A Time to Play

“Nothin’s coming yet!” are remembered shouts of excitement as bonded friends and I turned the edge-of-woods corner and marveled at the prize before us; a long wooden trestle.

Its bridgework crisscrossed in layered patterns. A rainbow shape contented as a pussycat lay across the Osisko River, purring several miles from our town. The possibility of pots of gold at either end teased our youthful imaginations.

Thank goodness our parents were unknowing of the danger we exposed ourselves to. Children often do engage in risky adventures, and this was to be ours. My thoughts shriveled about the advance discussions on the feat we were about to accomplish.

Our little group felt it within our domain to test the waters of life and capture something extraordinary before life passed us by. Such did occur to our fathers who left farms, and small towns as well as cities, leaving behind young lives for the soil of Europe in those daring days of World War 11.

Now was our turn to feel muscles on growing biceps, something important to our way of thinking, and to honor our fathers.

Imagination and daring feats were extremely important in the minds of ten and eleven year old boys, in 1952. Not being my favorite hiking route the ‘jitters’ often lay assault to my confidence.

On that particular occasion I tried to keep pace with my friends. A fear of heights kept well hidden in my side pocket.

I was the shy one, often afraid to attempt something out of the ordinary. “Promise you’ll cross the trestle, or hope to die,” Lee, the leader, a year above my age, said after the retelling of a journey surely to last a lifetime of memories. At the time, I did not realize how prophetic his statement would be.

“Yes,” I advanced boldly, in front of the gang. “Sure, I’ll go. I’m game.” After all, they were my friends and they did invite me to play with them. So long as it was not something frightful like climbing trees, I would cheerfully join them. My fear of heights was almost as bad as a sliver in my big toe.

Thankfully, they never did discover this flaw in my bravado. After all, each of us was from the Veteran’s Town site and we vowed to be tough hombres. Not bullies, but over comers of all obstacles. Since all our dads served in the Second World War, we had a pride to maintain.

Yes, during those early years, life was full of dandelions. Not that the plentiful wild flower in northern Quebec was unloved as it is today with plucking, seeding and chemicals used to eradicate it from landscaped premises. At that time, it provided splashes of color among the greening of our young lives.

No matter where we looked, there were firs, spruce, balsam and sprinkles of birch and poplar, surrounding our town. Therefore the addition of something pleasantly different, like a wooden bridge over a high trestle reminded us, it was indeed unique in the flow of youthful play.

The splash of yellowish tinge covered both sides of the track as we raced across the imbedded tiles to be first before the sooty black from a hooting engine blocked our path. Just the thought of a steaming black locomotive heading towards us created an out-of-control nightmare.

Trying to keep up to my friend’s retreating feet was a challenge. I could see Roger’s willow slingshot with rubber sling tease me from his back pocket. No matter how often he tried his shot always missed tapping some itinerant crow. Of course they never complained. Besides, I was on their side.

My hiking friends were all boys, since we did not feel girls had the same stamina or reckless actions we aspired to. Knowledge in the later flow of life taught me it was the latter.

Crossing this long trestle just outside our town of Rouyn, was our rite of manhood. Lee, our acknowledged leader decided each new dare, and he assured us this one would definitely make us ‘King of the Hill.”

Being part of our gang meant we had to continually prove those dreadful words “Crybaby” or “Mama’s Boy” was not part of our makeup.

However I never felt my ten-year-old sins deserved this degree of penance. As usual I was always last in the group. I tried being deliberately slow, my legs reluctant to move with the flow. And my feet slogging through what felt like molasses lapping at my well-worn jeans.

To this day, I continue to notice with dread that Trestle creeping closer, closer. If only a locomotive would show itself, thus preventing me from having to encounter one halfway across.

The braver one among the five or six of us was always our unrivaled leader, Lee. He was a brash lad who seemed to draw others around him. I felt it was my good fortune to be allowed to share his group of friends.

A ‘gang’ in those days had nothing to do with brass knuckles or motorcycles, but rather someone to be with, for company. Our dads, after working in the Noranda Copper Mine were too worn out to spend time with sons on such a beautiful day, as that day.

Lee was followed quickly by our pack of Roger, Herve, Butchie, Don, my younger brother Dennis and myself. We were straight in line like a ruler. And bent over, ears against the cold steel rail, our bony butts pointing west.

Listening carefully, we waited patiently for Lee’s uttering. “OK” meant nothing coming due to no rumbling sounds in the steel, an assurance of safety at least up to the trestle one hundred feet ahead.

The safety location, for those ‘caught’ on the trestle must have been a whole four feet square. It was deftly attached to the main bridge frame, with a railing for protection. And was available for preventing any emergency jump of fifty feet to the river below. Better than facing up to an engine of pure terror.

