17 hours ago
The bridge is still, so long as I am the only one on it. Cross-legged and using a pebble to support the lens, I balance my camera on a rusty edge. This morning, I yearned for the roar of river. I see trout in the still pockets. Each step brought me nearer to the moment the crashing current cut through the pine. When you hear the river, you’re close. Close to the bridge crossing. Close to the train boarding. Close to home. From the bridge, it’s almost three hours to Durango by rail. Then another seven back home by road. But my eyes aren’t fixed that far ahead. They never have been. I don’t know if they ever will be. Sometimes that’s a hard lesson. Sometimes that’s the best way to be. You’d be damned to spend your whole adventure thinking about the long drive “back to reality.” You’ll miss the adventure. The wild turquoise waters of the Weminuche. The goat fur strung through your camp. The jagged, towering spires of the basin. The blisters, burns, and bruises. The cramped, wet seat in the railcar, bouncing in the sun, warm through the windows. So look ahead, but don’t forget where you stand. And from where you came. And to where you go.
From right here on this bridge.