However, longer debated matter, less attractive became alternative. Judging by map, dearth of bridges upstream, mountainous contours of land, can’t-get-there-from-here character of roads, less appealing became prospect of driving around Susquehanna. Looking at thousand miles at minimum; probably more, considering present-day road conditions. Did not care to spend another two weeks getting past dumb river.
Therefore backtracked to last small town. Located hardware store; scrounged to good effect, assembling components necessary for Rube Goldberg device intrinsic to rash solution: Mirror, mounted out at end of tripodish boom secured to front end of roof rack, both ends of bumper; with control rod permitting accurate positioning from driver’s seat — lash-up enabling direct observation of front tires’ actual ground-to-tread contact point, removing seat-of-pants element from precision driving required to remain on tracks.
With mirror boom in place, control rod tested, working properly, next step was getting van perched on tracks. Accomplished well back from trestle, on solid right-of-way.
Front wheels easy; went where pointed. Mostly. Were, of course, encountering rails at fairly acute angle. With four-wheel-drive engaged, transmission in first gear, transfer box in low-low, released brake, eased out clutch, crept forward inch by inch. Right front wheel climbed first rail effortlessly, dropping to roadbed between tracks. Double contact next; doubled weight also — and doubled resistance, as smooth steel/rubber coefficient attempted to hoist weight of van’s entire front end. Progress first limited to sideways, tires glancing off rails’ shoulders, sliding along tracks without mounting. But finally corners of big mud/snow treads caught, drew front end upward. Moments later, following careful steering adjustments, front tires centered on rails.
Rears another matter, however: Right rear stubbornly dragged against left track for 30 feet before bumping up, over onto roadbed between rails. Then for good hundred feet both rears clawed ineffectually, unable to gain purchase.
Finally, with bare hundred yards remaining before commencing trestle ascent, gave up. Set brake, exited. Employed shovel to pile up small gravel ramp against rail ahead of each rear tire. Primitive solution (employing engineering principles well regarded in Pharaoh’s day) but serviceable: Five feet beyond, all four wheels poised neatly on rails.
Astonishing, after all that effort, how quickly enthusiasm for project (product of own cleverness) waned:
Ten feet out on span, to be precise. Just far enough for hitherto-unnoticed breeze, unimpeded now by aught but trestle’s cobweb structure, to seize ample sail area presented by van’s slab sides and nudge. Gently but perceptibly.
(In retrospect, doubt actual chassis movement [limited, of course, to slight suspension yield, tire sidewall squirm] exceeded quarter inch in any direction. Then, however, felt like major tectonic adjustment.)
Was suddenly conscious how very different trestle had looked from on foot: wider, solider, much more secure.
And wooden ties projecting from under tracks on either side appeared shorter now when viewed through windshield from driver’s seat, with river as background beyond, below — far below. Tie ends not visible, for instance, through side windows — nothing visible through side windows. Except distant ground, river.
Noticed van had stopped. Wondered briefly if due to wind also, until discovered (looking past white-knuckled hands gripping steering wheel) both feet apparently trying to push brake pedal through floorboard. Had forgotten clutch; engine dead.
(Probably just as well. With engine dead, could not yield to rash impulses: Could not attempt to back up. Mirror not placed to permit observation of exact rear-tire/rail relationship, nor could envision any practical means of doing so. Further, geometry inherent in reverse steering precluded making attempt to regain solid ground astern: Small angular changes at rear are product of large lateral displacements at front. Would have led to immediate bump-bump-bumping. Or worse.)
Became aware was perspiring all over. Felt spontaneous aching sensation in soles of feet, palms of hands. Eyes began to burn, tear. Noticed also mounting sense of suffocation.
Memory chose that moment to call up, play back lifelong accumulation of admonishments concerning Bridges, Premature Burning Of; Corners, Painting Oneself Into; Leaping Before Looking, etc. Cheeks grew hot; glad Teacher couldn’t see star pupil then, frozen at wheel amidst predicament created solely by own failure to consider all aspects of problem before charging in.
But wait — what if Teacher were watching…? From Above. Wouldn’t do to let him see funk continue. Momentary startlement probably barely excusable, considering circumstances, provided not carried beyond limits of good taste. If watching, Teacher would expect to see constructive signs of recovery soon. Or would look sorrowful; make entry in notebook.
(Said recovery no doubt expected to include movement of portions of completely paralyzed body — that would be hard part.)
With effort almost physical in character, managed to wrench gaze from river below. Turned perceptions inward, initiating code sequence leading to transcendental state. And reaped prompt dividends: Upon closing eyes, cause of optic discomfort immediately evident — probably hadn’t blinked for whole minutes! Likewise, shortness of breath alleviated by resumption of respiration…
And as meditative discipline took hold, thought processes again began to acquire semblance of coherence; acted to clamp down, brake churning emotions, restore control. Heartbeat slowed, perspiration subsided.
Opened eyes; focused on point at which rail disappeared under tire. Noted was perfectly centered under tread. Directed attention to left hand. Tried three times before fingers unclenched from wheel, shifted grip to mirror control rod. Readjusted mirror to inspect other tire, rail. Also centered.
Okay. Everything. Under. Control.
Returned mirror to left tire, rail. Without angles to allow for, offered more direct observation, clearer perspective.
Returned left hand to wheel. Eased right hand’s grip to point where feeling returned to fingers; moved to ignition switch. Took longer to get left foot from brake pedal, depress clutch. Turning key required act of raw will.
After being clutch-killed, engine started raggedly, settling into lumpy, galloping idle as gas-soaked plugs shorted, fired, shorted again. Torque reaction, transmitted through engine mounts to chassis, produced motion almost as scary as wind.
Ignored it. Moved right foot from brake pedal; placed gently on accelerator. Eased clutch out (had never taken out of gear); applied hint of gas. Forward motion resumed.
Applied fraction more power. Small fraction. Proceeded deliberately. About two-thirds mile across trestle, but in no hurry. Plenty of time.
Quickly learned driving not that difficult:. Merely question of keeping eyes fixed on rail disappearing beneath tire tread; steering precisely to keep centered; ignoring van’s frequent wind-induced shrugs. (Ignoring also scenery and own position relative thereto.)
No, not difficult at all. But rather tense work. And as initial session dragged on, began to feel effects of prolonged concentration; decided might be wise to stop, take breather. Did so, looked around — discovered had come barely hundred yards!
No, wasn’t difficult. But took best part of three hours to complete crossing.
And when finally cleared trestle, solid ground under rails beneath all four wheels (waited until could confirm in rearview mirrors to ensure wasn’t being fooled by optical-mistic illusion; do something silly while rear end still overhung void), wasted no time turning sharply off tracks, bumping over rails, driving down embankment to level ground.