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The Jumping Bridge

Doug Downie

    A very long time ago I used to jump from high places into small spaces. From the top of a cliff into that dark area of the lake that rumour had told us was deep, and safe. We could let all our fears out in that one magical leap from a perch on top of a sandstone ledge or the edge of an old iron bridge that spanned a narrow gorge.
    Whooowheee!
    Nothing quite like an adrenaline rush. Go ahead...challenge death...and come out victorious!
    I knew a bunch of guys that used to go up to the Adirondacks every summer, along about July, to a spot they called ‘The Jumping Bridge’. They’d been doing it long before I ever went along. It was the peak time for black flies, and why these boyscouts picked that time was a mystery to me. It seemed to be a tradition connected to an original expedition when the place was first ‘discovered’ by them.
    On my first trip there we drove continuously, drinking beer after beer, talking shit, or not talking at all, but beholden to the edict that piss breaks were not allowed. My bladder accumulated so much liquid effluvia as the hours passed by that I was sure I was going to burst apart. I finally had to beg like a secret CIA detainee to be allowed to stop to let it out. I had a hard time, going forward, justifying the rationale behind this glorifying of discomfort.
    But I liked those guys.
    They were my neighbourhood buddies, my ‘homies’ as some would say now. We’d known each other since were little kids. There’s a communion there that doesn’t completely wear off with time – after all, it’s stressful to be placed in the middle of a home you didn’t choose, with a family you didn’t choose, and a set of values you didn’t choose. One needs a support group after all that.
    I’d gone off for awhile with a bunch of hippy types; smoking weed, dropping acid, snorting and even shooting speed; but I finally thought it was time to get back to people who were a little closer to the ground.
    It was sometime past midnight when we finally got to the campsite. The van rumbled over the bridge with a clatter of planks and spikes while the moon shone through the windows in a luminous glare. Just past the bridge we pulled into a clearing. There was a stone campfire ring centered under overarching pines and oaks.
    “Who wants to go out and find a spot for the tent?” asked Slater, always the sardonic one. The demonic glint bubbling from his eyes should have been a clear signal.
    The tent was an old Army canvas 10-man job, durable, and heavy as a bag of rocks. Finding the spot could mean avoiding having to help set it up.
    “I’ll go.” I said.
    There was a general snicker all around. I sensed it more than heard it, but I’d committed myself.
    I pulled the door on the side of the van open and stepped out onto the Adirondack soil in my summer shorts and tank top. I waltzed out into the middle of the clearing. The moon cast a beam of light straight to the spot where the tent should be erected. I could hear the sound of the river crashing over the ancient broken boulders. Beyond that there seemed to be nothing but silence.
    It was beautiful.
    “Hey guys! This is the spot! I found it!”
    At that moment I felt about a dozen grappling hooks pierce my flesh. All around my head was a swarm of black flies. I could tell that they were literally tearing at my skin with their mandibles, ripping open little pieces of it. I ran across the clearing to escape, only to watch the swarm move en masse in my direction, finding me as quick as a blink. I darted and dashed and swatted at my head and back like a lunatic but the swarm kept onto to me, with every pirouette and acrobatic turn of my body, drunk with the taste of my blood.
    My buddies slid open the door of the van and called; “Dugan! C’mon! Get in here!”
    I dove into the van, fearing for my life, diving into the hunk of tin to the sound of laughter.
    They knew, of course.
    I had 19 welts across my back from 15 seconds exposure to black fly attack.
    We spent the next ten minutes covering ourselves with clothes and spraying repellent over all exposed surfaces till our skin glistened with insecticides. It was 93 degrees Fahrenheit and when we finally emerged from the van we shone like warriors under the light of a Hollywood set. We batted off black flies as if they were mosquitoes, and built our tent, our home for the next two days.
    As the night wore on logs were thrown onto the fire and sparks flew to the treetops as we revelled in a bestial dance that we had little inkling was a call to some primordial past. I would have been severely mocked had I said anything like that out loud.
    In the morning everyone gravitated toward the bridge.
    The fire had been started and the Coleman stove was fired up to make coffee. Out onto the bridge with our coffee we strolled, slowly, as if in a kind of rapture. There were a couple of guys, either suckers or good souls, who stayed behind to act as ‘cookies’. It would be a scrambled egg mess, filled with bacon and onions and anything else that came to hand.
    The morning sun cut through the trees like a caress, and the river down below sang, like only a river can.
    “Yeehaw!” shouted Slater. “THE JUMPING BRIDGE!” His eyes blazed with a crazed gleam as if they would pop out of his skull.
    “Calm down Bill, you’re gonna get your chance.” intoned Fred, the cool one. He was thin and spectral, happy to break into laughter, but never one to break the boundaries.
    “You gonna go up to the top this year Kenny?” asked Lee. Lee was tall and lithe, with straw hair, and he leaned across the narrow rail that kept him from falling into the river below, as he called this down to Kenny, who was three bodies down the line.
    Kenny had been making resolutions to himself for years that he would overcome his fear – of heights, of ridicule, of failure, of general engagement with the world – and would take the plunge off the upper level of the Jumping Bridge. Not only that; he would dive off that upper level. Jumping would be too plebeian for him.
    He vowed it every year, and every year failed to carry out his vow. You could see the shame in him pile up and bear down on his back. He felt he was a failure in toto, and an unworthy soul in general. Not only that, he didn’t believe in God. God hadn’t done anything for him. If he could do this, maybe all that would change.
    I tried to console him.
    “Fuck that shit, man. Jumping off this fucking bridge doesn’t mean jackshit! You know that! Don’t let these assholes fuck you up.”
    “No, I need to do this.”
    “Why? It’s just a moment, and then it’s gone. It’s no accomplishment”
    I knew this wasn’t true, though I wasn’t sure why.
    “How about you Dugan? You gonna jump off the top, or even from here?” shouted Lee, still leaning over the rail, standing on the road.
    “It could be a thrill from here, but from up there? No way?” I called down the line.
    In fact, only one person had ever gone so far as to dive from the top of the bridge. Dan Gonano had done it on many occasions. Gonano was a devout Christian. He wouldn’t push it onto you, the way so many evangelists did. He was subtle. I don’t think it would even have occurred to him to push his views onto another. He actually had the message of Jesus burrowed into his being, and it seemed to give him all kinds of leeway in interaction with others. He was believable.
    He wasn’t on the bridge at that moment because he was back at the campsite, cooking.
    “Yeehaw!” shouted Slater. “THE JUMPING BRIDGE”
    “Yeehaw! Breakfast!” shouted Gonano through the trees from his perch at the stove. His voice echoed across the gorge.

