Blog Post by: Karl Seckinger
- August 27, 2012 - 11:08 AM
The map sez I’ll cross a little creek just in between the next two ridges and when I come over the rise, a brand new silver truck is parked on the far side of the bridge. I stop right in the middle of the span to check the water level.
An arm comes out of the pickup truck window, waving me forward, or up to him. I pulled alongside, He asked what I was doing; I said I planned on fishing the creek.
As it turns out, the township officer verbally warns me; “probably not a good idea to stop on it”. He also said if some “gone green” showed up, they’d have conniption fit. He admitted it probably wasn’t too safe, but it has to work until they can afford better.
Before he left he went on to tell me everyone around here likes the old timber framed corduroy bridge. He remembers his dad’s tractor hauling hay, firewood and plowing the snow off it year after year until the township could afford a grader.
He laughed and said “now the grader operator (Howard) who’s probably old as the bridge, hasn’t driven over that bridge deck in fifteen years. Plows up to it, turns around, and drives half way round the township to grade up to the other side, but aint no way he’s a going over it. Township bid the roads by the season, not by the hour, so we don’t care, and nobody really wants to make old Howard mad either. ” He said good luck, shifted the truck into gear and left.
Stringing a rod, I couldn’t help but notice, its timber is so soaked in creosote that on this very warm day, the air reeks with its permeating aroma.
Half way cross its splintered planked face is a black hole the size of which a musk melon would have no trouble passing through. I drop’t a few rocks, just to hear them splash.
Walking down the bank I got upwind of its fragrance and chewing on some corned beef maybe for the first time in my life, I looked at a bridge. A bridge constructed entirely out of wood, no iron or concrete anywhere and why couldn’t I see at least one nail or spike somewhere?
Here were some massive chunks of wood spanning basically trickles of water, all fenced in ferns and brush out in the middle of just someplace I hoped big old brookie’s lived.
Then I really I wished I would have asked him if he knew when it was built or what kind of wood. In the next instant, I was all about the brook trout, so I guess it really didn’t matter. I hadn’t “gone green” or anything. The trout whisperer