Rogue River Valley

Articles from the Historical Society in Josephine County Oregon

The Old Bridge Soon To Move Down River
by M. Louise Stokes
2/2 - END

Who could wax sentimental about a bridge?
A great, ungainly thing of iron and wood weighing 90 tons of industrial muscle?

The Rogue River Bridge has been taken for granted since it was built in 1908, when wagons rumbled across it, and women in lacy sweeping frocks and towering fluffs of hats, carrying pink parasols, walked across it on Sunday afternoons.

Always ladies, limbless and correct, they moved slowly, in fear of losing a petticoat, or wrinkling a ruffle. Under the feminine slipper shod feet, under the clattering hoofs and iron bound wheels, lay the bridge, comfortably spanning the quiet river, in two great 180-foot leaps.

At day a black-lined thunderous note of civilization against the unstudied peace and perfection of the summer cloudless sky, the bridge at night became a soundless rhythm, the key-note of a song sung by river willows, lacy patterns of mystery, reached for the stars.

The river murmured, and made a plop plop sound at grass roots on the bank. A killdeer called, mourning, piercingly sweet. A wagon rumbled across the bridge in the darkness, breaking the silence with the sound of creaking harness, and blending with the night noises as the wagon rumbles, the creaking harness and clattering hoofs moved down the dusty road.

First came the automobile. Impassive, the bridge submitted. The noise of the automobile was not lazy. It did not mingle chameleon like, with the killdeer's call and the voice of the river running to the sea. More automobiles came, and more roaring defiance, sputtering, purring with power.

The bridge rested no more on Sunday afternoons, or at night, or at anytime. One day a man walked across the bridge. An automobile passed him. He bent his head and frowned. He listened. He looked at the worn timbers, the long bolted girders of steel, and flakes of paint clinging.

Soon a swarm of men busied themselves about the old bridge. They sank holes in the river. They erected shapely mounds of concrete, re-enforced by steel. They built a new bridge over Rogue River. The old bridge waits. It creaks with age, but it doesn't complain. It is soon to be moved 12 miles down the river, torn in pieces. The splintered timbers will be destroyed. The girders of bolted steel will be moved in trucks, to be put together again to make a new bridge at the lower ferry.

This great ungainly thing of iron and wood, taken for granted since it was put into service 23 years ago at the foot of Sixth Street, will go on serving. Perhaps the little Killdeer will call again at night and wagons will rumble across in the darkness, down the country road at the lower ferry. But never again will women carrying pink parasols, and wearing many petticoats, walk slowly across the old Rogue River Bridge on Sunday afternoons.