I candidly don’t know why it was still called Sioux River, for it was merely a creek that divided our pasture from the Curby’s property. Mediocre, it was probably the only barrier between northern Spring Prairie Township and the southern tip of Faulkton Township. Thus, it wasn’t hard to suppose that the only bridge that spanned this insignificant river was located at the far northern edge of our pasture. This dinky old bridge wasn’t something you’ll discover on Google Earth or on a Montana state map, for it was one of those relics known only to those fearless of stepping on mucky cow pies and marching through fields of thistles. Historically, it was the sole way to cross the river, more recently it served as the exclusive stepping stone through a personal turbulent current. …show more content…
I was nine. There were four of us, my parents, my older brother and me. My brother Keith and I discovered the bridge almost at once and most of our summer elapsed exploring and playing there. We played Cowboys and Indians presuming the astonishingly undeviating bannisters as horses, fantasizing Buffalo Bill, legendary Indiana Jones, or eminent Crazy Horse. My brother would scream—his blood-curling screech transmitting an ephemeral eerie silence and rippling the calm rushing water.
One scorching summer afternoon, we toted some old paint along attempting to give the weather-beaten wood new life. However, this endeavor failed when slightly mellowed from the paint’s stark odor, I heedlessly stepped into a gap of a missing floor board tripping and propelling the pail of paint into the verdant cattails. My brother roared with laughter as I agonizingly clutched my pain stricken debilitating knee. We weren’t incredibly disappointed since the paint that was initially red had turned an unappealing pink, so if you lived in Dixie County those days and saw a rosy jumper indisputably it was a victim of this