Paradise lost

The open gate was the first clue that something was wrong. The gate’s supposed to be closed and locked.

I was attempting a birding trip with Michaela, Andrew, Fjord, and Ludwhig. Our destination was the iron bridge road. I’d longed for that endless road all summer. The place was like paradise, I told Fjord. I was excited to go back.

It was destroyed though. As we started walking, Andrew noticed that the leaves were red with dirt and dust from frequent traffic. Soon we heard the repulsive roar and beeping of numerous trucks. The tree-canopied road was canopied no longer. A large clearing was filled with generators, semi-trucks, and construction and tractor type equipment. I wanted to cry.

We walked along, moving aside every few minutes to let a semi pass, and I helplessly tried to describe to Ludwhig and Fjord the beauty that the iron bridge road once had.

The lake was still filled with egrets. We stopped to watch, but the bridge was too narrow for both the five of us and the semi-trucks, so we moved on.

Gate 29 was open, so we walked through. Aside from the modern background noise, the road there was unchanged. We enjoyed the beauty around us, although we saw few birds. On our way back, we stopped to watch the sunset from the iron bridge. Traffic had ceased by then, so we were free to watch in peace.

As we left, we issued a name change. The Iron Bridge Road is now called Paradise Lost.