    The day was spent in anticipation. There was the gathering of firewood, and the setting up of camp tables, and the drinking of beer, and the telling of old stories, and the odd jabbing and prodding and taunting that seems to go with the union of men without women. But we did feel good with each other. We did not doubt that this was a good time.
    That’s saying something.
    There’d been some swimming in the pool below the campsite but when the sun started to sink behind the tips of the trees a new feeling set in, and all eyes went toward the bridge. A gathering began to happen. After all, it wouldn’t do to have a courageous act go unnoticed.
    The drunkest and stonedest of us all, Travis, suddenly got agitated.
    “I’M GONNA JUMP OFF THAT MOTHERFUCKIN’ BRIDGE!” he shouted.
    His long blonde hair cascaded across his tender cheeks, puffed with peachfuzz. He was the token hippy of the group, I figured, unless that was my role.
    “Yeah! Travis! Let’s get this thing started!” called Slater, at a somewhat lower and calmer pitch than Travis’, or his own, previously.
    We moved as a group onto the bridge, some faster than others but all steady and impelled toward that goal.
    By this time Travis had peeled off his shirt and climbed over the railing. He was hanging from his scrawny hands and leaning out over the gorge, his skinny arms bent backwards, taut and fully extended.
    I’M GONNA JUMP OFF THIS MOTHERFUCKIN’ BRIDGE!” he shouted, craning his head back to cast his burnt-out vision across the lot of us.
    “All talk and no jump, eh, Travis?” hissed Slater, oozing himself over to be next to The First Jumper.
    Travis gave him a sneer - a bent smile.
    Then he jumped.
    He was silent for a partial second before his screaming and hooting filled the canyon and echoed downstream off toward Albany.
    Then, everyone had to get in on the act. It was like an opening of a Black Friday sale at Sears in Cincinnati. Bodies were flying off the bridge like confetti. The flow of adrenaline surpassed the flow of the river. The granite sides of the gorge glistened from the endless blossoms of water that reached them. It all went on for quite some time, each new jump enlivening the spirit and conferring a certain kind of cocky confidence, and a sense of brotherhood that I’m sure I will never feel again.
    Then, out of the blue, Gonano was up on top of the bridge.
    “How’d he get up there?” asked Lee.
    “I’m not sure. Juice saw him almost run up the side of the bridge.” Juice was Slater’s little brother. He tended to tag along on these trips and caricature his big brother.
    Gonano was standing up, as straight and sure as anything you’re likely to see. He may as well have been standing on the foundation of the earth.
    He was fearless.
    It’s not too often that one encounters complete fearlessness.
    Gonano was fearless. It was something to behold. I could feel his power. I envied him. I was nowhere close to having that kind of guts.
    Of course, I had my doubts that Gonano’s act was a demonstration of guts, or one of delusion.
    I’m like that. Always have been. I have my doubts.
    He sliced into the icy pool below in a perfect dive. It had gotten the name ‘The Jumping Bridge’, but for Gonano it was the diving bridge. He was the only one ever to have done it.
    I sure as fuck wouldn’t do it.
    Everyone was in awe of Gonano’s guts, his superiority, his fearlessness. No one was really in awe of his faith. Nor did anyone have any doubt that his faith was what made him so fearless. Though those observations didn’t really fit together, it didn’t really matter.
    His fearlessness was a wonder to behold. He silenced us.
    To be free of fear is to be truly free. We all knew that.
    That’s when Lee saw Kenny climbing the cast-iron struts and beams of the upper part of the bridge, following in the footsteps.
