Some Years Ending in the Number Two

This year being 2022 memories from previous years ending in the number two are on my mind. 1972 is the earliest. In January of that year I was fresh off the plane home from Vietnam, happy to be alive and looking forward to beginning life after the Army and war. I had plans but it took some effort to get back into civilian life. I soon discovered that much of the war came home with me. Not in the sense of flashbacks and nightmares but rather just sheer dumbfoundedness at the whole experience. But those thoughts, while ubiquitous, were compartmentalized—always there but not particularly controlling over my life. As it turned out, I was accepted into the public administration master’s degree program at the University of Virginia and even landed an research assistant position at the university’s Institute of Government. By May I was back in Charlottesville where I had spent four years as an undergraduate before the Army and Vietnam

The surroundings were familiar but I felt detached from them, especially since everyone I knew from my undergraduate days was long gone. Meeting new people during the slow days of summer was difficult. I spent a fair amount of time on my own hiking and camping in Virginia’s mountains where it dawned on me that I was unlikely to ever walk in the woods without thinking about walking in the jungle. It also dawned on me that I was unlikely to be actually be at risk in those mountains except due to inexperience or carelessness. I did find a couple friends from my undergraduate days still in town, Peyton Coyner and Gordon Kerby. I hung out with Peyton a lot that summer and to a lesser extent with Gordon. Both kindly listened to my Vietnam stories and we have been close friends ever since. Once school began in September my world opened up considerably and I began to feel more like a normal person rather than a war veteran.

Ten years later, also in January, I wrestled with the decision to move to Arizona. By that time I had long ago finished my master’s degree and worked over seven years as an analyst for the Joint Legislative Audit and Review Commission in Richmond. It was interesting work in a good environment. By late 1981, though, future opportunities within JLARC were limited—the senior management positions were not likely to turn over any time soon. I was restless and looking about for other opportunities in Richmond when a colleague returned from a conference and told me that the Arizona Auditor General was looking for a performance audit manager. I was definitely interested although it would mean a big change. That opportunity fell through when the position was filled before I could arrange an interview but the director suggested I might consider a Senior Auditor position at a decently higher salary. I was less interested in simply doing the same work in a different place but decided to interview anyway even though I would have to pay my own travel costs. I figured that, if nothing else, I would get a chance to see another part of the country. I flew out to Phoenix for an interview and they were sufficiently impressed to offer me the position at an attractive salary. That meant I had to make a decision.

At first, I was not inclined to take the offer. Phoenix did not impress me—it looked like an endless procession of strip malls and housing developments stretching into the desert infinity. Even worse, moving to Arizona would mean leaving everything and everyone I knew. But I was restless in my job and my life. I was recently divorced and I had no family remaining in Virginia; my mother died a few years earlier. Several things finally convinced me to make the move. A brief excursion into the Verde Valley, Oak Creek Canyon and Flagstaff during my interview visit gave me a glimpse of Arizona’s grandeur beyond Phoenix. So did looking an Arizona map and seeing vast swaths of national forest and the Grand Canyon. I figured I could do some bodacious hiking there. Ten years earlier I had considered moving to Washington State after being impressed with what I saw there during Army training at Fort Lewis. I chose not to make that move and wondered ever since where that would have led. In 1982 I was more open to taking a chance so I accepted the position and made the move. It was emotionally difficult. It was also one of the best decisions of my life.

Fast forward to early 2002 and I was preparing to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail—2,000 miles north from Georgia to Maine. In January I had relocated back to Phoenix after working as a audit manager for the Navajo Nation Auditor General for almost five years. Life was much more complex than 20 years earlier and figuring out how to just step away from it all for eight months was daunting, especially the part about making a living without a job. As it turned out, I didn’t actually figure it out so much as I just made it work—with much help from my partner, Maggie, many friends along the way and even some complete strangers. Many loose ends remained when I departed Phoenix in late March for the trailhead in Georgia. I never entirely escaped them on the trail but I did make it all the way to Maine. Along the way I had my share of trials but I also met many amazing people and experienced many moments of joy and wonder.

