The Dock

On Friday night after dinner, my homestay Pierrette drove me down to Gold River’s dock and old mill site.

We snake downhill

Down in the dusky light past

White water cascading on black rock

Glimpses of the deep canyon through dark trees.

Descending into some other world.

There’s a Western Forest Products sign.

Bold black letters, unnecessarily large on pale plaster

“NOTHING WE DO IS WORTH GETTING HURT FOR”

A black bear greets us at the green delta

And the rotting mill rises on the shoreline

A monolithic orange Kraken of industry

Decaying on the beach

The clouds are trapped between the mountains

The ghosts are trapped between the mountains

Fish food is loaded onto the Uchuck to be sent out at 9am tomorrow morning

But amidst the three guys driving forklifts

I expect to see Charon at the end of the dock

We drive out. It’s dark enough now that the headlights come on automatically.

Ghosts of the rusty mill on one side, the old reserve on the other.

It’s a cull de sack. A tiny patch of grass. Unfathomably small.

With just the concrete foundations left it looks like a giant’s cemetery

And my heart wells to think of my students on their new, huge reserve

Safely tucked in the mountains,

Away from this inlet where Styx and Acheron meet.