Dead trees standing.

As kids, my sister and I made countless trips with our parents or grandparents through Alberta to BC. I confess, I often had my eyes in an Archie comic back then, unaware of the majestic surroundings on either side of the station wagon. I would be prodded to enjoy the scenery, and I would look up every once in awhile and try not not puke because of the curvy roads and comic books being experienced simultaneously.

I never truly appreciated the emerald lakes, the sparkling blue rivers or all the mountain animals decorating the rocky outcroppings that would spark the story of “Falling Rock”. We would listen politely as Mom or Gran would tell us about the little Indian boy who was going through his rite of passage when he was becoming a man. The same little boy that was sent away to survive for a summer on his own, but failed to return to his tribe. Ever since then, travellers were asked to keep an eye open and “Watch for Falling Rock.” I always imagined how heartbroken his mother would be in his permanent absence. Now, as a mother, I don’t want to imagine that heartbreak.

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