I rolled out before sunrise, letting Route 215 carry me through folds of mountain and valley. The pavement whispered under my tires, cold air slipped through the window, and the coves smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke. Maples threw sparks of red in the rearview while spruce and hemlock kept the shadows cool. I was headed to the old iron bridge that crosses the Pigeon River, the one I keep tucked in my memory like a lucky coin.
At the pull off I killed the engine and listened. Water hurried somewhere below, a steady hiss over stone. Hurricane Helene had raked this place the year before, and the riverbed still showed it. Slabs were tilted, gravel pushed into fresh bars, tree roots clawed at the bank. I picked my way across, testing each step, feeling the rocks shift and complain beneath my boots.
Midstream a small bed of rapids feathered white toward the bridge. The sky was a deep blue bowl with puffy clouds drifting like slow balloons. I set my tripod, framed the iron lattice, and reached for the shutter. Just then a group of leaf tourists wandered out onto the span, laughing and pointing, faces lifted to the gold in the trees. They are always welcome here, their joy is part of the season, but I worried the light would turn and the clouds would smear before they finished.
So I waited with the river. The air carried the clean bite of quartz and moss, tannin and rain. Rhododendron leaves clicked, a crow scolded upstream, and the current stitched silver threads around my ankles. When the bridge finally cleared I did not waste a heartbeat. Focus set, exposure checked, I squeezed the release and the camera answered. One frame, then another, then a quick bracket.
I stood there a moment longer, cuffs soaked, heart calm. Bridge, river, sky, all in their places. I packed up and headed for the bank, carrying proof of what I had been given, God’s artistry ready for you to see.
