After two years of living in Dalian, China, I dreamt, smelt and tasted home. I had become tired of a city of five million being considered small, saddened by the plastic bags adorning the trees on the side of the road, concerned about seeing black on the tissue every time I blew my nose. Going home became a craving that I was determined to feed.
Just passed the bridge lies the first wash out which is the spot at which I almost washed out myself. One day while I was in a contemplative, loner mood, I decided to fish on my own (smart like fish). While crossing the river, my feet slipped out from under me, my waders filled with the icy water of the Kitimat, while I desperately grabbed at the rocks. I did manage to drag myself back onto the highway side, but adrenaline pumped strongly as I berated myself for such foolishness.
On any float downstream, we would have to pass by Cablecar. Cablecar triggers older memories for me. Memories of donning scuba suits, fins, masks and snorkels and launching off the sandy banks. An old boyfriend and I would float down feet first, legs bent. Feet first usually allowed us to angle our bodies so that we could steer clear of most log jams. If we did hit one, bent knees allowed us to cushion the impact and push off with a strong kick. In the popular fishing spots, my boyfriend would dive down to the river bottom in search of lost lures decorating underwater snags. Later, he would stroll down the bank selling fishermen back their lost lures.