As with every hike since Vietnam, my thru-hike brought back memories of walking in the jungle carrying a weapon. Unlike those previous hikes, the lengthy duration and many hours walking alone on the trail gave me an opportunity (or forced me)  to sort through those memories and come to terms with that experience in a way that had eluded me for three decades. Intrusive war memories not withstanding, my thru-hike remains one of my most memorable life experiences.

Not all of my major life decisions occurred in years ending in the number 2 but these three sure did.

The Days Just Seem to Run Together But That's Normal

I've seen a few articles and Facebook posts about how the Covid-19 shutdown has caused people to lose track of weekdays.  During normal times the closest most people come to slipping away from weekdays is during vacations (for those lucky enough to have that opportunity) but even then the vacation ends and weekdays become real again.  What makes the shutdown different is that it just goes on and on.  And seems like virtually everyone is in the same situation.

As a retiree, I'm largely immune to the idea of weekdays but even so I am aware of them as a time to do things when the rest of the world is busy.  But I am no stranger to living for months in situations where the concept of weekdays and weekends are entirely absent.  Serving in the Vietnam war and hiking the Appalachian Trail were both like that.  The latter was much more fun than former but I was keenly aware during my hike that I had experienced the same blending of days during my five months on combat patrol with the 1st Cavalry Division.

Once I became accustomed to the operational routine in Vietnam, days on patrol were pretty much the same.  Each day unfolded pretty much as the previous one.  The only real distinction among days was whether I was out humping the boonies (most of the time), on a firebase for a few days between missions (maybe a quarter of the time) or on in-country R&R with my unit (six days out of those five months)  Even with the difference in location he day of the week was irrelevant.  Whether it was Tuesday, Saturday or any other day made no difference.  What routine I followed depended on where I was and what I was doing, not the day of the week.  I'm not sure when it dawned on me that I couldn't remember what day it was but it was a shock to me,  It was a new experience for me, something that seemed to completely remove me from anything I had ever known.  Of course, that was pretty much my entire Vietnam experience but somehow not knowing the day of the week left me feeling completely untethered.

Even when I became company clerk in the safety of the Bien Hoa Army Base the days were routinely similar.  I did pretty much the same thing every day.  Sundays were somewhat more relaxed compared to combat  but I was still Vietnam so the only  difference between one day and the next was that each passing day was one day closer to home.  That was the only reason to pay attention to a calendar.

Losing track of days on the Appalachian Trail was not a shock nor did I feel untethered.  Numerous extended hikes allowed me to briefly slip into a world where days were just days on the trail in the forest but they always ended in a relatively short time.  A month-long hike on Vermont's Long Trail in 1991 gave me a greater sense  of the disconnect but even that hike always had an end date that I had to keep in mind.  My AT thru-hike also had an end date but it was a goal rather than a hard target so it felt open-ended form most of the six months I was on the trail.

It did not take long for days on the trail to become routine:  wake up, eat, break camp, walk, make camp, eat, sleep.  The details of each day varied but I was responsible for planning each day--on patrol in Vietnam I just followed the guy in front of me, no thought required--so I am far more cognizant of the how the activities differed from day to day.  In the end, though, those activities typically boiled down to determining mileage, finding water and camp sites, figuring how to make the next resupply stop and whether I would get a shower and maybe sleep under a roof in the process.  Knowing the day of the week was usually not a factor in any of those decisions and that information soon slipped out of my higher level consciousness.

So not being aware of the day of the week is hardly a new phenomenon  for me.  And, in truth, I still know that I started writing this on Sunday and I am, still at it on Wednesday.  Unlike Vietnam or the AT, plenty of things are readily available to keep me oriented to the calendar, if need be.  The fact that my routine is unstructured means I can often ignore the calendar or days on end.

It didn't take the pandemic shutdown for me to lose track of days.  Been there.  Done that.  Still doing it.

