Under the Bridge

Catching sight of the footbridge that spans the river always cheers me, because it means my walk is half over. Even though I love following the green water as it splashes over huge stones, meanders around fallen logs. Even though I feel so exhilarated, stepping around the curves of the path strewn with rocks, crawly things, bootprints, twigs, pine needles — variations enough to keep me alert. Even though I am enthralled by the multitude of patterns in the cliffs lining the way. 

I like trading smiles with approaching fellow adventurers. At the calls from behind, “Passing on  your left!” and “Excuse us,” I freeze in place, never knowing where they’ll appear, and I nod as they whoosh by. I talk to any strangers who look friendly, my openers including,  “Do you know what this bug is?” “Did you see that otter?” and even, “Do you remember this song?”

But it’s so good to reach the bridge, where I’ll sit and rest before completing the loop back to the parking lot.

Yes, we are supposed to enjoy the journey, not just the destination. I do treasure my hikes or strolls alone, time not straightening my living room or driving to the doctor or searching for my phone. Just outside-ness, letting my monkey-mind hop from juniper branch to manzanita leaves, to my stomach’s call for a snack, to my most recent family angst, to the puzzle bark of the ponderosas. And occasionally remembering — maybe when I trip on a tree root — remembering to be here now, that ol’ presence thing. Breath, mindfulness . . . until losing the moment into the idea of an avocado-goat-cheese sandwich for lunch. 

I also appreciate walking not alone, today with a friend, Mel, next to or just behind me. We superimpose on nature our chatter about his wife’s health; my yearning to go on a big trip but dreading the planning; the poem fragment in my head; the seminar he led. I enjoy our familiar trek in this high desert, the abundant wilds within city limits, this culture in which waterfalls and buttes are more popular and available than shopping or theater. Physical activity is a bottom line, our righteous knowing that even now as “old” people, the movement benefits our bodies, the watching for jutting stones helps keep our minds nimble. 

Mel, mostly bald, trim, with a round, smiling face, has several years on me, yet I have to push to keep up with his pace. I forgive myself when I stop yet again, to drink from my water bottle, another righteous habit, or to tighten my elastic shoelace, or to dramatize the climax of the fascinating story I’m telling about the grungy guy at Natural Grocers who manhandled every single carrot and cluster of bok choy.

Here out in the open, loving the very air,  I’m surprised I’m suddenly hot. I pull my wool cape off my shoulders, roll it, and tie it around my waist.  Has the early spring sun cranked up, or is it my blood doing its miraculous circulation thing? 

Mel points out a white rock that looks like a rabbit. My mind takes off into, “When you go out chasing rabbits/ and you know you’re going to fall,” and my feet stomp the rhythm while the old song rings out of my mouth. I stop, turn, and point my finger, saying, “Come on, sing with me,” one of our ongoing tussles. He says, “I don’t know it.” 

 I say, “Of course you do. I just know some of the words, but we can sing it anyway.” I belt out, “Tell them a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call/ Call Alice,” while he stares blankly at me. I say, “Don’t tell me you don’t even recognize it. It’s a classic,” to which he shakes his head no. I tsk because of course he does; everyone heard it back in the day. But, maybe he was too old then. More likely too on-task, in some basement laboratory, concocting his PhD in physics, while I was dancing in the streets at those block parties. Then my shoulders droop, realizing the problem may be my singing, as happens often, people telling me my voice is too off-key or whatever. 

I get back into channeling Grace Slick anyway, moving forward. “One pill makes you smaller — no, larger. One pill makes you small/ And the one that mother gives you . . ..” Mel still does not make a peep. “And the white knight is talking backwards/ And the red queen’s off with her head!” 

He blurts out, “It’s a song for our times!”

Here comes a couple who look old enough for me to ask, which I do: “Do you remember ‘White Rabbit’? Jefferson Airplane.” The woman lights up, exclaiming: “Tell them a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call!” She and I sing and circle in wavy motions, beaming at each other. The man scowls at  her; she shrugs her shoulders, and they disappear over a rise.

I’m trudging along now, my back tired. What’s a song for time out?  Ah! I hum, Plenty of Nothin’ is it?, just thinking the lyrics, “While they’d druther hustle, accumulating muscle/ I’d druther watch daisies grow.”

There’s the footbridge! I’ll be able to lean against the railing over the bubbling white hubbub, gaze into occasional smooth mirrors, watch tall grasses bend endlessly. On the other side, the bench will welcome me. It’s dedicated, according to the shiny plaque on a stone, to someone loved by someone.

