Above The Kootenai River

Today my thankfulness blossoms from the beauty of nature I have experienced,

and the sense of tranquility and fulfillment it provides my life.

 

 

 

 

Along The Kootenai River

 

Could I Conquer The Kootenai?

Another Phobia

As previously mentioned, I am not a fan of tight spaces.  Low ceilings, caves, small openings, and even getting tangled in my blankets unnerves me (see “Hidden Beauty” from March 2012).  Equally as worrisome to me is acrophobia.  I have attempted on multiple occasions to overcome this affliction, including skydiving, but nonetheless, being at an extreme open height scares the dickens out of me.  I have been to the top of the Willis Tower (formerly the Sears Tower) and I found the view inspiring and the distance above the earth perfectly safe, yet a balcony on a low-story hotel makes me uneasy.

When crossing the Rio Grande River west of Taos, New Mexico, I worried about the possibility of my camera falling to its demise, but fretted for my own security any time a truck would pass and the entire span would bounce.  As a child me parents took freakish delight in my apprehension about crossing the suspension bridge transversing Royal Gorge, more than a thousand feet above the Arkansas River in central Colorado.  In my humble opinion, bridges should not allow anyone crossing it to peer between wooden slats that make up the crossing surface and view the jagged earth beneath it.  Bridges should be solid structures, with high sides preventing any confusion about which side I and my personal property belong and securely shall remain.

Crossing The Rubicon (And The Bridge Over It)

There comes a time when fear must be conquered, when it is time to face the nemesis of our mind, or in my case, the extremely physical barrier between an open bridge and the possibility of what may or may not be my demise beneath it.  The time to embrace my phobia came with a simple logic, “Did I come all this way to see this and then I am not going to enjoy it simply because it terrifies me?”  In the past, I might have easily answered my own question affirmatively, but here in the Kootenai National Forest, stretched across the identically named river and its cascading waterfalls, also so named, no one would know if I braved the crossing or merely looked at the scenery from the safety of the river’s bank.  The only way to know if I successfully cross this narrow, shaky span would be if I document the moment and prove I am embracing my inner crazy.

As I approach, a young couple who appears far less concerned  about the height and stability of the crossing receives a warm invitation to precede me across the bridge.  With only a few narrow boards of width, should I abandon the safe harbor of the river bank out towards its center, the two would have no ability to return to their starting point if I hesitate in my journey from the left bank to the right.  I eventually release my grip and venture out beyond a secure distance, so if they do reappear, I must rush forward or retreat.   As I progress on my uneasy crossing, I find my eagerness barely nudging me ahead, yet off they go, leaving the span bouncing over the cold rapids, and me to face my phobia.  I know somewhere inside I have the courage to ease my way away from the bank’s safe edge, and I eventually swallow and walk boldly to the center without stopping.  The young couple have long since left me alone on the wooden planks and I reach into my pocket and withdraw my camera (its strap clasped tightly around my wrist) to document and prove to the world what I have already proven to myself: I triumph over acrophobia.

From A Distance

The Matterhorn

As a child, I recall driving across the Sonoran desert through the booming town of Blythe, California, for what seemed to be an eternity to arrive at the Happiest Place on Earth.  And the best indicator of when our drive neared its completion appeared in the shape of a fake snow-covered mountain on the edge of Fantasyland.  To this day, I adore the site of a tall structure off in the distance looming ahead for who knows how many miles, whether a bridge, or a monument, a geological formation, or a recreation of the Matterhorn.  It’s the excitement of what’s coming that always tantalizes me.

Arched over the St. Louis skyline, the Jefferson Expansion Memorial served in this harkening capacity.  Descending towards the Straits of Mackinac, Bic Mac straddles the Upper Peninsula and the bottom oven mitt of the Wolverine State, encouraging me to leave the frozen tundra behind me (see “The UP” from July 2012).  Perhaps it’s the excitement of anticipation, but seeing a goal in the distance inspires me to drive onward towards my destination.  And with each passing minute, the towering object grows taller and more defined along the path I am headed.

