The road twists and curves through the countryside, a flutter of leaves that never quite settle as the cars drive through. Colors so intense they suffocate all your other senses, and you wonder if you dare to breathe. Hues of yellow, orange, and red mixed with a bit of green still clinging to summer days smother the countryside. As the breeze rustles the branches and the leaves shiver and shake the hills almost look to be on fire. The road winds around until we arrive at an old Mill on Slippery Rock Creek. The falls crash against the nearby rocks sending a fine mist into the air driving the chill of fall into your bones. I love the old wood and stone building, but just down the red I catch a glimpse of red and something that steals my heart.
I loved it from the first moment I think I saw it, stretching across the water, a covered bridge. I loved the feel of walking through it, it felt magical, out of another era not my own. I can still picture the red paint, and the crossbeams on the inside as we walked through, stepping out of the paths of cars. Something so simple, it almost seems silly that it captured my heart so.
I decided to look on the Internet, to see if I remembered it correctly. The white weight limit sign at the top of the entrance, the yellow caution marks as you approached. All was as I remembered it. But the last picture left my heart with a chill. It lay there, something I loved and remembered so dear, smashed in smithereens by a fallen tree.
(The picture was taken two years ago, if the date was correct anyway. I wondered if it would be rebuilt. Perhaps I shall visit someday and I shall know. But I hesitate; it just wouldn’t be my place with out the covered bridge.)