The last wing barrel sits just a couple miles up the highway from Independence Rock. Got it up a little after 18:00 yesterday.

Heading southwest, it's 70 miles of highway to get home. Heelers would eat dinner on time.

Going northeast and looping south to home is over 90 miles, much of it on paved and dirt county roads. It takes us over the bridge.

You know which way we went.

The sun was only 15-20 minutes from setting when we got to the bridge. The canyon was cast in shadow, with only the highest tops of the rocks in sunlight.

A quick run for the heelers in the parking lot (only one rabbit, and they did not see it), and then I park beside the bridge. Parking on the bridge as usual just seemed unsafe.

The bridge seemed wider today. Having a truck parked on it always made it seem narrow and cramped. Today it is wide and open.

I grab a handful of gravel before I walk out onto the concrete.

The river is not flowing. Presumably they are using it for power in the generators. The canyon below is filled with perfectly calm water, reflecting the sunny hilltops and a lone pine.

Shadows are too dark to see into the water, but the fish are there. Peaking every so often to make their rings of ripples. It is totally quiet. I can hear the swarm of midges clear on the other side of the bridge.

I don't think I've ever monitored my own feelings before. But I carry so many of you through the course of my day these days, I cannot help but wonder what I will write. Several drafts have passed through my mind as I drove up this way, but none of them were real.

So, how do I feel? Standing on this bridge again?

Empty.

No real sorrow, and none of the defiant joy I was going to force upon myself (and this place).

Just empty. I suppose the past ten days may have something to do with it.

The pictograph is fading badly now, at least half gone, and barely recognizable. In a way it is reassuring to know that no one has been coming back to retouch it.

They've moved on with their lives.

And for the first time ever, a car comes along while I'm on the bridge. I drop my handful of pebbles, without dropping any in the water. The car pulls up alongside.

An elder couple from Colorado, the woman wants to know if they can still get "in there."

The parking lot and overlook? Sure, it's still open. In fact, there is no gate, lady. How could they close it? But since I'm in uniform, apparently I'm in charge of the place.

The heeler sisters pop up and stick their heads out the window as the car passes, their blaze orange bandannas glowing in the dusk. I hear her excited voice as she points them out to her husband.

Time to leave.

As we pass over the bridge I look back to see the man slowly getting out of his door and circling behind the car.

The woman has already bounded out and down the steps to the railing at the overlook. Looking for all purposes like an excited teenager, not a senior citizen.

Someone still feels the joy of this place.

Someday I may, too.