The Bridges
A walk along the riverside in Missoula, Montana takes you past several crossing points. These bridges bring travelers to the other side of the Clark Fork and connect two valley shorelines split by the river between them.
ADVENTURE ART CLUB | DAY 8 | 9.8
DOWNTOWN RIVERSIDE TRAIL
CLARK FORK RIVER
MISSOULA, MT
Tonight, Scout and I choose to start our adventure at the ballpark and walk down the shoreline until we eventually feel like crossing. From the start, our journey takes us past sculpture parks and osprey nests, to which we glance in recognition before moving onward. This trail feels placed at the intersection of the natural and the industrial. Tension persists here between the carefully curated straight lines of steel and the wild creatures that adapt and inhabit these spaces. Are we not wild creatures as well? I wonder.
Our steps start out under cottonwood trees that reach over the river where the earth is not paved, and I take in the crunch of gravel pieces underfoot as we make our way along the dry pathway. Underneath the first bridge we pass, I notice the tucked away houses of swift leaping swallows, hidden (mostly) from passersby. They must be out hunting insects, because I don’t see them on the breeze today. Under this first bridge, Scout and I leap over mirrorlike puddles and marvel at the repetitive shapes of the concrete that call to mind ancient cathedrals. Our voices are amplified here and cacophonous.
Moving along, we come to a park that feels lush and verdant. Green lawns meet user built trails to the river among tangles of tree that have fallen. A bit further, I notice a wisp of an apple tree growing in a river drainage channel beside us. Its limbs are laden with ripe red fruit that will most likely fall in the river and sink to the silt at the bottom. I’m not sure why but the inaccessibility of these ripe gifts of nature tugs at my heartstrings. These offerings condemned to waste feel like the movement of an outstretched hand that will never be met by another.
We move on.
Further along, we come to a place where the mirror reflections of the water sleepily drift beneath the shelter of a second bridge reaching over us. Here, stone steps invite river travelers to step onto the land with ease. Land wanderers often rest here in the evenings. It’s peaceful. We move past these landings, past parks further on, to a wide open field with benches. Here Scout shows off his training and tricks for any and all to see. “Hop up!” I say near a bench on the way. He obliges.
We’re often confronted with people who pass us on walks like these that inexplicably respond to Scout with unfounded fear - that surprises me. Their thought seems to be: Here is an 80 lb dog in a perfectly calm heel on a leash beside their person, so… he must be some sort of maniac?? Otherwise, we would let him run free, right?? Wrong. The leash is a link between us, not a torture implement…
My bond with my dog is a deep one, and I teach him what to expect in different situations. He knows how not to react. He knows as his leader I will handle the unexpected, so he doesn’t have to. He knows to heel when we pass a person. He steps off of trails for runners and bikers. He sits when we stop at a crossing (he even presses the crosswalk button). To some people, I guess, his manners feel like a precaution, as though we were forced to train him out of abject necessity rather than choice. I will never understand this.
I often pass people with near-feral dogs who, while they are small, are reactive, aggressive, and worse. Yet, no one looks twice at them. Because Scout is big in body and half pit bull, he is perceived as a problem, even though his sweet heart, temperament, and training make him safer than any other dog to be near. These people’s ignorance makes me blindingly angry, but I digress from our adventure…
Eventually, we come to the last bridge and cross, making our way over the water. This bridge stretches over a deep spot in the river, and people love to jump from the railing. Its structure is concrete and steel, which perhaps makes it easier to climb, because this bridge is covered in street art. Colors abound above us, transforming the grey into a riotous splash of expression. I pause here to take it all in…
Hand prints that stretch over the ceiling above us. Hearts drawn at random. Blue and pink splashes. A very intentional rainbow. Some pieces are darker….an angel in white surrounded by darkness. The words “good intentions” set against a dream, or a nightmare. I’m struck by the splashes of paint themselves, intuitive and expressive, and the contrast of remnants from lively movement set against the stoic greys all around them. I’m struck by the intersection of industrial structures built to last and the expression of a fleeting moment already evaporated. “Love each other” and “Keep our rivers clean” are the final admonishments I read here before we continue on.
Passing more murals and walkways, we eventually end up back under the Bear Tracks Bridge (Higgins Avenue) and settle awhile on the banks of Brennan’s Wave near a park called Caras. The flow of the river is low now, so several rocks are exposed to the air. I settle on one and watch Scout delight in the river’s movement. He’s intrigued by the way the water falls over the edge of the boulders and swirls and splashes beneath him. Toes in the cold water, he mouths the waves like a bear catching salmon.
As I draw this perpetual wave with a name here in the heart of Downtown Missoula, I think back to all the other times I’ve seen surfers standing on the water out there. Brennan’s Wave is a river surfing destination. Surfing in a land-locked state? Yes, that’s part of the magic. It was purpose-built and flows the same, changing only with the river’s natural current throughout the season. If you walk by the river in Missoula, you can often find spectators staring at daring adventurers flinging their bodies into the water and air for moments of glory.
Right now, no one challenges the current, and it feels like I’ve been gifted this sweet solitude to appreciate the wave and capture this solitary moment. Scout plays along the shoreline patiently, allowing me to sketch the water, and when I’m finished, we leave with this sweet little token of the rushing roar of the river.
One more bridge crossing stands between us and the end of our travels. As we cross over the Orange Street bridge laden with Bitterroot flower medallions (Montana’s state flower), we glance down to see two Merganser ducks bobbing along in the current. These creatures cross wherever they like, free of access points and big structures. They look free and filled with ease, completely at home in the water.
As we return to the car, this adventure just ends, as many do.
Rivers and roads.
Crossings and currents.
At the end, we find ourselves back where we started.
Love & Gratitude,
- Christina
