The Trestle

Growing up

my favorite swimming spot

wasn't the beach

but on the river.

Spanning the coffee-colored

Imperial River was a

railroad trestle

that loomed some fifteen feet

above the surface of the water.

By noonday,

I could be found rail walking

on the railroad tracks,

wearing only a pair of cut-off jeans and
the all-purpose Converse tennis shoes,

to the trestle to go swimming

with the local river rats.

By the time I would reach

the swimming hole,

the heat from the sun

and the hot rocks

along the tracks

were equally oppressive,

making that first jump

off the trestle the most

pleasurable plunge.

One of the crazier things

the river rats would do

was hanging on to

the iron crossbeams

under the trestle

while the powerful locomotive

rolled a few feet above us

with a deafening roar.

Suspended between the hell

raging above and

the peaceful river below,

we would scream

to the top of our lungs,

as we released our grip and

fell into the watery heaven.

And for a moment

the world went eerily silent

as the brownish water

muffled out the sounds

of the tumult above.

We jumped and swum

to our heart's content

under the summer sun.

When it was time to go

I was too river-whooped

to walk the rails home;

so I walked to the cadence

of the railroad ties.

Many years later

I returned to the trestle,

climbed up on top and

looked down into

the warm waters.

Some things hadn't changed

after all these years.
The sun was faithfully hot;

the trains continued

to use the trestle

to cross the Imperial;

and the river still 

flowed to the gulf.

But something was missing!

The silence and

the undisturbed water

told the sad tale.

There were no river rats

to be found.

Looking down at the river,

I still longed to take

that first memorable jump,

clothes and all,

to get the heat off my back.

And then I would wait on the train,

so I could hang like a monkey

under the trestle as it passed overhead.

Yelling as loud as I could yell,

though drowned by the engine noise,

I would let go of the bar

and plunge beneath the surface,

shutting out the world

for as long as I could

hold my breath. 

This would have satisfied

the kid in me to no end!

I did attempt some rail walking

back to the car,

but I didn't make it very far.

I bet my river rat record for

walking the rails still stood

the test of time;

rail walkers are, after all,

a rare breed,

like river rats nowadays.

Too many lesser things

to occupy the mind today,

I suppose.

Looking North 2002

Looking West 2002