This impressive bridge was built for the trail, for feet and foot-powered bikes. The swirling North Fork of the Wilson River rushed underneath.
My attention was turned to a constant rumble and clatter that filled the air - not from the forest or river, but from the Diamond Mill "staging area" nearby. It was the launching pad for men on two- and four-wheeled machines... thundering through the forest, conquering it, tearing through the wet soil with studded tires, canary colored leather, shiny plastic helmets, and the ever-present fumes of gas. It was a different way to experience the forest. It wasn't for me, but at least they were out there - not huddled around some television, not idolizing some artificial reality, simply making their own way - living their own life, churning and breathing, burning and spitting.