Hiding in Plain Sight

A "most wanted" fugitive spent eight years eluding capture on the Appalachian Trail as a hiker known only as "Bismark".  Apparently, he was honest and well-regarded by other hikers.  Having spent a season on the trail I met more than one hiker who seemed to do little else in their life.  I heard stories about others.  So it doesn't surprise me that someone could pull it off.  Especially after embezzling $8.7 million. 

Take a Walk

The Appalachian Trail celebrates its 75th anniversary today.  As good a reason as any to go for a walk.

Shameless Video Pluggery

A few weeks ago I taped an interview about my book, At the Speed of Foot, for The Veterans Hour", a production of my VFP Chapter here in Olympia.  The interview is a mix of Appalachian Trail and Vietnam experiences with discussion and plugs for the veterans benefit counseling that program host Dennis Mills and I provide at Coffee Strong.

It's about an hour long.  Watch what you will.

Not only does Dennis interview guests well, he also does post production editing for final release.

Dennis is the other counselor with me at Coffee Strong.  Actually it's me with him since I alternate Fridays; Dennis goes every week.  Today we learned that he passed the exam to be certified by the VA.  Now we are both certified.

Update:  I cannot  figure out how to resize the video to not overlap my blogroll.  If you want to watch without seeing links bleeding through the image, you can find the video here.

More Pluggery

As a way of building a "buzz" about my Appalachian Trail book, At the Speed of Foot, I am blogging my trail journal and sketchbooks on my other blog.

2012 is the 10th anniversary of my AT thru-hike which gives me some plausible for revisiting the original journals and sketchbooks. I don't know how much buzz I will get but it will give me six months of occasional content while I come up with other ways of unloading the many dozens of printed copies still available.

It's the raw stuff. The daily joy, wonder, exhaustion and uncertainly. Take a look. Maybe buy one.

Tooting My Own Horn

My Appalachian Trail memoir, At the Speed of Foot, received its first Amazon.com review last month. I came across it this evening. The reviewer doesn't ignore the book's shortcomings but he does call it "a simple honest book about the AT" and gives it four stars.

I can live with that.

And I will take this opportunity to remind readers that print copies are for sale at www.speedoffoot.com. You can also find a Kindle edition at Amazon.com.

Shameless Self-Pluggery

Now that my book, At the Speed of Foot, is in print I am posting excerpts and other items about my Appalachian Trail hike on my Speed of Foot blog. I invite you to check it out.

I would be remiss if I did not point out that the blog has a convenient purchase link.

Book News

My Appalachian Trail memoir, At the Speed of Foot, is now in print. All you folks who comprise my high single-digit readership will surely want to head over to my Speed of Foot website to order a few copies.

My 9-11 Memory

All other media , even The Nation, are observing the 10th anniversary of the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center, Pentagon and Shanksville, Pennsylvania in lieu of the White House or Capitol. Then surely it is right and proper that this humble blog do so as well.

My 9-11 memory is September 11, 2002. I was hiking the Appalachian Trail in Maine. On September 8th I stayed at a hostel and saw a small flash of the media jabber that was leading up to a grand event a few days hence. (Fox News was agog that some of World Trade Center scrap steel had been recycled in Indonesia, a Muslim(!!) nation.) I was quietly cynical about the whole affair and happy to be off in the woods for what was to come. Some of my fellow hikers, though, were genuinely affected by the memory. One hiker, an Air Force veteran, asked us to sign an American flag. I signed “with justice for all” knowing well that injustice is the root of all violence, including the attacks on the United States. The flag was displayed three days later at a shelter farther north.

The brief exposure certainly raised my awareness about the events of the previous year. Since I had a great deal of time to think and ponder as I hiked, I thought about those events and the victims over the next few days. I thought about their routines and how their normal lives intersected with a deadly ambush. I thought about how America had been initiated into the violence so common elsewhere in the world. I thought about ambushes and death in Vietnam years before. I thought of lost opportunities and things left undone, unsaid. Fortunately for my mental health, these thoughts were not obsessive. I had many reasons to be in the present as I navigated about 10,000 feet of elevation gain and loss over the next few days but September 11 was on what I called my daily thought parade during that time.

