I will now go to the skeleton and ponder its ghost.
The first time I drove across Dewey bridge I was going to Moab to . . . go hiking! Yeah, it was that long ago, before mountain biking.
I slowly tooled south of Cisco, taking in the canyons as they deepened and took me in. Immediately, an eighteen-wheeler with a full compliment of over the sleeper-cab chrome exhaust pipes came barging into my rear view. It was obvious this trucker with the Confederate flag draped across his grill was more concerned with getting past me than safely negotiating the ever tightening twisting two lane. I gladly pulled my rusty Chevy over at the nearest opportunity. The big red lurched forward. It accelerated into the next turn, rocking out of sight. Twin trails of diesel exhaust dissipated into question marks above the canyon walls. I gave it a big head start.
If that eighteen wheeled predatory animal of the interstates could get across, then Dewey Bridge must be a lot bigger than I thought it was going to be. I concluded that the stories I had heard about Dewey Bridge must be wrong. As a rabid connoisseur of unique and eccentric America, I was disappointed. It would be like going to Cadillac Ranch only to discover that it was made out of Mazda's.
When I got to the bridge, my disappointment dissipated like the diesel question marks had earlier. The giant chrome-mobile stood static, idling aggressively like a beast straining at the end of its chain. In this case, the end of the chain was Utah Highway 128 at Dewey Bridge. Dewey Bridge swayed gently, the perfect antidote to this dangerous frustrated southern freighter.
Dewey Bridge was every bit as small as it should have been. Possibly the span appeared even smaller and narrower than it would have without the big mean rig at its very edge. It looked like you could have brought Dewey Bridge here on that truck. But you would never be driving that truck across Dewey Bridge. The big trucker sat in his big trucker cab with his big trucker face in his big trucker hands, thinking whatever it is that big truckers think at times like these.
I loved Dewey Bridge at first sight. That peeling yet brilliant white wood, so similar to the white wood of an old roller coaster, was always inviting, never menacing. In subsequent years when I saw it and crossed it in all kinds of horrendous weather, Dewey Bridge was always a protagonist for me, a harbinger of good. After all, I was either coming from or going to another desert adventure when I saw it. The roof rack was always full.
I played around for an hour or so. I walked across and went underneath, checking out its aging assemblage. As I eased onto the span, my pick-up felt big, fat and especially wide. I stopped in the middle and enjoyed the lateral movements of this monument. Its enigmatic dynamics mirrored the bustling brown Colorado below. It was a complimentary piece of man made engineering in this tremendous landscape. The semi sat growling menacingly like a bad mood bent on venting. But it was safely trapped on the other side. It was going to be tough to even turn that monster around. If he had been trying to save time and money, well . . . he didn't.
And now that the gleaming white bridge is gone, I have to go see it. I expect the pillars and the remaining suspension cables will be a visual melancholy. Had it been an intentional arson ,I'd be pissed. As it was a stupid mistake by some kid(s), I'm sad and pissed but more sad than pissed. Don't get me wrong, I think the perpetrator(s) should suffer some punishment/penalty for this, no matter how unintentional their actions. I'm glad not to be the father in that family. But who knows, maybe it was the trucker's grandkid fulfilling his granddad's dying wish of revenge. Southerners never forget.
So this is my Dewey Bridge elegy. I will now go to the skeleton and ponder its ghost.
Top Photo Credit
Bottom Photo Credit
I slowly tooled south of Cisco, taking in the canyons as they deepened and took me in. Immediately, an eighteen-wheeler with a full compliment of over the sleeper-cab chrome exhaust pipes came barging into my rear view. It was obvious this trucker with the Confederate flag draped across his grill was more concerned with getting past me than safely negotiating the ever tightening twisting two lane. I gladly pulled my rusty Chevy over at the nearest opportunity. The big red lurched forward. It accelerated into the next turn, rocking out of sight. Twin trails of diesel exhaust dissipated into question marks above the canyon walls. I gave it a big head start.
If that eighteen wheeled predatory animal of the interstates could get across, then Dewey Bridge must be a lot bigger than I thought it was going to be. I concluded that the stories I had heard about Dewey Bridge must be wrong. As a rabid connoisseur of unique and eccentric America, I was disappointed. It would be like going to Cadillac Ranch only to discover that it was made out of Mazda's.
When I got to the bridge, my disappointment dissipated like the diesel question marks had earlier. The giant chrome-mobile stood static, idling aggressively like a beast straining at the end of its chain. In this case, the end of the chain was Utah Highway 128 at Dewey Bridge. Dewey Bridge swayed gently, the perfect antidote to this dangerous frustrated southern freighter.
Dewey Bridge was every bit as small as it should have been. Possibly the span appeared even smaller and narrower than it would have without the big mean rig at its very edge. It looked like you could have brought Dewey Bridge here on that truck. But you would never be driving that truck across Dewey Bridge. The big trucker sat in his big trucker cab with his big trucker face in his big trucker hands, thinking whatever it is that big truckers think at times like these.
I loved Dewey Bridge at first sight. That peeling yet brilliant white wood, so similar to the white wood of an old roller coaster, was always inviting, never menacing. In subsequent years when I saw it and crossed it in all kinds of horrendous weather, Dewey Bridge was always a protagonist for me, a harbinger of good. After all, I was either coming from or going to another desert adventure when I saw it. The roof rack was always full.
I played around for an hour or so. I walked across and went underneath, checking out its aging assemblage. As I eased onto the span, my pick-up felt big, fat and especially wide. I stopped in the middle and enjoyed the lateral movements of this monument. Its enigmatic dynamics mirrored the bustling brown Colorado below. It was a complimentary piece of man made engineering in this tremendous landscape. The semi sat growling menacingly like a bad mood bent on venting. But it was safely trapped on the other side. It was going to be tough to even turn that monster around. If he had been trying to save time and money, well . . . he didn't.
And now that the gleaming white bridge is gone, I have to go see it. I expect the pillars and the remaining suspension cables will be a visual melancholy. Had it been an intentional arson ,I'd be pissed. As it was a stupid mistake by some kid(s), I'm sad and pissed but more sad than pissed. Don't get me wrong, I think the perpetrator(s) should suffer some punishment/penalty for this, no matter how unintentional their actions. I'm glad not to be the father in that family. But who knows, maybe it was the trucker's grandkid fulfilling his granddad's dying wish of revenge. Southerners never forget.
So this is my Dewey Bridge elegy. I will now go to the skeleton and ponder its ghost.
Top Photo Credit
Bottom Photo Credit
Labels: Dewey Bridge, travel, Utah
posted by Steve-O at 12:37 PM
2 Comments:
Wow! That was awesome. The part with the trucker, how poetic.
That's fantastic... I mean your recollections about a very special place. It's horrible that that will now be only a memory. I too have crossed that bridge several times, and usually stopped to enjoy the experience. I'm sad that the news was not on the prime time news stations. Keep me posted if you learn more.
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