The plan was always to hike our sneakers swiftly. And make the trestle in stages at the very least. Other than leaping from the tracks, it provided the only safety valve. Should the need arrive, we were prepared to cram ourselves into that safety space while the train sped over the river.

To us, anything wider than ten or fifteen feet was a river. And from this height our imaginations could see the potential of mangled bodies if we dared jump from the rails. We were sure there were rocks below the surface, just as we read about at the bottom of Niagara Falls.

We imagined ourselves bold as Jungle Jim. And the wide body of water below was raging. Whether alligators waited, it really wouldn’t matter if we jumped to our demise.

Yet, imagination intervened. If Jungle Jim could wrestle gorillas from the stories we heard on the radio, or seen in movie houses, what was a little danger from a pile of steel? After all, we were in the prime of our lives, quick and eager, feet straddled with boldness and hearts that could surely outrace any steam engine, should the need arise.

Crossing the trestle was not an easy lope, nor a time to look about at the scenery on such a beautiful summer day. School was out; life was good and my friends galloping ahead, fists and arms pumping wildly. But there were several complications.

I became fearful after my mistake of looking between the tiles as I anxiously began my walk from the edge of trestle. It was surely a mile straight down from this observation post.

And I closed my eyes with dread, slowly counting to ten, praying for strength.

Suddenly I realized my friends for life were yelling, “Come Onnnnn!!” as they were now halfway across the foreboding monument of wood, spaces and height. And so I put gas to my spirit and began to quickly step with determination one tile at a time, refusing to accept the motion of water far below.

I had the thinnest shoulders among our group, and believed small enough to fall like a mere mouse, between these tiles.

I advanced more quickly as I could see them reach the other side, and guaranteed safety. My feet began to move in a rhythm as the “Clack-Clack” sound of steel rails moving in unison from heavy bearing of a large weight with boxcars full of furniture and equipment, shook beneath my feet.

Except those “Clack-Clacking” noises were not from my library of imagination. They were real!

It was not necessary to place my ear against the cold rail listening for any movement. Seeing the open mouths from my friends, terror speared through me. I looked behind and saw the snaking of foreboding smoke identifying the huge engine. With additional horror I noticed the shortening distance the black beast had coming at me.

It was as if the nasty devil incarnate discovered there were un-confessed sins during my last visit to the priest’s confessional box.

I quickly glanced in all directions. What to do? Looking over the edge of trestle, the river seemed impossibly far below. Besides, I suddenly remembered, I couldn’t swim. Surely the center of river was deep as the Atlantic Ocean, which I learned about in my grade six Geography class.

At first, it seemed impossible to keep ahead of the train’s advance on my position. When I suddenly realized the jutting safety ledge was behind me, my adrenalin kicked in. What seemed like six legs pumped faster than an Olympic runner. Above the noise of the hooting engine, my friends’ screams spurred me to abandon the reality of space between each tile under my feet.

Somehow I didn’t trip or sprain my foot. Perhaps the speed I was using allowed me to fly over the tiles in a sort of jet stream movement.

Thankfully I was able to make the last tile, and stepping a few feet from the track, heaved in deeply. The engineer seeing I was okay and obviously anxious to meet his deadline simply sent me a loud blast of noise that threatened to rip off my right ear.

Suddenly, I felt a flush of warmness run down my leg.

Oh, the shame of it. The desperation of my run, not wanting to let my friends down and a sudden startling of shattering noise caused me to let go. Now my whole front was on display for the whole world to notice.

Shakily I strode with jerky strides towards my friends who reached me, amazed I was able to stand.

“Wow! What a run!” Herve yelled in my good ear. The other was still deafened by the piercing train’s horn. “Yaaah!!” the others agreed. They were real pals though when they didn’t even mention my accident instead glad I didn’t abandon all reason and simply jump into the river.

They steadied me as we made our way to our destination’s side, sliding down to the river’s edge where we had a delightful swim. Everyone jumped in fully clothed so I now longer stood out as the ‘piss-pants’ kid.

I reasoned at the time, standing shoulder to shoulder with laughing, splashing friends, I would no longer linger nor be afraid to cross the trestle.

Recollecting as I do now, I close my eyes and still see them all. Herve, the usual shy one, Don the daredevil, Lee of course now throwing mud balls, and Butchie; his sister later became a nurse. And my younger brother is splashing in playful splendor.

An interesting jog of thought quickly carries me back to the sequel of that moment. Although we continued our fun times together hiking in the woods, we never again crossed that wooden trestle.

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© Richard L. Provencher
Website: www.wsprog.com/rp/

First published by Greeensilk Journal
Current Stories Fall 2010