This is the story of a major crossing and the building of a bridge not far enough. The story begins with me bushwhacking up a narrow valley filled shoulder to shoulder with exposed granite boulders. Over, around, and between the boulders, ran a creek swollen by rain and melt-water. The spray thrown by the waters had painted all of the boulders in an emerald green, a film of algae, moss, mucous, and slime that coated the rock with a treacherous grease.

Once you have had any personal experience of brain injury, you will feel compelled to guard against any further subsequent similar injury. This creek bed of treachery, and my desire to cross it, placed me in conflict with my own instinct for self preservation. One slip on a greasy rock and my 64 year old noggin might suffer an impact it would not survive. Just landing a set of 64 year old ribs against a rough stub of granite would have similar effect.

My search for a safe crossing point had lead me on a half mile trek up treachery valley. On the way upstream, I found a black plastic flower pot of a design similar to what I had used in the maritimes but had not been able to find in local stores. I gladly collected this piece of urban detritus and carried it with me up creek. I had also passed planks, and boards, and shelving, and entire chests of drawers. When I happened upon a place in the boulder field that appeared to offer a place for a bridge, I trekked back down the valley to recover one of the larger planks. I dragged it with me back upstream and then managed to wangle it into position spanning the distance between two grease covered rocks, creating a bridge perched high above a rushing pool of melt-water.

To be continued . . .