I was glued to the window while the train crossed the high muddy river. A brown whirlpool mesmerized me, pulled me back in time.
Spring flood. The most exciting season of our childhood year. The Skeena flooded every June, a few days before school got out.
Every afternoon my brother and I bolted our snacks...cheese or peanut butter crackers and milk. Then we raced off down to the creek to see how much the water had risen.
Waiting for high water, we stood on the low wooden bridge and watched sticks, branches and leaves whirl away downstream.
Breathing in the dank smell, we watched the brown water roil around the frail structure of the bailey bridge. Would it hold?
The "creek" was really a narrow arm of the Skeena River, separated from the main channel by a fertile island with half a dozen farms and a few houses. If the water rose above the bridge deck, or the bridge washed out, the islanders would be trapped.
Some years the low-lying island flooded, making the farmer's hayfield look like a small lake with a stand of cottonwoods along the edge. This was pure magic; we knew, yet didn't know the place.
When the water receded, our play places were changed. The trees beside the creek were caked with drying mud. River sandbars had been re-sculpted. Best of all, ahead lay the tantalizing prospect of a whole summer of playing outside, exploring our altered world.
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