MOUNTAINS, HOT SPRINGS AND TRAINS - March 5, 2018

Unstable winter weather conditions don't allow us the same freedom to overnight where we find ourselves, therefore, I have plotted a nine-day route through our old friends the mountains with alternate routes from each night's rest spot in case of snowfall. We have no trouble driving in snow but snow covered steep grades put us in unnecessary danger. Carl loves to chase trains from one scenic view to another, so we begin where we landed at the west end of the Fraser Canyon on December 19th. May I never forget the sheer joy of putting on my sandals in Hope and walking on bare road edged with sword fern and moss in balmy temperatures. We christen our journey with a soak in the Harrison hot spring pool before finding a camp spot on Seabird Island just east of Agassiz where the sound of speeding freight trains and highway trucks lull us to sleep. The full moon is upon us and starshine like tiny rents in the fabric of heaven let the glory of God shine through. Eyelets of azure in a lacy grey sky turn the moisture on the highway from last nights snow to ribbons of peacock blue. We find a new train watching position under the highway bridge at Anderson River. We linger over our lunch of habitant pea soup and watch as trains pass by. The CNR and CPR companies have an agreement for directional running through the canyon which means that eastbound trains are on the north side and west bound trains on the south side. This canyon experiences nearly desert conditions and while waiting for a train, I notice on the sparsely covered hillsides bullseyes of rusty red foliage fallen around the large-leaf scrub maple - each tree looks like its wearing a petticoat. The Thompson Canyon has been used by the First People as a highway for trade, hunting and fishing since the retreat of the last glacial age. The sheer walls are traced on both sides by footpaths ten thousand years old. When Simon Fraser guided by the dwellers on the land 'discovered' the river he named in honour of David Thompson, he recorded in his journal that these paths "were indented on the rocks by frequent travel." Yet still the very people whose ancestors feet walked these paths have not sovereignty of their lands. We come to rest with the westbound CP above us quite literally as we are tucked in right beside the Tank Hill overpass and we look across the canyon to the east bound CN. The light fades away, leaving the land a monotone of beige and grey. Below us the jade green water of the Thompson River darkens, hissing as it forces its way past outcrops of rocks. "Day is done. Gone the sun. From the lake, From the hills, From the sky. All is well. Safely rest."