Living in Golden Town

Winter in Golden is enveloped in silence, with only the calls of ravens and the distant rumble of freight trains breaking the stillness. Beneath the frozen Kicking Horse River, water continues to flow, just as the town’s history persists beneath the snow. A century ago, amidst the Qing Empire’s turmoil, displaced laborers arrived, building railways and bridges, only to be buried in the frozen ground. Without tombstones, their stories survive in the sound of passing trains. As spring melts the snow, hidden memories emerge once more, reminding us that history, though covered, is never truly erased.

Golden Town

Winter in Golden was covered in knee-deep snow. The night wind rattled the window frames, as if invisible hands were knocking on the glass, whispering, “Let me in.” During the day, the sky hung low, the wind pressing the snow into layers of ice. The tires of cars creaked softly, as if holding their breath.

Tall coniferous trees stood silently by the roadside, their branches weighed down by the heavy snow, yet standing firm. The empty playground swayed in the wind, its creaking sound dissolving into the cold air. Only the ravens remained, perched on the streetlights, croaking in their hoarse voices. It sounded almost like a starving human begging for food. They had always been here—long before the snow fell, for decades, even centuries, watching over the town’s history.

“Golden”—the name itself carried a glimmer, like a precious mineral. But in this winter town, there was no golden shine. Everything was buried beneath white snow, and only when the sunlight hit just right did a faint golden reflection shimmer for a moment.

This place was once a key station for the Canadian Pacific Railway. The forests were cleared, railways were laid, and timber was transported to cities. The railway still ran today. At night, the low rumble of freight trains echoed from afar, like the heartbeat of the town. I lay in bed, listening carefully. Perhaps that sound carried the memory of cargo crossing the ocean from the East, docking in Vancouver, and traveling inland by train.

The last time I saw snow-covered mountains was in Taiwan, gazing at Mount Qilai from the East Rift Valley. Then, its peak was barely dusted with snow. But now, in front of me, Kicking Horse Mountain bore a heavy, deep layer of white.

The blizzard finally ceased, revealing the true form of the mountain. Its peak was blanketed in thick snow, and below, an entire forest of tall pines stood in solemn silence, gazing skyward like long-standing pilgrims.

I stood on the bridge, looking down at my feet. The frozen Kicking Horse River was buried beneath a thick layer of snow, appearing utterly still. Yet beneath the ice, the water surely continued to flow.

This land, too, held frozen history. A hundred years ago, amidst the chaos of the Qing Empire’s civil strife, many lost their homes and gathered at the port of Macau. They sold themselves into labor, crossing the vast Pacific to reach the Rocky Mountains. They built railways, laid bridges, and toiled under the harsh cold. Many never returned, their bones buried beneath the frozen soil. There were no tombstones—only the sound of the passing trains still whispering their existence.

Like the river that never stops flowing beneath the ice, the memories of this town continue, unbroken. When spring arrives, the snow will melt, and what was hidden will emerge once again. History is the same. The wind and snow may seem to cover everything, but in truth, they erase nothing.