September 11, 2002 began on Bemis Mountain where I had camped with Red and Gary, my hiking partners for the entire hike from Georgia (and years before that). We start out by dropping about 1300 feet to Route 17. The sky is overcast and a few raindrops fall as we cross the highway. The few drops become more and by 9:00 when, no doubt memorial bells ring and moments of silence are observed, I am walking as quickly as I can in a cold steady rain. My only thought is to cover the next couple of miles to Sabbath Day Pond lean-to (actually a three-sided shelter with a good roof) where I can be warm and dry. Out of the rain in the shelter by noon, we decide to wait out the storm to see what happens. We’d planned to walk another 4.5 miles to a campsite that will put us that much closer to Route 4 which will take us in to town for food and resupply tomorrow but the longer this rain lasts the idea of setting up a tent fast loses its appeal. We’re warm, dry and happy in this shelter.

The rain continues and we end up staying for what becomes one of the most pleasant days on the trail. Another hiker, Rocky Top, and joins us a few hours later. The four of us spend the afternoon watching fall leaves blowing in the wind, listening to rain falling all around and swapping stories, sharing our experience of the trail. Red, Gary and I met Rocky Top in Damascus, Virginia in May. Since then he’s become somewhat of a legend on the trail. On this wet day in Maine, we hear some of his adventures and learn about the person behind the legend. And maybe I thought also about the previous September—I don’t recall it as a topic of discussion—but I was mostly definitely in the present that afternoon. On the trail, on a day like this the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The following morning started out cloudy but the wind chased the clouds away and we walked on a bright fall day. Yesterday’s storm brought down lots of leaves--mostly yellow beech mixed with some red maple. This day’s wind sends more leaves flying making a colorful day to walk. We reach the highway and hitchhike into Rangeley, Maine. At the grocery store I see a newspaper with a large photo of George and Laura Bush walking alone into what looks like a vast plaza at Ground Zero lined with spectators. The image looked disturbingly to me like Nuremberg circa 1935. The thought was fleeting. I had errands to run during a short town visit. I was soon fully back into 2002.

But like Nuremberg 1935, the September 11, 2002 ceremonies were indeed a prelude to war.

We know that now.









http://southsound.remembers911.com/

She Made It!

My friend, Kutsa, completed hiking the Appalachian Trail on 18 September. This was her sixth attempt. She began a year or two before I met and hiked with her in 2002 That was also when she met her now husband, Montreal. Her multiple hikes covered 8,000 miles and Montreal accompanied her on many of those miles. That's him with her in the picture and I'm thinking he also waited to finish the trail with Kutsa.

I'm happy for them both.

Another Snippet

North Carolina is sunny as I leave Hot Springs with Montreal, Kutsa and a raft of other thru-hikers. We walk through bright, leafless forest and deep ravines that slope down in to a green darkness. Rhododendron grottoes offer cool relief from the hot sun. On a high ridge, morning dawns with a cold light that reflects off many thousand delicate leafless branches. Wildflowers are abundant. Small wild iris, deeply purple. Bluets with their tiny pale, almost white, violet petals. Wood anemones blanket the forest floor like snow.

On a sunny morning I pass the graves of two Union soldiers,father and son, from North Carolina; a few hours later I see the grave of a woman who died one day short of 100 years. Just north of Big Bald mountain, the forest is open and serene in the gentle evening light. Great logs lie scattered everywhere. Some are mere mounds, almost completely absorbed into the ground under a carpet of moss. Others are moss-covered skeletons, slowly giving way to wind and water. Moss advances onto newly fallen trunks and branches, beginning their return to earth.

A Snippet

I am preparing my Appalachian Trail memoir for publication and came across this paragraph.

The routine is not bad. I am very, very pleased to be here. But the trail is still tough going. I groan at the sight of another climb and just keep walking, however slowly. Descents are often difficult as I try to keep from falling, tripping or slipping down steep inclines. But with every step, no matter how difficult, I truly walk in beauty. Great trees tower overhead, encompassing the earth and sky in an eternal embrace. And for these few weeks, I join that eternity. A thick mantle of foliage and rock covers the ground under this canopy. Waters flow in timeless streams. I share this wooded place with the grouse, woodpeckers, deer and snakes that I see and hear along the trail. I am part of that forest, one with Mother Earth and Father Sky. I cannot think of anything else that I’d rather be doing day after day.

