Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
Somebody jumped off our local bridge last week. We were walking along the river, as we do two or three times a week, when other hikers, explaining the low-flying chopper shooting through the canyon, said that someone saw a body in the water.
The next day I checked the paper and learned that the person had jumped from the Foresthill Bridge, which is more than 700 feet above the American River. Young people are always going out on the bridge’s girders to take awesome selfies, but that’s dangerous and illegal, and last year one girl fell but survived because she was still over land, fell fifty feet onto the hillside. This person must have been out in the middle and either fell or jumped – I guess nobody knows for sure. They haven’t recovered the body yet. Don’t know if it was a man or a woman, though I wonder if the family of a missing person knows the jumper is their loved one and doesn’t want to accept it yet.
It’s a beautiful spot, and I hate to think someone was in despair as they looked out over that canyon. You’d almost think the beauty of the place would reassure you that life is worth living as long as you can come to a place like this and take it in, breathe it. Depression doesn’t work like that though. Instead the beauty of the place must seem ironic, but you’re going to be tied to it forever now. You own it.
Last year they found a body in the woods nearby, but we haven’t heard who it was or what happened. A hiker found the remains not far from the trail.
I don’t know. This is happening all the time, all around the world, but it startles me when it happens in the place where I get so much peace and fulfillment.
[Photo by Nick Ares via Wiki Commons.]