"I will blog this. Yes, I will blog this," I say to myself, smiling, sun on my shoulders. Dad nearly has Claire to the edge of the lake bed, and the boys are meandering around me on their way there, too. My hands, scrubbed and warming now, still wear a bit of the mud. I carry with me the probe that found the stone that put the smile on my face. I am a funny creature. How did I get here, mud on my hands, sun on my body, boots on my feet? Back up with me and I will tell you.
Sometime in the 1800's
There is a creek that needs a bridge so a road can cross it. A stone arch bridge is built, as many are at this time. The arch, strong and time tested true in it's ability to bear great loads.
1900
A small country church is built near the bridge. My family gave the land for it. It is a Baptist church, and they use the creek for baptismal services. People arrange themselves around the bridge to witness fellow pilgrims profess their love and devotion to their Creator. The arch stands strong and firm. Perhaps the imagery of its solid stone form as a backdrop not lost on the faithful congregation.
1927
Land is condemned, claimed, and utilized. Santa Fe Lake is made. Water is needed for steam engines that power trains. Family land is partially lost. The bridge that has stood as a way to cross is no longer needed as the land around it is flooded. The creek flows under a lake so engines can cross the country, hauling what is needed. Few remember what is there, under the surface.
1980
It is a hot, hot summer. Triple digits that seem to stretch forever. The scorching summer sun bakes the prairie and no rain comes to give reprieve. The lake begins to recede. Cracks appear, borders shrink, underneath is revealed. My parents take me out to the lake bed and we see the top of the bridge. I am a four year old. I have no memory of this - apparently there are pictures. People drive their vehicles out and go over the top for the first time in years. The creek is quite silted in. As expected, the arch holds fast to its shape. Disuse and abandonment have not led it to crumble. It's memory is revived for a time.
Fall, 2010
Work on the spillway needs to be done. Water is drained. Again, borders shrink, cracks form, hidden is revealed.
"We should go see if we can find the bridge!"
We walk out. Dead mussel shells lay strewn about. Where is it? Further? Further. We walk out, further. There is the creek channel. Slightly depressed, a little more wet. We follow it with our eyes. There. A slight mound. A little more dry on top, a little more wet to the sides. Creek channel comes in, goes out. It must be there. Silted over. Sigh. Disappointment.
Now, late January 2011
No rain, minimal snow, blowing winds.
"It's going to be warm at the end of the week. We're supposed to have highs in the mid 60's."
The second day of warm weather I want to go check. I want to see if it is drier so I can probe the muck to see how far beneath the silt the stones sit. Dad doesn't really want to go, but he does since he obsesses over safety. I load Claire up in the stroller and head out. Dad follows with the boys, bringing the "probes."
Where is it? I've lost it. The creek, where's the creek? OK, I see the beginning. My eyes search, straining to follow the curves. There? Is it there? OK, yeah, it was near a log. I think I see the mound. OK, dad and the boys are coming.
"I can't see it!", I call.
"What?? Hold on, I'm coming."
"Is it that? Right there?"
"Yes, yes, that's it. That is just the right width. There is the slight mound and depressions on each side."
I am going to walk over to it and probe. In the back of my mind is the worry dad has about the bridge collapsing and creating a void that would suck me down to oblivion. Great. In the area is a branch from a tree. I walk to it and stand on it. I figure I would be in relative safety as a whole branch can't be sucked fully down into the muck. I start probing. Poke, poke, poke. Where is it? I push it down further. Was that a chink? I push it down again. I think I have hit something solid. Yes! Yes, it is stone!
"I found it! I hit stone!"
"That's it then, you found the bridge. If you've hit stone that has to be the bridge."
I probe some more, and realize that the stones nearer to where I am standing are closer to the surface than out where I was first probing. It's only a couple of feet down - I want to dig.
"I need something to dig with! Guys, find me something to dig with!"
"Charity, I think it would be better to wait till we get some colder weather again and we get a frozen crust. Then you could walk out there better."
"I know, but I want to dig a little right now. I am here and I think I can do it."
"No matter how much you dig you won't see the stone, it will always have the mud on it."
"I know, but I want to see if I can uncover part of it. I wish I had a shovel."
"I know, we didn't come prepared. I think we could do better at another time."
"I know. But I'm stubborn."
I use the stick he threw at me and start to remove the mire. Thook, glup. The mud is thick. The further down I go the thicker and stickier it gets. It isn't so easy to dig with the pieces of driftwood. Muddy boots, muddy jeans, muddy hands. I can't keep it off of me. I am getting closer. I use the probe to make sure I am digging down in the right spot. I realize I can't dig down all the way with the tools I have. Knowing I can't lay eyes on it I decide that I will at least touch it. I scoop out as much mire as I can, use the probe to pick my spot, and then plunge in my hand. I can't find it. I probe again, chink. Again my hand navigates the dark unknown. Where is it?! This time I make the probe hit home and leave it in place. I run my had down the metal to it's base - stone. My finger tips contact the hard stone and I move them over the surface. I did it. I fought the stinking mud, thick and gloopy. I touched what has been out of site for years, out of use longer, and has no real value beyond sentiment. I am giddy with my persistence. And I posses some of the sentiment for this bridge that my ancestors crossed and were baptized under and viewed with familiarity. I have no memory, but I have stood on it with tiny four year old legs. Maybe right where I just touched. Thirty-one years later and I will remember this time. Will I ever actually see it? Not without some major changes. But as I walk back towards the edge of the lake I am filled with joy. I stop near a large fallen tree where there is a patch of snow that has not melted, even after these unusually warm January days. It is more like little round pellets of ice. I scoop it up and scrub my muddy hands and arms. It scratches and burns (maybe it's exfoliating? people pay good money for that...) and OH, it's cold! But it sure does the job - I get nearly all the mud off. I walk and the sun shines on me and my hands are now so warm because they were just recently very cold. I revel in my stubbornness  that gave me this experience. I am thankful for this day and that this sort of thing makes me happy. And I blog it.