Someone's Always Watching

A friend was watching a program about Hanover, New Hampshire the other day. The voice over described, among other things, how the Appalachian Trail passes directly through town and showed a backpacker walking along the sidewalk. That would be yours truly in August 2002.

29 September 2002

This day six years ago was my longest day on the Appalachian Trail. I walked 24.9 miles from Rainbow Stream lean-to to Katahdin Stream Campground. The day was only planned as a 15 mile walk but when I and my partners got to Abol Bridge we saw that the following day was forecast to be sunny with a chance of rain the next day. Since that next day was supposed to include climbing to Katahdin summit, the final leg of our 2,100 mile hike, we decided to take no chances that bad weather would close the summit. So we walked the extra 10 miles in the late afternoon of a fine Maine day. The walk was a long one, but it got us to the mountain's base in time for a next morning ascent. Pure fucking adrenalin.

11 September 2002

On the first anniversary of the 9-11 attacks, I hiked from Bemis Mountain to Sabbath Day Pond in Maine with my partners, Red and Gary. Not long after crossing Route 17 rain started to fall and then to fall even harder. We moved as fast as we could, hoping to reach the shelter at Sabbath Pond and get out from all this rain, pulling in around mid-day. The rain kept falling and it soon became obvious that we weren't going to walk any more that day. We pulled out our sleeping pads, bags and warm clothing and settled in for a leisurely afternoon in the dark Maine woods.

The events of the year before had been on my mind now and again during the preceding days. Most mornings around 9:00 I thought about the attacks and the dead. As I did so, I marveled that I was still alive to hike. After all, no good reason other than luck and circumstance separated me from the dead, or them from me. But here I was, alive and well, experiencing the adventure of a lifetime while the victims were dead and their families mourned their losses. Somehow that didn't seem right.

Not long after we'd hunkered down, another hiker, Rocky Top, came in from the rain. We'd met him in Virginia way back in May but mostly saw him in passing. Rocky Top was mostly a fleeting presence throughout the intervening miles, mostly through stories and comments in shelter register, but a presence nonetheless. As the only African-American on the trail and 6'3" he was hard to miss when he was in the vicinity. Today, though, it was just the four of us, sharing stories about the previous five months' adventure.

The day was dark and wet. Rain fell off and on throughout the afternoon as the wind blew fall leaves across the forest floor. But for this hiker, the afternoon was every reason to be alive and savor this world and the company of friends while I could. That was the lesson I brought from the attack--all those people left unfinished business: arguments not resolved, loved ones not kissed and so many other things that we always expect to do later. And then later never comes.

I guess the lessons from that day are legion, many profound and heartfelt, more so than my scattered thoughts. But in recognizing the importance of Now, I opened myself to infinite possibilities.

postscript

The following day we walked into Rangely, Maine to re-supply. I saw a front page photo of the previous day's memorial at Ground Zero. George W. and Laura walked in solitary solemnity across a vast space surrounded by a guard of honor. It looked like something out of a Leni Riefenstahl film.

Hiker News

My Appalachian Trail companions Montreal and Kutsa are out hiking again. This time the Quebec National Trail across Montreal's home province. They have a bilingual website with a not yet updated journal and other information at Pancrhromatic Paseo Productions. And a film, The Maine Reason, due out next February.

They were fine companions in 2002 and again in 2005. I'm pretty sure this trip will be worth following.