But before we reach the bridge, I see under it: colors. We both stop. Bright pure orange, and a reddish orange, a yellow. Waves of shiny fabric, the length of three or four bedsheets, descend from the underside of the structure, the ends trailing on the surface of the river as if yearning to travel with it. And a silhouette. A lean man in a black wetsuit holds the yellow with one hand, his other hand reaching for a black circle, a hoop the size of a unicycle wheel, also suspended from the bridge.

Now he’s wrapping the orange cloths over his thighs, behind one shoulder, and twisting/hoisting himself up, up in the air. I recognize the acrobatics, whatever it’s called, on “silks.” I’ve seen them once or twice, inside gyms: lithe beings, dancing, posing, with performance smiles. He rotates and hangs suspended over the river, expressionless. Now he’s upside down! His head is in the splashes, his long hair soaked. Jagged boulders, too close for comfort — my comfort. 

I move my eyes away, as if that will prevent the disaster. Near us on this bank is a woman, tall, lean, muscular, with dirty blonde straight hair. She too is tight in a wetsuit. She’s watching the acrobat intensely, as is a man standing behind her, also suited up. 

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Like Cirque du Soleil,” she says, turning sparkling blue eyes to me. 

“Are you all in it?” I ask. I’ve seen two of the renowned shows, but never in Las Vegas, where, I’ve heard, it’s underwater.

“Yeah; well, no. I have my own company. He’s just learning. Beautiful country you have here for it.”

“Yeah, we like it. So you do it outside?”

“Always. All kinds of canyons and rivers, tunnels. We’re just passing through here, on the way to visit his,” she points her chin toward the guy down there, “parents in California.”

My first thought: Well, be careful, so he’ll stay alive for his parents. What an old lady thing to say, so I don’t. I can’t help looking back at the action: the student is still upside down, now swaying side to side. 

The dry man says, “He’s a fast learner.” I picture that phrase, past tense, etched on a gravestone.

Mel and I move onto the bridge, but the show is directly beneath us, so we proceed to the other side. I plunk down gratefully on the beloved bench. My feet and back are happy, but there’s no view of under the bridge from here either. I see the woman has also crossed over; she’s crouching on the slope leading to the water. I groan my body up, go stand behind her, and wave Mel over. 

 She’s holding nothing for rescue, no rope or hook or flotation device. Regular “silkers,” if they’re called that, do it over safety nets, don’t they? Or padded mats? Our hero is still upside down, but facing the opposite way. Now he’s bent in half, manipulating the waving, stretching, fluid colors. Now, contrary to common sense, he’s suspended horizontally over the river. I imagine Mel’s brain gears whirring.

I ask her more questions; she gives answers. They live in a beautiful area up north, a wonderful small community, with different terrain but just as dramatic. We should go there. They travel with the show.

She’s so friendly, I get bolder: “Can you make a living doing that? I mean, don’t you have to have jobs?”

“Sure do,” she says, almost laughing. She recites a list: “I repair bikes. Make some candles. I do, oh, this and that . . .” Her voice gets softer: “I do porn.” Then louder again, “I deliver flowers . . ..”

She’s still listing; I’m still back at “porn.” Is that really what she said? Oh, do I want to ask about that! With men? With women? I find myself scrutinizing her face — does she wear make up for porn?  Does she let her face be seen? What does she feel while doing sex in front of a camera? Or, maybe she just does acrobatics, naked?, above others in bed? How young was she when she started? . . .

 I don’t ask. Nor do I say what I really want to say: Don’t do porn! 

Instead, I tell her our names. She says, “I’m Arial.” 

“Truly? Like that’s the name you were given?”

She laughs. “Yep. I know, huh? ”

I hear myself rattling on that I heard of a study that showed that our names often predict, or maybe influence, the careers we go into, but I never knew what “Jana” should lead me to, blah blah blah. 

The guy down there now is upright, his feet in the water, and he’s loosening the oranges and yellows from around his body. I call, “Thanks,” though he’s not looking at me. I ponder telling Arial about my blog; wonder whether it’d be a bad idea to have her connect with me; feel sad that I don’t do it. We bid fond farewells. 

As Mel and I move on in sync, he says, “You noticed he became suspended with his principal axis orthogonal to the gradient of the local gravitational field?”

I’m dancing forward as I sing, “When logic and proportion are something something something, and the white knight is talking backwards . . ..”

On the same path two days later, I glimpse a western fence lizard, then meet a woman who’s an accountant, and I rest extra long on the bench.

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