A figure already stands on the opposite side of ‘The Trust Bridge’ when I arrive. They are framed by the railings, looking from a distance as though they stand hesitant, like me, on the last step before the bridge leaves the ground. One arm is limp at their side. The other is on the railing or on the post just before the railing. The post with the release button.
More than the hand placement, though, it’s the person’s readiness that makes me hesitate. And I am hesitating in a position that might as well be a mirror image of the person across from me except that I know my own feet are still on the ground and I know my hand grips the railing and does not hover over the button which, in this position, is behind me.
I wave to the man- I think it’s a man- and he waves back after a second’s pause. I shout my intention to cross the bridge and he waves me forward but does not move. Does not shout. His left hand settles at his side. His right hand settles ambiguously, again, on the bridge itself.
The bridge has stood for thirty-odd years. Hundreds have crossed it in either direction, putting their lives in the hands of those crossing the opposite way. Some of those people have crossed because they don’t believe the buttons will actually drop the bridge. Some of these conclusions are founded on technical examinations of the button posts and the bridge itself. Some of these conclusions rely on the legality of the bridge- the assumption no government would allow something so dangerous to exist so openly. Nobody believes they nay-sayers. To believe would make the cross less special. Less scary.
I mime walking in a way that’s almost clownish and the man across from me drops the bridge, ending a decades old tradition.
I watch the Wayside destination fall into the gorge and shatter on the rocks below with a detachment I realize, belatedly, is shock. I throw up suddenly and violently, all my adrenaline used up in a single go.
By the time I’m finished, the man is gone.
‘Statistically speaking, every bridge has a 100% success rate until it fails. For better or worse, there’s no reason to think the same isn’t true for ‘The Trust Bridge.’’
After I’ve cleaned myself up. After I’ve become paranoid and searched the woods around me for the man who I think, for a wild moment, might intend to finish his unfinished job. After I’ve pack and re-packed my things and wrung my hands and searched for a cellphone signal, I turn back to the path and start in the direction of the camper. Night comes early in The Crease and there’s plenty the Guide doesn’t speak about. Plenty that is dangerous and strange that is not a destination.
Before I leave the clearing, though, I turn back again and set my phone camera to film. I walk to the post and press the button, releasing the torn remnant on my side of ‘The Trust Bridge’ into the gorge. Once I have service, I’ll find a place to post it where those who’ve walked the bridge can see. They’ll know, at least that it was special.
That it was scary.
-traveler
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