Appalachian Reflections

During the hiking season I often reflect on my 2002 AT thru-hike. As years pass, I remember fewer and fewer specifics--I used to recite the names of campsites in consecutive order as a sleep mantra; I can't do that now--but I can still pinpoint dates and times pretty well if I think about it. This morning I recalled that on June 9 I was in central Virginia walking through the geography of my youth, only a few days south of Rockfish Gap, very much part of Home. My trail log shows an 18.5 mile day from Cornelius Creek Shelter to the James River. I recall it as a pleasant morning followed by a hot afternoon with a spectacular view of the James from the top of a 2000 foot gorge. Here is where the James River cuts its way through the Blue Ridge Mountains, making its way from the Shenandoah Valley into Virginia's Piedmont and on to Richmond and Tidewater. It's about as dramatic a landscape as I've seen and being so much a part of my personal history, the overwhelming sense of home should not have surprised me.

It did, though. Not so much from nostalgia but rather seeing this river, this gorge and all that it connects, encompassed all the opportunity, adventure and satisfaction that I have been so very fortunate to experience in my life. Standing on that ridge, I was about the luckiest man on Earth.

The climb down to the river was, if not brutal, definitely tedious at the end of a long-mile, hot day. I and two hiking partners camped by the river that evening with time for a swim. Crossing the James the following morning was exceptional. The AT crosses the river on a 1000 foot footbridge built on the pilings from a former railroad bridge. I was out at first light, on the bridge by myself, passing over this great river that stretched away in two directions. The water was calm under a light mist. My boots echoed in the early stillness and all was right with my world. Even that climb out of the gorge was not a problem. Not now.

That evening we would camp at Little Irish Creek after another long, hot day. Two Trail Angels*, Tomboy and Renegade, served us grilled Polish sausage with all the trimmings, baked beans, salad and cold drinks from the kitchen they set up at a trail crossing there. After dinner Renegade drove three of us into Buena Vista to buy groceries and supplies. That's an awful lot of joy, wonder and luck in a very short time.

Now all these events are past. For me. For now. The cycle continues eternal, however, as a new year's hikers make their way north. The big cohort--hikers who started walking in late March-April--is in Virginia now, walking, like me, along the crest of the Blue Ridge, through Shenandoah National Park and into northern Virginia. Many are farther ahead in Pennsylvania. You can find their journals (and photos, I am sure) here and can see them at the Doyle Hotel. The names, faces and poses at the Doyle this year would fit right in with 2002.



* Trail Angel = someone who does something nice for hikers.

The First of May 2008

May Day greetings to all. Today is the international Worker's Day and a time to reflect on the Means of Production. Who owns/controls them? How did they come to that position? Who benefits from them? Most importantly, does organized society promote human freedom and opportunity? Think about that as you go about your business today.

May 1 is the National Day of Prayer in the US and may still be National Law Day. The latter was established as an alternative to "communist-inspired" May Day and no doubt Prayer Day is also a means to distract Americans from considering the relationship among society's classes and control of its resources. America's Labor Day is moved way down the calendar and is more of an End-of-Summer milestone than any reflection on the role of labor and capital.

But today is also a beautiful spring day in Olympia. The sun is shining. Some clouds are still in the sky but I can see lots of blue. The city is becoming greener by the day after a cold spring. The weather isn't exactly warm yet but the promise is there. The oak trees on my street are budding out with the first hints of leaves showing, Rhododendrons are blossoming everywhere. Tulips, daffodils and many other flowers are in bloom. Spring here feels like an opening up of life as we emerge from the dark winter, which I found not at all depressing. In my former location, spring is the occasion for heading underground to escape the the coming heat until, maybe mid October.

Thoughts of spring remind me of an evening spent at Eckville Shelter on the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania in May 2005. I sat on a bench outside the shelter as countless bumblebees swarmed the area. Bees were constantly checking me out but not at all aggressive. They were far more interested in each other than me; once they figured out I wasn't a bee, they were gone. Occasionally, one would fly into me and simply bounce back into the air. No big deal. When I first went out to sit, I was a little unnerved by the swarm but the bees had definite business that did not involve me. As the evening progressed, bees would buzz about, somehow finding a partner and fly away as a tandem. Sitting on that bench, looking into Pennsylvania's green woods, life was beginning anew and I was so much a part of it.

I feel same connection here in Olympia. The small town environment seems to make spring all that more noticeable. No doubt the drastic change in my locale has a lot to do with the experience. Whatever the reason, I like it.

