Grade 7 students at Nusatsum Elementary School in Hagensborg were tasked with creating a poem about living in the Bella Coola Valley. Four of the students’ poems are shared with Coast Mountain News. (Lorianne Duran photo)

Grade 7 students at Nusatsum Elementary School in Hagensborg were tasked with creating a poem about living in the Bella Coola Valley. Four of the students’ poems are shared with Coast Mountain News. (Lorianne Duran photo)

Where I am from: Grade 7 students pen poetry about living in the Bella Coola Valley

Four of the poems are featured here

The Grade 7 students at Nusatsum Elementary School in Hagensborg were assigned a poetry challenge by their teacher Krista Wilson.

“The assignment was to use the style of George Ella Lyon’s poem, Where I’m From, and write a poem using descriptive language that describes where they grew up and what they feel makes them who they are,” Wilson said.

Four of the poems are featured here.

Where I am from

By Mathias Conley

I am from the towering mountains, which shield me from the cold world, the power of the wind dampened.

I am from the sound of jumping trout, and bears that fish beside me, from fire roasted to barbecued fish.

I am from the freezing Snooka creek, the ice waterfall provides climbing and challenge in winter, and from swimming till our skin was red.

I am from the ring of timers and the smell of burning muffins, chocolates warm and pastries crisp.

I am from the Charlotte Lake campground, sliding washboard and tasty pine mushrooms, from lazy hammocks that swing in the wind, and to the calming lapping of waves at my feet as I walk along the beach.

I am from the green cedars high and strong, climbing higher than all, watching planes fly by, from the tops of buildings and all things climbable. Gazing at the fluffy cloud that looks like cotton candy but just out of reach.

I am from the mountain view summer camp, thrilling water tubing and deadly mosquitoes , and as fun as winter.

I am from the swinging of axes and pounding of iron wedges, the CRACK of the wood and the splitting of beautiful cedar kindling.

I am from the lighthouse high on the hill watching Whiskey Bay, from the black soot that coats everything, to the old propane generator that cuts out from time to time.

I am from a foot deep pool, which we call our garden, from mud filled boots to lost spades.

Where I am from

By Kara McIlwain

I am from the towering cedars, they grow as tall as the mountains that surround my small valley, I can smell the soft scent coming from the evergreen.

I am from dancing on stage, leaps and cartwheels to and fro with my best friends as we age.

From baking scones with my mom, sticky and tough dough I stir, until my mom takes over and finishes that task.

I am from horseback riding with my grandad, bumping in the saddle I ride Navahoe, I hear the clip clop from the hooves of my loyal hazel horse.

I am from swimming lessons at Centennial Pool, holding hands and twirling in a circle we form a mini vortex.

From fishing with my dad, the slimy scaly skin of the fish I feel, gently putting it back in the gloomy, gray sea.

I am from the Harry Potter series, with boldness, cunning, intelligence and kindness I pick up those books and enter a different universe that is not my own but I still call home.

I am from my dog Bex, from puppy guardian my dog earns her spots.

From my grandma’s garden, a colorful rainbow hides in the depths of the grimy ground, growing its smooth petals.

I am from the beautiful sunsets, stretching as far as the eye can see, pink, purple, blue, yellow, red and orange make up my valley’s sunsets.

I am from Bella Coola, where the wild roams free, this is my home at the end of the road.

Where I’m From

By Meadow Michalchuk

I am from the game trails behind my house, winding through the mossy new growth forest like intricate spider webs, I can hear the steller’s jays and chickadees chirping.

I am from swimming in our chilly pond, amongst the newts, toads, fish, and snakes.

I am from selling brown and green chicken eggs with my brother, six dollars a dozen; we have to split our money even though I do all of the work.

I am from the Junior Canadian Rangers, where we learn to build raging fires from wet logs and waterproof forts out of cedar branches.

I’m from Harry Potter and the Hunger Games; the books are like an alternate universe where I can forget what is happening in the real world and I can feel the characters’ excitement and worry as if it is my own.

I am from gardening with my dad after school, gathering dirt under my fingernails and hunting for pesky weeds.

I am from hunting in the alpine, on the evergoing game trails winding across the towering mountains, their peaks touching the stars.

I am from skiing at East Branch; the snow-covered slopes are steep and untouched, my hands feel damp from my waterlogged gloves.

I am from beachcombing on the humid west coast, trying to keep my balance on the dew-covered driftwood and seaweed, I can hear the powerful swells crashing against the rocks.

I am from fishing in the Narrows, waking up at six AM with my family to go fishing for halibut in our small dinghy, the crisp air awakening, the calm water an infinite mirror.

Where I am from

By Max Matuga

I am from the loamy dirt that flies off my tire as I rip down my home Medby trails mud spraying everywhere.

I am from the crusty sand that spins off my dirt bike tire into a massive arc as I pop a big wheelie at the gravel pit.

I am from the tarnished brass symbol on my dad’s old drum kit that I smash to wake up my brother.

I am from the stinky 2-stroke fumes that give you burning headaches when Callen pins it and I fly off the back of the toboggan getting buried in snow.

I am from the five foot long slivers stuck under my fingernails as kindling flies off the block that I am splitting.

I am from the scales of old monstrous chum that snap at my lure and try to drag me in.

I am from the powdery snow that flies off my skis as I rip down the east branch ski hill dodging little trees like a video game and occasionally crashing into one.

I am from the coals of chocked full wood stove giving off glorious heat that dries my sopping wet snow pants.

I am from the chunks of plastic that zing off my snow slider as I zoom down the gravel pit hill smashing into my friends.

I am from the black unburnt diesel that billows out of our old truck’s exhaust pipe when my dad does big mud flying donuts in the mud.

Bella CoolaStudents