That NW Bridge

The Vance Creek bridge sits 347 feet above the ground. It's the second highest railway arch bridge in the United States. I was told these stats while sitting around a campfire. I had heard of the bridge--mainly seen it in photos and in this "17 death-defying views list"--but this was the first time it was given a name.

The photos seemed "cool". People standing on abandoned railroad tracks with a vast landscape of faraway (& far-below) trees surrounding them. I expected an easy-going adventure--awesome in its own beauty alone.

Upon arrival, we began trekking the short trail to the bridge. My heart began to race inside my chest in a way that I can't recall it having done in quite a long time. I felt like an excited child--naïve in what the world can be.

On the way to the bridge, I had a brief discussion with a friend about heights. It wasn't a fear of heights or even a fear of falling: it was a want to jump, a want to know the sensation of free-fall.

I once sat on a cement wall in Pittsburgh with a friend. We gazed down at the river, maybe 40 feet below us, and I said, "I want to jump." Surprised, my friend said, "I was just thinking that." What is it about these strange heights that call us to plunge into the depth? It's a temptation: into what, I do not know.

Standing on either side of the bridge, I admit, I felt the pull. 347 feet. Though a rather unfriendly landing ground of rocks & trees. Some kids dragged a big branch into the center of the bridge and tossed it over the side. I heard the crack, like a shotgun in the distance. I asked what happened, and a friend described the branch as having "splintered" upon impact.

I'm still in awe of what a God-fearing sense of life this bridge implanted within me. I discovered fears I didn't know I had. I realized that I am not the seemingly immortal child I tend to think I am at heart. I learned that 347 feet is a long way down.

The first end of the bridge seems harmless. You climb a large, metal tube to actually reach the bridge, & then there's nothing to do but cross. With each step, I realized just how frightening this whole concept even was: the bridge is extremely old; the railroad ties are rotting, some missing entirely, some just splintering under my feet.

Something about the height, the lack of railing--open ends with nothing to catch you but the treetops below; something about it all felt like a sort of flying & falling at the same time. Every step left my head swirling, as if I were standing still and twirling. I felt dizzy and confused. If I looked straight ahead, I could feel the height, but if I looked down, the spinning sensation resumed, yet I felt safe because I could see where my feet would land. I tripped once and fell forward, catching myself in a moment of panic. Of course I was going to be fine. I wasn't near the edge, but the feeling of going down introduced the idea to the end to my mind.

When we started on the bridge, I thought I would only go a short distance then come back. I didn't realize that once started, I would have to cross the whole way: the voice within me wouldn't have it any other way, though quivering and frightened. Halfway across, there is a section where the railroad ties are burnt, some gone completely. It was then that I nearly turned back. One missing tie was one thing: two required stepping down onto the steel support beam then back up to the next tie. On either side of the support beam, there was enough room for about two people to fall straight through. I couldn't step down while holding my puppy; my legs were shaking too bad. She was even more frightened than me- she held onto my shoulders with a force (one of these moments I bet dogs wish they had thumbs).

Some high schoolers  were sitting calmly on the other side watching us. One kid -maybe 12 years old-reached his arms across the gap to us. I carefully handed Pickle to him & followed close behind. We then resumed the walk across. The last half was the best and the worst-the best because of the sweet taste of land, the worst because it meant that we, once again, had the full length of the bridge yet to cross.

Friends offered tips to help with the dizzying confusion of walking on the bridge. "Just look straight ahead" (but I need to see where I step!) or the usual "don't look down" proved unhelpful. The best was to walk parallel to the beams beneath the ties where it was blocking off the view below while allowing me to see ahead. The only catch was that it was closer to the edge.

By the time we made it back (though one of the first to hop onto the bridge, I was the last to leave it), I had a resonating quiver within that reminded me that I had never been that physically afraid before in my life. Fear of a what? It was only the sensation of danger, not an actual present threat.

For days after, the thought of the bridge offered that shaking reminder of being alive, like when you pinch yourself to check your consciousness. All I could think was that I wanted to go back, particularly with my nice camera to try to more adequately capture the scene.

Since our visit, the bridge has been officially closed to visitors for a multitude of reasons, mainly that it resides on private property, causing a liability issue for the owners were anyone to be injured on the bridge. I'm glad to have gotten to see it, and while I may not be able to return, I hope to find other views that inspire such vitality in just being in its presence.