Maybe I'll go find some bees to hang with.

Spanning the Waters

[This started out as a comment at Mockingbird's Medley that grew as I wrote. Most of what follows is there but I expanded it here to add a few more favorite bridges.]

My last project in Virginia 25 years ago evaluated highway maintenance needs. I spent a lot of time looking at bridges with engineers and learning how they are stuctured, built and maintained. Even then many were structurally deficient but politicians weren't willing to pay for maintenance. They much prefer shiny new things like new highways, bridges or even ball parks. But it's the maintenance that keeps the value and safety of public infrastructure. Effective maintenance will ensure that a structure achieves its design life and can even extend that life, thereby saving the expense of a new facility. Which, of course, denies politicians their shiny new projects.

The Minnesota failure may not be so much incompetence as a catastrophically bad decision to defer maintenance in favor of "more inspections" since maintenance money is always scarce. In the meantime, the sports palaces rise and we pour money into war and destruction.

Evaluating bridges was fun just because they are amazing structures, especially older ones that required engineers to span distances that exceeded their longest materials. Arches, trusses and suspension spans to accomplish that feat were not only engineering marvels but also works of art. These days, crews can fabricate long beams on site so designers just need to revert to the simplest form: a beam from bank to bank or pier to pier, functional but boring. I noticed that the bridge adjacent to the collapsed bridge was an arch span, probably built in the 30's or 40's. It looks like the deck was widened to carry more lanes but the main structure is much older than the one that failed.

Richmond, Virginia, where I lived before Arizona, has some beautiful bridges. The railroad bridge over the James west of Boulevard Bridge is one of the finest I've ever seen. Its broad main arches and gracefully curved deck arches are poetry in stone. The view from the Powhite Parkway crossing is spectacular. The old Lee Bridge was also an arched structure but only had the three or four main arches; the deck supports were just columns. It was far less graceful than the railroad brige upstream. I've seen the new Lee Bridge but not enough to recall it. I know the arches are purely decorative, much to the frustration The Boulevard Bridge is pretty neat too, with its complex truss under the deck, similar in concept to the collapsed Minneapolis bridge but much longer lasting, at least in part because it is weight and size restricted. Boulevard Bridge was always my favorite crossing even with the toll. The approaches in either direction were pretty steep and led to two very narrow traffic lanes. kind of like driving on to a ferry ramp. The deck was much lower to the James than other crossings. Boulevard Bridge also offered a good view of the railroad bridge upstream but, if I was driving, I had to concentrate on staying on course; there wasn't much clearance between lanes. Crossing on foot was much more fun.

Phoenix bridges are mostly pier and beam. And new. For the longest time only one bridge crossed the Salt River (which contrary to popular myth is not "normally dry", it's dammed to hell). That was at Hayden's Ferry in Tempe built in the 30's, I think. A very nice three arch span. The area had three major floods between 1978 and 81. Only the Hayden's Ferry bridge and the adjacent railroad bridge held. The rest were gone. When I came in 1982, some major thoroughfares crossing the Salt River were still unbridged. No more.

I encountered several memorable bridges on the Appalachian Trail. The many AT clubs that maintain the trail have built some wonderful bridges. The Laurel Creek crossing south of Bland Virginia is an impressive stone and wood structure. Just north is a wooden suspension bridge over Kimberling Creek. Same too at Jones Creek just south of the Salt Sulphur Turnpike. I crossed the latter in 2002 during a crashing thunderstorm. Three years later, it was washed out. The footbridge across the James River is very impressive. It's easily 100 meters long, maybe more, built on the piers or a previous railroad bridge and is the product of lots of work by the Natural Bridge AT Club. I crossed the James just after dawn on a June morning. My steps echoed on the wooden deck and the river lay under a cover of light mist here and there. The Swatara Creek crossing in central Pennsylvania is also notable. It's an old truss bridge relocated as a foot crossing. The morning I crossed was bright, sunny and the silver truss sparkled like a delicate filigree.

So now you know I like bridges.