Bridge walk

Editor: I did something today I’ve never done before. I walked
across the Russian River. Not on it … or in it. But over it. On the
bridge I usually drive over. Arriving in town or leaving town, I’ve
probably crossed that bridge a thousand times, and I’ve only lived
here five years. People like Lucie Jensen or Gary Plass? They’ve
got be in the hundred thousand trips category.
I walked the bridge at a speed even slower than the posted 15
miles per hour limit for drivers, I saw the bridge a little
differently than through a windshield.
I saw a heron on the river bank, statue-still. And up high, what
might have been an eagle. Too big to be a red-tailed hawk, but a
raptor for sure.
On the far bank, a rope hung from a big tree branch.
I’ve seen kids launch themselves out over the river, then let
go, plunging into the river. It’s probably illegal. But what’s that
ever meant to kids with a rope and a river?
I saw the symmetry of the patterns in the iron superstructure
stretching overhead. Patterns you don’t pick up on when you’ve got
both hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road.
With no one right behind me, I stopped right in the middle of
the bridge. Actually, right in the middle of the pedestrian
walkway. Below me and a little upstream, a man was fishing. Right
out in the river, wearing chest-high waders, casting beautifully in
slow motion. I looked down and summoned up those images in the
sepia photographs at the Historical Society. Those wonderful river
festivals back in the 1930s. The pretty girls in the giant boat
that looked like a giant swan.
Bridges vibrate. So, I came back to the present when a big
double-hopper rumbled across. Must have been empty. Sounded empty.
They don’t bounce when they’re loaded with grapes. I remembered
that a few years back, inspectors found that support bolts were
worn. So they went to work and fixed the bridge. In a matter of
days.
I reached the other side. Looked down at the stacked canoes. Not
the time of year to float the river and work on your tan. But come
Spring, maybe I will. I haven’t made a J-stroke for several years
now. More like seven.
Before there was a bridge here, I doubt there was a ford. The
banks are much too high. The river rose up in the unending rain one
New Year’s. Was it ‘05 or ‘06? Maybe both. Anyway, the river didn’t
crest and things went back to normal as the crisis floated
away.
I crossed over to be on the South railing, then meandered back
in the direction I’d come. I studied the salmon ladder downstream.
You could grow old waiting for fish to leap on command.
I saw a Ford Model A truck down in Bennett Valley Wednesday.
Trucks like that one crossed this bridge when both were new. 15
miles per hour was pretty fast back then. Maybe just about right
today.
You see a lot better when you slow life down. That’s a fact.
Since most everyone knows it, I wonder why we don’t go slow more
often.
I’m thinking about walking across the bridge and back once a
week. Except for vacations, walking it maybe 50 times a year. Spend
some time really getting to know it. Unless of course they tear it
down and build a new one, wider and smoother, so everyone can drive
across faster.
Poss Pragoff
Healdsburg