There is an old little park in the middle of Lethbridge. Its grassy fields are ridden with gophers, its picnic shelters in dire need of repair. The old staircase that took you to the lookout on top of the coulee has been torn down. Floods in the valley have ripped up massive oaks, they hang stark looking on the footing of the bridge. The beach along the river is no longer covered with smooth stones-a layer of silt, brances, and other dead things blanket them.
I used to come to this park often- my cousin and I celebrated our birthdays together here, year after year. We've had campfires, roasted marshmallows, played on its playgrounds, and skipped stones in the river. All that remains intact in this humble park is The Bridge. The longest of its kind, a train bridge, that stretches from the top of one coulee, across the river, to the top of the next. It stands black and majestic against the blue sky, and quivers when trains hazard their way over. On the top, it sways 3 feet to each side beneath the rumble of the trains engine. The High Level Bridge:

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