It was about this time of year I’d start looking out the school window and wishing I was walking the tracks, following the river to the fishing holes.
It was called Steel Bridge because it was the first one in the area not made of wood. That made it special. It had good fishing hole under it. The locals all had their secret ways to catch char in the spring and whitefish in the fall.
It’s still a crossing for the trains hauling coal to the coast to be shipped to China. A few locals still cast a line and drink beer. Some hide out under the pilings and further, towards town in the high brush beside Toby Creek. The tourists paddle canoes and kayaks under the steel with instructions to, ‘stay right’ in high water.
Broken, oiled and cresote treated ties wait to be hauled away. I still walk the tracks and fish below the pilings. Willow saves branch after branch and barks at tourists the same as fish.