A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.
Of course this is exactly the sort of bridge I would jump from if I was twenty.
From Down In The River To Pray, a sermonette I wrote for the old Tent Show on Salon Blogs back in 2007:
I like old, really old, unsafe bridges, particularly old style overhead truss bridges. I will drive out of my way for a rickety, unsafe bridge I have not yet crossed. I mean real antiques, not these Interstate bridges built in the sixties and seventies. I also like rivers and streams, any sort of flowing water, above or below ground. I’ve damn near drowned or otherwise kilt myself several times messing around rivers—and bridges. I used to jump off bridges into rivers, for recreation. This was before I became an old greyback, a bag full of creaks. For pure adrenalin rush, nothing beats jumping from the superstructure of an old truss bridge into a flowing river. It is a religious experience. Baptism as it should be. Repeat as necessary. I’m not kidding.
I feel the future/past dreaming itself down my bones, like the cold, delicious thrill that ran down my legs and arms when I was willing the lizard in my brain to let go and jump from the top of an old truss bridge into the river, down into the swimming hole. Ah. After the letting go, stepping into air from the superstructure of the bridge falling through the summer sunlight forever. I’m falling still. The water stinging my feet like a million bees, plunging into sun shafted warm water passing the thermocline into cold dark murk, buzzing feet sucking themselves into the silky chill mud of the river bottom. A long moment, toes exploring, and kicking free, rising towards air and light. I’m rising still, too.