On the Trestle
I grip my fishing rod, stand on the edge of the railroad trestle and look at the water fifteen feet below. The wind and an incoming tide jerk the Umpqua River into choppy crests. I take a step forward, my chest tightens and I start to sway.
When my older brother Dave said I could tag along with him this morning, I couldn’t dig the worms fast enough. I pictured casting from the bank behind the sawmill, not walking out on the railroad trestle, a bridge with ties, tracks and no deck.
When my older brother Dave said I could tag along with him this morning, I couldn’t dig the worms fast enough. I pictured casting from the bank behind the sawmill, not walking out on the railroad trestle, a bridge with ties, tracks and no deck.