Hours passed. We came to a wide, dark river.
Our campsite was on the other side.
Peter again consulted with Boone and Chris.
There were two bridges near us. The closest was a railroad trestle. About a half a mile on, we could see the headlights of cars on the highway crossing.
Would there be enough of a shoulder on the highway bridge to cross safely? Nobody knew.
Finally, Boone made the call. On a dark night with dark clothes and packs, the highway bridge was more dangerous. And if it was too narrow, we’d have to walk back to the trestle and cross there anyway.
So the trestle it was.
I’d never been near a railroad trestle before. There’s not much to them: two rails held together by ties spaced at regular intervals, with nothing in between but empty space.
Plenty wide, but nothing to hold onto.
It was a mercy that it was dark. I couldn’t really tell how high up it was.
So there I was, flashlight swinging from my neck, arms out to help me balance, heavy backpack bearing down on my wobbly legs, carefully stepping from tie to tie.
I was quite curious about what was going to happen next.