Spires and Prairies

I recall our drive through the south German state of Baden-Württemberg towards the majestic, misnamed Ulm cathedral with its massive spire. Pausing for lunch seemed almost insulting to the gothic points reaching skyward, beckoning me to climb upward, to glance down over the Danube River.  When we finally began our ascent up the seven hundred sixty-eight steps to the peak, rather than railings we steady ourselves against the stone walls that took over five hundred years from foundation to finish.  And in comparison, the two hundred and twenty stairs to the top of the New Jersey Veteran’s Memorial may have paled in age and height, but yet, as I drove through the New Jersey hills, I found it difficult to take my eyes off the obelisk I approached.

Across a flowing road of the eastern Wyoming prairie, Devil’s Tower looms ominously over the myriad of green rolling hills.  From more than a dozen miles away, it catches my eye.  From a half dozen miles away, it appears to dwarf its surroundings.  From its foothills and border of fallen boulders, only the prairie dogs seem impervious to its might.  Nearly circumnavigating the structure, the road creates a near circle of distance to peer out the moon roof and be blown away by its stature.  For as massive as these structures appear from a distance, beckoning me forward, their height reminds me of my smallness in all the most humble ways.

Spans

Acrophobia

I have acrophobia, too (see “Hidden Beauty” from March 2012) and I would like to think that I am working on overcoming it (see “Leap Day” from February 2012).  Nevertheless, crossing bridges that exceed a reasonable height from which a person could accidentally drive over the side and survive envelopes me in trepidation.  My sight line barely wavers from the painted lines on the pavement, which is disappointing considering the view over the edge is most likely spectacular, and at the very least, grand.  Monitoring the correct travel lanes dominated my focus on the Bay Bridge and I missed out on the Chesapeake Bay.  Focusing on taking a few glimpses of the remarkable scenery bridges afford has become one of the goals of my travels. 

Like most of my shortcomings, I blame my parents when they laughed at my concerns while crossing Royal Gorge.  Skip the Google, here are the highlights: built in 1929 for only $350,000, its wooden walkway allows pedestrians to look down the nearly 1,000 feet to the Arkansas River between the slats of wood.  As a suspension bridge, it sways in the wind and bounces as cars drive over it, so the height coupled with the movement did not appeal to me as a child.  Rather than educate me about the structure’s magnificent architecture, the geologic development of the canyon, or the benefits the span brought to its earliest passengers once completed, my parents laughed at me.  Hmm, I wonder what Dr. Spock would have said about that.

I Still Love Them

Despite my anxiety, I do love bridges.  When driving, if I catch a glimpse of one in the distance, I eagerly drive toward it (see “Jumping Off Point” from January 2012).  I like to know what waterway passes under it and when horses or pedestrians or automobiles first crossed it.  If there is a vantage point before or after its approach, it’s a safe bet that I will stop for photos.  Some bridges are boring along the span, but their height will take your breath away, like the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge on US Highway 64 west of Taos, New Mexico.  Others have artistic symmetry, and on a beautiful day, contrast a bright blue Florida sky, like the Sunshine Skyway Bridge across Tampa Bay.  And with some bridges, size matters, just ask any Michigander taking a gander at Big Mac, which might be more aptly named, Long Mac, since its ability to stretch across the Straits of Mackinac ranks it the third longest suspension bridge in the world.  Of course, it’s not as catchy of a name, as pop-cultured, or covered in sesame seeds.

Even in their meagerness, simple bridges inspire me, too.  In the quiet town of Philippi, West Virginia, hidden between ridges of the Appalachian Mountains, across the Tygart Valley River a simple covered bridge might seem expected, but with two lanes and  

roots dating before the Civil War, this roofed street certainly bears crossing; and as the only covered bridge on a US Highway (US 250, also known as Main Street), it earns noteworthy acclaim to a bridge aficionado like me.  Driving across a flat stretch of Interstate 10, hovering above the Mississippi swamps north of Pascagoula Bay amazes me as I consider the time this simple crossing might have taken a hundred years before me.  And no matter how many times I traverse US Highway 67 over the Mississippi River above the locks at Alton, Illinois, I never tire from crossing these spans because I still love them, even if they scare me.