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On school days the bus driver lined up the tires with the parallel wood planks bolted to the bridge floor. The Snake River flowed beneath the one-lane bridge as we bounced across. I feared the bus would slide off the planks, crash through the railing, plunge into the river head first and turn onto its side like a dead carp. Every day I gripped my seat going over and coming back hoping, praying the bus stayed balanced on those planks.

The night a group of us girls rode in Roseann’s car across the Malheur River, we scraped the side of the car against the side of the bridge. The air in the car disappeared as all of us sucked in our breaths. Sparks flashed like a grinder’s arc rainbowing in the garage as he works on a wrecked car. We were all silent thinking about plunging into the waters of the river, trapped in the car, drowning, and I knew I’d die because I didn’t know how to swim. Never mind that Roseann had to tell her parents and that might have been worse than driving into the river because they’d be so glad she was still alive.

Summers we’d stumble along the big ditch’s banks searching for asparagus. We’d grab an empty bread bag and take one of Mom’s paring knives and off we’d go. At the end of the ditch or as far as we were allowed to go, a wooden plank laid across the ditch so everyone could cross. I strode across the plank until I realized a snake had taken up a spot there. I broad jumped the rest of the way across. A world record, I’m sure! My knees quivered faster than the bounce of the plank as someone strode across it. Our dog, Judy, never saw the snake and trotted across. Her tongue hung out, and I was so glad she didn’t get bitten. But after that, I checked the plank before I stepped onto it.

The narrow one-way bridge between Oregon and Idaho was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. When a truck barreled down the opposite lane, we all held our breaths hoping it wouldn’t sway our way and bump into our car. And it was my sister’s and my job to get our dog Judy’s head inside the window before we crossed the bridge. We’d tug and pull her shoulders and neck until she was safely inside and then quickly roll up the window. Somewhere we had gotten the idea that if her head remained outside the window, it would get cut off by the steel bridge supports.

I visited Royal Gorge Park and Bridge in Colorado. I stared at the gondolas wiggling across the expanse. So fragile. So easy for a cable to unravel and whip the flimsy craft 1,000 feet below. I eyed the bridge. Wide enough for two vehicles to pass. Lots of people strolling back and forth. But the planks were spaced an inch apart. Enough to see the river below in horizontal increments. Spaced far enough apart that I was sure if I mis-stepped, I would slip between and plunge (dead from fright before I hit the water below). Did I want to hug one side and cling to the railing, pulling myself hand over hand toward the other side? Too close to the edge! I might slip and slither like a deflated parachute to end up as a grease spot on rocks below. Could I walk down the middle, safe with more than 10 feet on either side of me? If I fell, I’d have a buffer zone. Okay. I’m going to try it. HA! I didn’t slip through the plank spacings! Partway across I tight roped my way to the edge and glanced over. Not long. Just enough. Halfway across I was reminded that if I made it all the way across, I still had to retrace my steps to get back again. Oh, goodie! But I made it to solid ground again. Wandered around that side then faced the return trip. The bridge beckoning its finger to try my luck again. Again, I was too fat to slip between the planks. My grip on the rail when I got that close again left finger indents in the metal, and I saw blue, green, yellow kayaks floating on the river below. Land on the other side released my breath to normal. A lady stood short of the first plank. Her eyes scanned the bridge; her mind calculated; her head dropped with a shake. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it,” and she walked away. I understood her fear and didn’t blame her one bit. But I was grateful I had conquered my mind and have a memory of crossing the bridge.

The wooden suspension bridge with rope rails crossed over the plunging waterfall beneath to a slippery rock platform on the other side where one could admire the water’s fury as it sliced through the canyon walls. Hmm. Green moss grew over the wet planks aiding the pedestrian to slip/slide to the side as the bridge listed left toward the waterfall cascading down in whitewater splash. Even if I could grasp the rope rail with my hands, my lower body would be snatched by the waterfall, ripped from the rope and battered down the canyon like a windblown abandoned T-shirt. Torn over rocks and beaten like dirty laundry in olden days. Only to plop and sink into a calm shallow sprawled into silt slowly covered, buried, no longer in existence. But I wanted to cross. I timed my steps to the bounce of the bridge. I hoped my tennis shoes had excellent tread left on their soles. I felt the slime slide my steps into skid marks down to the wood, but I was committed to reach the other side or bumble/stumble back against the crowd behind me who might push me out of their way closer to the edge, closer to my foot falling over the edge just enough to tumble me over. Again, I breathed on the opposite side and again I trudged back to the solid rock and dirt path. Would someone kick me from behind if I kneeled and kissed the ground I walk on?

I don’t want to wonder about the Golden Gate Bridge or those bridges that transport traffic across vast expanses of ocean. I can’t hold my breath that long so I’d pass out and come to just as my car hits the water. I’m afraid of being a human aquarium to the fishes on the outside looking in. But as long as I can see the other side of little bridges, I think I have a chance at survival.