Join me crossing over this old railroad bridge; it’s the only way to get to the other side. Let’s see what can be found on the other bank of the bayou. It’s a little scary — that water is a long way down, and if a train starts heading across when we are in the middle, down may be the only option available. Look at that lush pine and oak forest on the other side. Crossing over with my buddies about 1956, those trees looked, in our eyes, a thousand feet tall. Let’s see what we can see. It might be fun, but crossing that bridge that day was one of the scariest things I had ever experienced in my ten years of life.
That bayou was a long way down. You had to walk on the railroad ties and not step or trip in the empty spaces between them, and the tracks took up most of the bridge’s width. If a train came, there would not be room enough for both of us to pass. One of us would have to step aside to allow the other to go around, and for the one doing the sidestepping, the only place to go would be down. It didn’t take long to figure out which one of us would be giving up the right of way.
Crossing over that old bridge that day was not an easy thing for me to do. I wanted to go back to the familiar safety of my home.
Gary and Howard, my neighborhood friends, kept on going, yelling back to me,
“Come on, let’s see what’s in those woods. Don’t be chicken — cluck, cluck, cluck!”
So I swallowed hard and took that first step, and then the next, trying not to look down, afraid of being caught by some adult authority who would tell my family. Buffalo Bayou was far beyond the limits of parentally approved territory, and the punishment would be severe.
Feeling guilty about my transgressions was a trait deeply instilled in my underdeveloped brain in elementary school by the dear Sisters of de Sade. We would be punished by the rule — the 12-inch rule that would appear in their hands whenever they perceived an infraction of the will of God: not completing homework, poor penmanship — pen, ink, and cursive were still in vogue in those days — or not eating all of your blackened banana. After all, the children in China were starving because they did not obey the rules.
Peer pressure was also a strong influence in my thought process at that time. That cluck-cluck-clucking from those jerks drove me on, maybe more in anger than courage, because I was going to poke the hell out of each of their arms — hard — as soon as I got close enough. Or maybe it was the hopeful promise of feeling safe together with my comrades.
Maybe it was both. Or maybe, deep down, I wanted to cross that divide because it felt like bringing together the two worlds I loved most, though they were torn so far apart. I never knew or remembered living as one family — a mom and a dad together in one place. They divorced when I was only three years old. Remembering much from that age or before was not possible. I lived with Mom and had frequent, fun times with my Dad. There was always, though, a deep longing for unity, even well into my teens.
With all these mixed emotions rushing through me, I continued on with the quest to conquer that scary link connecting the two muddy banks of the bayou.
It was easy enough for my younger self to balance on those rail ties. It was not so easy to look down and see that slow-moving olive-brown water flowing far below and think, if I fall and kill myself, my Dad — the kindest, gentlest man I have ever known — is going to kill me too. It was a double-loss situation.
Eventually, making it across, the sense of accomplishment overwhelmed my emotions enough to make me forget revenge on my buddies — at least for now. The relief of reaching this side of the bayou was only dampened by the apprehension of having to cross back in order to go home again.
Soon after crossing, we continued along the tracks and came across a well-worn path heading down and east away from the rails and deep into the woods. I remember being impressed by how thick the trees and grasses grew together, how tall everything was. Vision was limited to only a few feet on either side. I could hear birds in the upper canopy calling out to their buddies, “Watch out — there are three dangerous boys in the forest, they may be armed - with slingshots.”
It was all so thick and green, and only now have I realized that this piece of real estate was probably then the only — and maybe the last — remaining virgin forest within what is now a massively complex city. It was standing there before Columbus sailed the ocean blue, before Cabeza de Vaca and the Narváez expedition crashed into San Luis Pass in Galveston, maybe even before the Karankawa and the Akokisa people walked this land. Maybe they had trekked along this same trail.
It wasn’t long before we heard voices in the distance. It sounded like a playground at a park. We quickened our pace and burst into a clearing, surprised to see:
- A cardboard shack big enough for its occupant to sleep comfortably and store his belongings.
- A small campfire.
- Four or five other boys hanging around.
- A grizzled old man in khakis, who turned out to be a hobo living in that cardboard shelter.
“Hello. They call me Capt’n D,” he said, standing up straight after stirring a bubbling pot on the fire to take a look at us.
“The other kids are swinging down by the gully. Just follow that path over yonder — you can’t miss ’em.”
The Capt’n didn’t pay much attention to us hanging around his camp. He just kept doing his chores.
We followed his directions. Not far from the camp there was a deep, dry gully, and tied high up in one of the trees was a long hemp hawser rope that had washed overboard from one of the boats still plying that part of the bayou. Someone had rescued it from being swept down channel and lost forever in the Gulf. Somehow it had been suspended from a heavy limb high in an old oak, and now its sole purpose in life was the fun and adventure of us kids.
The other boys were already there, taking turns, running to catch the rope as it swung back after the previous rider dropped to the ground following his flight to the far side of that deep gully and back again.
My two friends and all the new ones we met were having a great time. None of us gave a single thought to slipping or falling or how far off the beaten track we were in case someone needed a broken arm or leg repaired. We quickly learned that if you just kept hanging on, you’d be all right.
Eventually, we noticed it was getting late and needed to start our return journey home. This time, there was less fear in crossing than before, though I was still careful about where I placed my feet. Making it across, relieved and excited about the adventure, I wanted to tell everyone about the bridge, the Capt’n, the swinging rope, and the fun we had — but as I valued my life, silence would have to rule. This was, after all, a capital offense.
The Final Act — Epilogue
That dense forest on the other side of the bayou is gone now. It gave up the only peaceful serenity for miles around — the last shelter for flora and fauna in that patch of the East End — and was replaced by one of Houston’s large sanitation and aquatic restoration facilities. Unpleasant, perhaps, but essential for a large society that chooses to live close together. You have to do something with all of that; let's call it waste.
This essay is the first time since that adventure that I have mentioned it to anyone. It seems about time to let my 21st-century kids know a little about the old man’s life back in the day.
While writing, it became clearer that this old river crossing — and others like it — are strong metaphors for overcoming the obstacles life throws in our path. Bridges come in different forms, not only structures over troubled waters but also internal fortitude, perseverance, and determination. They symbolize hope and rising above challenges, the rejoining of what has been divided by the perils of nature. They are paths to opportunities that connect people, places, and ideas. When things are not going well, try to remember how much fun it was swinging over that deep gully below.
Now, at 78 years old, it’s time to think about crossing the next bridge. Again, it’s a little scary — especially knowing it may be the last one. This time, the fear does not come from falling into muddy water but from the journey across the unknown, from not knowing what waits on the other bank.
I was taught that rules must be followed or your soul would suffer the burning fires of hell or some other devilish torment dreamed up in the imagination of Dante Alighieri for eternity. What actually happens is far less clear. There are as many possibilities as there are world religions, and even they disagree among themselves. What is certain is that no one who has crossed the final bridge has ever come back to tell us what lies on the other side.
When the time comes to cross over, I’m just going to think about swinging on that rope — and poking Gary and Howard in the arm when I catch up with them.
© J. Michael Boland March 5, 2026
Add comment
Comments