On Thursday, when returning from Central City, I wanted to take the road over the upper bridge to get on the backroad home. But I didn't. Solely because I knew if I did cross that bridge, I would finally have to write about it. Something I was loath to do. So I took the lower road and, I thought, avoided this entry all together.

But this has been on my mind ever since, and as many of you know, there is only one way to get it out.

So here it is.

Be warned. This is a long entry.

Be warned, if you are especially disturbed by or have experience with rape, you should not read this.

Said the spider to the fly.

I remember the first time I saw the Fremont Canyon bridge.

You leave the rolling hills of sagebrush and rabbitbrush, dropping into an unexpected canyon of junipers and rock. The narrow, paved road twists and turns above the river, heading deeper down into the canyon. The rocks on your left get steeper and closer, until at last there is no more room between them and the steep cliffs that drop down to the river itself.

Here the road on this side of the canyon ends, in a small parking area, with the obligatory concrete latrine and a pipe handrail lining the cliffs.

To your left the road turns towards a huge metal door in the face of the cliff. The entrance to the underground powerplant. If they choose to, they can divert the entire river through tunnels into the generators, accelerating electrons for our power needs while the river re-enters the canyon well below the bridge. I've only seen the door open twice, once with a government vehicle coming out.

To your right, straight out from the power plant door, is the bridge. Across the bridge, the road continues east, leaving the canyon and passing through shaded hills of sage, pine and aspen.

The bridge itself is an engineer's dream. A perfectly efficient narrow 2-lane structure of steel beams and concrete, but with little aesthetic appeal.

The first time I came here, I parked beside the steel door and walked out onto the bridge. There is no walkway, just the traffic lane. The granite rocks drop straight down on both sides, with only one crack filled with talus rock providing difficult access to the river below.

The river itself is barely moving at this point, appearing to be deep placid pools spanning from cliff to cliff. You can see partially submerged boulders down in the water and, if the light is good, you can watch the trout swimming 100 feet below. Even in the dark, you can hear the fish rising, their little "blurps" echoing off the cliffs to the canyon top.

I spent a deal of time dropping large grains of sand off the bridge, seeing how close I could come to the fish below. A prairie falcon swept below me, at home in this land of water, cliffs and peace.

Vehicles rarely travel this road. I have since always just parked directly on the middle of the bridge. Never has anyone come along while I stood on my private perch above the canyon.

Occassionally you'll find rock climbers rappelling down the canyon walls below the parking area, but that's pretty much only on summer weekends.

After I found this place, I used any legitimate excuse to come by this way. Even though it is 90 miles from home.

When my folks came up to see where their youngest had decided to live, this canyon is one of the places I had to show them.

My feelings for this place changed only a few years after I discovered it.

One night, two monsters kidnapped two young girls in Central City and brought them out to this bridge. Sisters, the oldest only 15, they had to endure a terrifying drive of nearly an hour to reach this place.

The monsters threw the youngest off the bridge, and then took turns raping the 15-year old. And when they were done, they threw her into the canyon as well.

But she survived, whereas her much younger sister did not.

She survived the fall. And the rapes.

She survived to identify her attackers.

She survived to see them tried, convicted and imprisoned for their crimes.

She survived to fall in love. With a man. And married him.

She survived to have a daughter of her own. And a son.

And years later, one lonely night, she drove herself, alone, back out to this bridge.

And threw herself off.

.

.

.

.

.

She did not survive the second fall.

Probably because she did not want to.

I still stop at this bridge several times a year. But I no longer go out of my way to make the journey. And I still park on the middle, walking to the edge to eye the canyon below. I no longer bomb the fish with grains of sand.

Sometimes I cry, for people I never knew.

I have been here on moonlit nights, and on midnights dark with no moon at all. I am sure there is beauty here in the moonlight, but I no longer see it. In total darkness, I feel fear. A totally irrational emotion, I know, but I admit it is there.

I do not believe in ghosts, even though I have seen and spoken with one. There are no spirits hanging around this canyon. But it is a terribly empty place. The fish and the falcons are still there, but this is a place with no joy.

There is a modern pictograph on the cliff wall below the bridge, fading quickly now. A simple painting made with white paint and a narrow brush.

Of a small girl and a young woman, falling down into the abyss together.

Holding hands.