The destruction of a bridge between the present and the past

Looking back on my childhood, there is one summer that stands out above all others. It was the summer of 1983. I was 15 and a half (the half is still really important at 15.) My family was living in Hollister, California, but my dad was working in Utah for the summer. He was working for his longtime friend, Dr. Ralph Anderson, on a mining project. The goal was to create a mining system that could operate profitably on ore that was usually not worth processing.

So I spent the summer with my father. The company had a small airplane (Cessna 421 Golden Eagle) that flew my back and forth between my two summer homes: a motor home in front of "the shop" on 72nd South in SLC, and the mine - few acres located at the spot where the Dolores River empties into the Colorado.

Oh what splendid memories! Flying over deep canyons in southern Utah, learning how various equipment would separate the heavy material from the light, meeting people who knew so much about their own area of specialty. (Lynn the pilot, Herb the welder...)

The country was beautiful. One day we came across some old Indian murals next to the highway. Sadly, a portion of them was sprayed over with modern graffiti. Nearby the ghost town of Cisco, once an important railroad town - now deserted. Perhaps the most spectacular was the Dewey Bridge. Picture an old cable "suspension bridge" crossing the great Colorado River. As a suspension bridge, it swayed a bit in the wind! Now add to your picture, it was only 8 feet wide! In 1916 when they built it they planned on 10 feet, but they didn't have enough money... so 8 feet would have to do. If memory serves, I believe it knocked the mirrors off Dr. Andersen's old motor home when he crossed it!

In late August, I returned to Hollister. A month later my Dad called. 'Hey Dad, how ya doin'?" "Not great. The plane crashed. Ralph was killed and two other friends badly injured." I could think of no response, except to say, "your kidding!?" "No son, I would not kid about that." Of course he was not joking, but it didn't make sense.

Summer was over.

- switch gears -

A few weeks ago I traveled to Monticello Utah. Along the way I was surprised when I saw a sign saying I was on the road to Moab! I didn't realize I would be passing through Moab. Memories began to flow. I wondered if I could find it. How far was the mine from the town? Which direction. Now that was a real problem. I could not ask someone "hey, do you know where an old mining property was, back in 1983?" How would I find it.

I stopped for gas and figured I would give it one shot. I had an idea. The Dewey bridge! I asked a middle aged woman working at the gas station if she had heard of the Dewey Bridge. Even though it was an old forgotten bridge in the middle of nowhere, just maybe...

"Oh Yes!" she declared, "I know the old Dewey Bridge well! Drive back down the main street and turn right at the Colorado River and keep going for 45 minutes. But," Her mood altered. "The bridge... it burned down 5 months ago. Some kid playing with matches..."

My heart sunk. Why should this matter to me so much? Yet it did. I had to see it.

The drive up the canyon was spectacular. The beauty was beyond my ability to describe. I will not attempt it.

45 minutes later, there she was... the remains of the old Dewey Bridge. The cables were still in place, but there was no road connected. They had restored her about 8 years ago. Now, now she was but a ghost. No, less than a ghost, a lifeless skeleton.


(For some pictures before and during the fire, go to: http://www.centralpt.com/pageview.aspx?id=22862 )

I stopped and paid my respects.

Then I drove the last mile to the mine. It is now a beautiful cabin property, nestled along side the river. I stopped to talk to the owner. I wondered if he knew about the mine that used to be there. He was not home. Perhaps on another trip.

Will it seem strange that things like this are part of the reason I have a hard time throwing things out? Somehow, I have an over active "preserve things" gene. I see this bridge, and it strikes me much like the graffiti on the Indian mural. Or perhaps more like the town of Cisco, where even the ghosts are rumored to move on. Or even, just gone, like Dr. Anderson, the plane, and the dream we all shared.

Somehow the Dewey Bridge was a part of my memory. Those memories were mine alone. If someone had shared them with me and remembered, that would make them remain real. But so few memories are really ever shared. Lacking another mortal who shares the memory, things like the bridge remain, and make them real.

I want so badly to think of a moral to this story. I want to find some deeper meaning. Perhaps that would make it all real again. But right now, it just feels like waste. But perhaps that is the moral. All things mortal, decay and come to an end. So few things are eternal. Try as I may, the pictures and trinkets that remind me that "it was real" will all fade away just like the memories.

Do I spend enough time preserving the Eternal? Knowledge, friendships, family... These are the real treasures and they need not fade.

-jf