At the height of the Cascade Mountains, at the lip of the North Pacific Rainforest, two rivers rise: the Skagit, which flows on through a dam system to provide water for Seattle and seeps on through its delta to overwinter the snow geese of Russia; and the Smlqmx, or the Similkameen, which turns off the other side of the source pebble shared by these two flows and snakes east, down into the dry country and past the sacred mountain at the centre of the world. This is the sacred mountain of the Syilx, the Smlqmx and the Sinlahekin, and all their brothers and sisters in this winding valley. This is the centre of the world, on the ancient Obsidian Road to the shield volcanoes.
That’s where I’m coming from. Those are my bones. That river is my blood. That air is my breath. My ancestors come from the foothills between the Polish plains and the mountains of Bohemia, and fill me with joy in northern and eastern Europe, but they’re awfully happy to have found the centre of the world, too. Ancestry, spirit and place. Why should those essentials be in conflict?