    “Hey! Look at Kenny!”
    Sure as shit, Kenny was climbing up the part of the bridge that was so much higher than the road level. From the level of the road down to the surface of the water was a drop that put your stomach firmly up into your throat. Take that jump and your scalp would surely tingle like a swarm of insects was crawling across it, and the anticipation of impact was like all life flashing before your eyes.
    Kenny had vowed for years that he would jump - just a jump from the road level into the swirling current of the pool below. Now he was on the top level, vying with the big boy, Gonano.
    “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” came the chant from the tarmac of the bridge.
    “He won’t jump.” hissed Slater. “He’s been saying that since forever.”
    “I’M NOT GOING TO JUMP OFF THIS BRIDGE!” Kenny shouted. The sun was going down and a ray bounced off a drop of water rolling down his side and stabbed me in my left eye, so I only saw what happened from my right side.
    “I’M GOING TO DIVE OFF THIS BRIDGE!”
    That pretty much quieted everyone down. The roar of the river came to the fore in a crescendo that caught the ears of all present. It filled the gorge and raged down the day and through the night. There’s a moment, when you hear something like that, when the whole world is tilted onto its side and you enter another dimension, a different reality. You might take pause, for the briefest moment, to wonder why you had not lived in that reality all the years of your life.
    You were too stupid and unperceptive and cowardly, and that’s all there is to it.
    Kenny dove.
    He almost looked graceful as he bent to the benevolence of the pool below, and then fell. It was like a violation of the laws of nature. I thought I saw the earth split and shafts of molten lava spew forth from the crack.
    We all leaned over and watched as he hit the surface of the river. We waited until we saw his head pop up in the riffles in the tail of the pool before we passed the high fives around.
    “KENNY!” we shouted.
    Kenny’s triumph was the triumph of all of us. None of us had the fearlessness of Gonano. None of us really wanted it. It was a fearlessness based on delusion, and we felt ourselves to be real people, not ideals...not gods sent down to earth.
    Kenny did not repeat his feat that day, or the next. Maybe he’s never repeated it. But a looseness had come over all of us, and we shared a weekend of real freedom.
    A subtle deflation had come over Gonano as we packed up to leave the next day.
    “Why the long face?” I asked. I could hear the crash of river water as it dove into and pelted off the blocks of granite.
    “I don’t know. I don’t think they should get the wrong message.”
    “What message is the right one?”
    “The power of faith.” he said.
    I looked at him, curious. I could see a subtle sadness in his eyes.
    He was a wonder. A force of nature, there was no doubt, however spent he seemed at that moment. The meek had inherited the earth.

    It was around noon when we left for the 6 hour drive south. All the gear had been packed away by the three guys who actually knew how to do it; then we’d piled into the van, in a reversal of the way we’d piled out. We clanked across the bridge, and turned right on the river road. I was riding shotgun. Fred was driving and he slid in a Jimi Hendrix cassette. I was a little surprised but pleased at the same time.
    “I’ve got every record Hendrix ever made.” he said, turning his head to me and grinning. He lit up and handed me a joint, which I accepted.
    All Along the Watch Tower pulsed from the cheesy speakers that were set up on opposite sides of the dashboard.
    I braced myself for the long pissless ride back home.

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