An ode to old bridges.
Our admiration of the antique is not admiration of the old, but of the natural. —Ralph Waldo Emerson
To those unaccustomed to summertime in Montana, an old truss bridge might seem just that: old. Dilapidated. Unsafe. Dirty and rusty. Get off of there, Billy, you might get hurt. Honey, where’s he at with his tetanus shots?
But to the rest of us, it’s something different. Very, very different.
Yep, when the day breaks warm and bright, the rising sun a groundburst of hope and possibility, the old bridges beckon. We slip on swim trunks, pack up the cooler, and head out. Maybe we float, maybe we hike, maybe we ride our bikes down a singletrack trail or along a dusty dirt road. But at some point, as the sun climbs and heat builds thick and heavy in the afternoon air, we wind up at the bridge.
All smiles, giddy and goosebumped, we peer over the edge and watch the water flow. Fish rise to the surface as cottonwood clumps flutter and swallows dart from suspended mud nests. We climb up the trusses, linger awhile from our lofty perch, and then launch—a moment of thrill, then a splash into the cool, clear water. Surfacing, we gulp the sweet summer air, we feel a surge of vitality—and we are reborn.
Sure, we could baptize ourselves from the concrete bridge at Carter’s or Drouillard, but it’s not the same. Clambering up those trusses is like clawing our way back through time, to the jungle gym of eternal youth. Each handhold is a reach across the chasm, the cold steel between our fingers a link to our carefree past. Even as we age and lose our nerve, leaping instead from the base at road level, just having those beams above us is enough. It’s an opportunity, an open invitation, a chance to dream: I’ll climb up next time.
We climb up the trusses, linger awhile from our lofty perch, and then launch—a moment of thrill, then a splash into the cool, clear water. Surfacing, we gulp the sweet summer air, we feel a surge of vitality—and we are reborn.
Williams Bridge. Axtell. Old Town. Green Bridge. The names themselves are like old friends: familiar, pleasing, reassuring. Unchanged. Memories flood forth as we trace back not only our own past, but that of generations before. Those sturdy frames, those stout beams—like the hills rising beyond, they defy the vicissitudes of time. Our ephemeral present, always intruding on our equanimity, dissolves in the face of this permanence. We feel grounded, connected. Moored.
And when we leave, after a day that ended all too soon, we find comfort: the bridge will be waiting for us, be it tomorrow, next week, or next year. Once again, we’ll climb up, look around, and leap off—and nothing will feel more natural.
RIP: Old Town Bridge
by Corey Hocket
When I was a kid, my dad and I would sight in our rifles on Copper City’s BLM land. Instead of taking I-90 to the junction of Hwy. 287, we’d get off at the Three Forks town exit, turn north, and hang a quick left onto Old Town Road. We’d bump along slowly, rolling over washboards, keeping our eyes peeled for whitetail and turkey. My favorite part of the drive was crossing the Jefferson. The river swings a sharp 90-degree turn and allowing passage was a wooden bridge framed with steel trusses arched 30 feet high. I wouldn’t call it rickety, but I also wouldn’t have wanted more than one vehicle on it at a time. We’d park on the western side and throw dummies for our labs to retrieve. If the weather was nice, which it often was, I’d play in the water too.
The Old Town Rd. bridge closed to traffic in June of 2022. When I got the news, my heart dipped with melancholy. It’s a strange feeling to have a connection with an inanimate object, something so simple as a bridge. There’ll be another one to replace it, of course, but the time it’ll take for the new one to accrue as much character as the old one had––the splintered lumber, the rusted beams, the humble nature of the thing––well, I’ll be long dead. And given that it’ll be made of concrete, with short sides, the joys of leaping from three stories up will be lost forever.
Old Town Bridge served its people well, offering far more than its obvious practical application. It was a pleasant place to hang out on a sunny day, to swim and frolic with friends. It was the ideal height to plunge into the river from above, or monkey around on underneath. It was a convenient small-craft put-in, a charming setting to enjoy a sunset, and a sneaky high-school make-out spot. It made for a great pit-stop after floating in from Drouillard, before continuing on to the take-out by Trident.
Passing over Old Town, or under it, felt like an invitation to linger. I once sat on the upper beam for over an hour, sipping beers and staring out at the Spanish Peaks in absolute contentment. My cousin jumped off it in her wedding dress before hopping in a tube and floating down to her ceremony at Headwaters.
