The Bridge

A few years ago, two friends and I walked the mile-wide Mid-Hudson FDR bridge across the Hudson River at Poughkeepsie (and back) on Memorial Day. Now I excitedly await the construction of a walkway & state recreation area on top of an historic railroad bridge a short distance north of that bridge. You can see by the equipment that there is a lot of work still to be done by Fall of 2009 when they expect it to be open. Here is the essay I wrote about our walk3 years ago.

WALKING THE BRIDGE

I fulfilled a longtime dream this week. I walked the bridge across the Hudson River— the FDR bridge, formerly known as the Mid-Hudson, and locally referred to as the Poughkeepsie Bridge. I, together with two much younger friends, walked from the Highland side to the Poughkeepsie side and back— a distance of about one-and-three-quarters miles. I, with my leg brace and always-sore crippled feet, was not at all sure I could do it. At least I had my doctor with me, although she was recovering from major surgery, so the question of who would rescue whom was floating around in my brain.
    Never mind that it was the hottest, muggiest day so far this year; never mind that the photo op side was closed (and anyway, I had dropped and disabled my camera the night before); never mind that the Memorial Day traffic was heavy and noisy; never mind that I couldn’t put my shoes or brace on for two days afterward; all that mattered is that I DID IT!
    My life has been filled with challenges, but I can’t remember exactly choosing any of them. So why did I choose this one? Maybe just because it’s there—the bridge, that is. Maybe because I’m approaching seventy-four and finding it hard to  accept the limitations of aging. Or maybe just because I’m a nature child of the Midwest farm land, and need to feel something under my feet to truly connect with it. I’ve driven and ridden over that bridge a thousand times (a conservative guess). When I ride past green meadows, I have a great aching urge to stop the car and walk barefoot in the green grass—to lie down and roll in it. Now by measuring the bridge with my steps, I’ve claimed it.
    My adult grandson wants to walk it with me. Next time, I’ll choose a cool, crisp fall day. Maybe he’ll bring his mom (my daughter) and his  daughter, making it a four-generation pilgrimage. I’ll bet that’s never been done before! Now that’s a challenge. Do you suppose the local paper would send a reporter and photographer and open the south side with the prettier view for us?