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We walk close together, my mother, brother, sister, and I as we make our morning trek down the long expanse of railroad track. The still morning is filled with our crunching footsteps as we walk gingerly, avoiding the loose gravel that has fallen down from the ties. The two iron rails appear a dark grey with their thick coating of morning dew, and the chemical scent of creosote rises strongly from the black oily ties. Frogs croak hesitantly from rush-choked ditches but become silent as we draw near. A distant train whistle from miles away makes this isolated valley seem, somehow, even more uninhabited. Ahead, previously hidden by distance, the Poolpoint begins to unfold in our perspective. Here, the land ends abruptly, eaten away centuries before by the river far below, forming this cliff-lined gorge 200-feet across and over 300-feet deep. Impossible to cross, you would think; but, apparently, the railroad thought otherwise. It seems as if they paused for only a moment before slapping down this single-spanning double trestle. The railroad tracks run across this trestle, over the abyss, and disappear into a yawning black tunnel cut into the mountain on the other side. An eighteen-inch, tar-and-gravel pedestrian walk, complete with a black four-foot- high safety rail, runs along the bridges left side. My brother, sister, and I get in single file in front of mom. My first few steps onto the walk are not too scary. It's in the next few steps, when the land seems to suddenly drop from beneath me, that I reach for the reassurance of those safety rails. Gravity seems to pull at me from the empty space below. After we have travelled about halfway onto the bridge, we pause. Leaning slightly, I look down over the rails. Working my mouth and tongue, I gather all the saliva that I can, lean a little farther, over the rail, and . . . spit! The huge drop of white foam falls straight down; it seems to fall forever, until . . . kerplot! You can actually hear it this far up! Wide ripples undulate outward, breaking the water's glassy surface, until my ripples are dissipated by my brother's larger spit ripples. I laugh loudly, imagining him saving his saliva for the half-mile we've travelled down the tracks. It's a ritual we do every morning and it became a sort-of competition. My laughter echoes eerily from the tunnel ahead, causing my brother and sister to laugh. Our interest is on the tunnel now, and we continue on across. We make loud noises toward that huge black hole with its pinpoint of centered light, just to see whose noise can echo back the weirdest. I feel the usual disappointment that we don't actually go through the tunnel; instead, we have to cut right at its face and climb a steep mountain path which will take us to the top of the hill and to the highway where the bus will pick us up. Mom's journey with us ends here, at the cool mouth of the tunnel. Its damp, mouldy breath blows around us. We say our goodbyes to Mom, reassured in the fact that she will be waiting for us on the return trip, this evening.
Reflecting back on these memories of my childhood, I'm often surprised at the emotions that it evokes in me. I'm totally stunned by the actual bravery and courage I had as a child. I remember that bridge, river, and tunnel, and how deeply I, and my siblings used to fear it. We'd have nightmares about the thing and if we were arguing or fighting the worst phrase that we could sling at one another was, "I hope you fall off the Poolpoint Bridge!" Shamefully, I remember saying it to my sister Carrie once. After saying it I wanted to take it back. My hand came up to slap against my mouth, (I assume, a retarded physical reaction from the brain to stop the words before they come) but it was too late. I just stood there with my mouth covered, staring at her as her jaws dropped open in shock, all color drained from her face and her eyes pooled with tears. It was our worst fear and I'd had the gall and heartlessness to sling it at her. I felt like the lowest form of life on the planet at that moment. I just burst into tears and grabbed her to me and sobbingly apologized as our hearts broke. I never said it again; ever, and I'm forever thankful that she forgave me.
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