnificent mountains surrounding Smithers came into view. That afternoon, before swinging north at Kitwanga, we pulled in for gas, and who should veer in but the new owner on his way to the homestead to move his belongings out. He warned of the nasty bear he had encountered between the two hills on the valley descent. The bruin had actually swiped at his leg.

North of Meziadin Junction, the land was still lidded with a stubborn cap of snow. As we vibrated our way through a maze of clearcuts, I was tempted to apologize to Eric for the ugliness, to say "I knew it when," but what was the point? This was part of the Cassiar Forest District, which occupies one-sixth of the land mass of British Columbia. A mere 3,000 people reside in the entire region. It has become world famous for its wildlife populations of caribou, mountain goats, Dall's sheep, Stone sheep, grizzly, black bear, wolverine, and myriad other animals and plants. The forestry's present plan to increase the annual allowable cut by 6 to 10 times is both criminal and appalling. Where should I begin to apologize?

After the children and I moved, my husband Jay had stayed on for two years, then turned it over to the new family. They were on their way out after only eight months. What could force them out so soon?

At last I watched the lofty ridge of South Mountain come into view. We parked, loaded up our packs, and feeling weak from what I had decided was strep throat, I let the others rush ahead. It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening by the time I had toiled down the steep trail and stepped through the back door. As I stood on the floor that I had walked across thousands of times, I could not recognize my home. The house was as dim as a cave. No longer did it glisten with love and echo with children's voices. As though to make a mockery of our return, a tizzy of miserly Christmas tree lights was strung across a dusty ceiling beam. Below, piled dead center in the room, was a large mound of taped and labeled boxes. Great garlands of dust were draped from beam to beam and the house smelled dead and abandoned. Without lifeblood, it was a shell.

RSS | Comments | E-mail | Print