It was two o’clock a.m. when Kurt walked down the dark path from Dr. Alexander’s house to Browns Hill Road. He couldn’t see a thing. The rain had stopped and periodically he had some help from a moon that peeked in and out of the mostly cloudy sky. He knew the river and the Homestead High Level Bridge were at the bottom of the hill. He needed to cross at the break of day when there would be little activity. He made a quick decision to find a spot to nap. More rain was expected early in the morning which would give him good cover when he reached the river. He’d moved inside a wooded area, found a large rock with a concave bottom that he could crawl into which would be perfect to protect him from any Security heat sensors. Large boulders abounded in the Pittsburgh area, left over from millions of years ago. He lay down, curled into a sleeping position using his backpack as a headrest, and within seconds, had visions of Maria, Dr. Alexander, his father and mother, with her smile and quick vivacious laugh. These were his last thoughts as he drifted into a deep sleep.
He wasn’t sure what it was, maybe the early bird calls or possibly the blustery wind and light rain, but he awakened and slowly opened his eyes. It was still dark on the rock. Kurt rolled off his perch and stood up. He looked at his watch which showed 6:25 and realized he had to get on the trail now and to the Homestead Bridge before the sun came up. He checked his backpack and when he reentered the path, he knew he was about half way down Brown’s Hill Road. Across the valley, he could see the dark sky giving way to the red of the sun that was breaking above the hills. The town of Homestead lay beyond the bridge, hidden in the darkness with lights that dotted the roadways. He could barely make out the structure of the high steel pillars of the bridge that crossed the Monongahela River.
He’d been down to the bridge last summer on a hydrofoil that he rented. He remembered clearly how the bridge was barely standing with it’s rusted through metal and cracked cement standings. It was a local landmark, a remnant of a once glorious industrial past. It had been renamed after a local Africano baseball team of the early twentieth century, the Homestead Grays. Kurt had read in his historical research how the area had made a dramatic comeback after the steel mills were dismantled. He could see a walkway heading east along the riverbank. When the walkways were constructed alongside the river, they were built with high, steep banks on the landside, but the riverbanks were left open as they were high off the water level. He stretched, ready to begin his first major test. Looking down the river, the walkway looked relatively clear. He remembered an article written years ago which said that accessibility to the walkway was being threatened by people’s debris.
The other positive thing about the construction of the trails was that they were secluded, away from the noise and vision of the small businesses and communal districts that lined the valley from Pittsburgh.
Traffic on the river didn’t seem heavy. He could make out two large coal vessels wending there way swiftly and silently down the dark river. “Nothing changed in that scene,” he muttered, as he watched the cone shaped piles of coal, a scene that had been part of this land for two hundred years. The barges moved around the bend in the river as the sun broke through the darkness and the early morning clouds. “I have to get going,” he muttered, adjusted his backpack and headed down the path next to the road.
As he half walked and jogged down Browns Hill, he could see ahead the roadway leading up to the entrance of the bridge. When he reached the bridge there were fallen trees and crumbled cement blocking the entrance. Kurt worked his way through the debris to the floor of the bridge where a solid bunker about ten feet tall lay in front of the bridge. As he stood figuring our how he was going to get around the bunker, he heard a loud whooshing noise. In a flash, he saw a commuter Meglev train roaring under the bridge on its way to Pittsburgh. In a few seconds silence returned to the bridge.
Kurt looked up at the cracked, but still solid bunker in front of the entrance. It looked impossible to climb, so he walked around toward the side and found a slight opening outside the railing. He climbed over and squeezed through until he came onto the partially deteriorated sidewalk. He could see wide-open gaps in what was left of the roadway and walkways. Kurt walked gingerly across the remaining segments of the sidewalk, sometimes walking only on exposed beams, and then onto areas of the roadway that were still in place. He got across. At least two times, pieces of cement dropped heavily into the water below. As he reached the other side of the bridge he went to the east side and looked over the railing. Down below he could make out a high ridge next to the riverbank, and beside it, a lower matted area that followed alongside all the way down to a bend in the river.
That had to be the walkway. The ridge was actually higher than he’d remembered. It would give him better cover.
Kurt reached the end of the bridge and came across another cement bunker which he handled the same way he had on the other side. At this end there was an old steel ladder that went down to the trail below. It was in good condition and Kurt dropped down onto the walkway. As he stood there he noticed graffiti on the walls of the bridge support. Obviously, others had been under the old Homestead Bridge. The slogans did not discriminate as they covered many groups. Some wrote of contempt for the Publicans, Blacks, Mulattos, and Latinos. Down a bit were anti-Anglo, even the worst white slur, anti-WASP. All were in different colors. Everyone was included. Another form of democratic expression was at least alive and well in Alleghenia. It seemed all factions felt the brunt of someone else’s hostility. The section under the bridge had been incorporated into the walkway. The walking surface was rough, mostly a mix of dirt and gravel. He could see debris lying about ahead of him, but it was passable. In fact, it was perfect, because he could tell that no one was using it, at least at this location. He looked out at the river bending its way as always, undeterred by humanity. The sun lit the lingering darkness into a golden, shimmering mosaic. He tightened up his pack and headed down the trail. The ridge to his right was approximately ten feet high. He noticed wild growth mixed with all sorts of discarded items, probably going back over the years. This mixture was intertwined in heavy, dark green natural vines. As he walked along the brilliant river with the morning sun shining off the flowing water, Kurt couldn’t forget what he was leaving behind. His whole life had revolved along this river. He was walking away from his heritage, his very heart and soul. For hundreds of years his family had lived, worked, loved, and died beside this great old river.
The walkway was dead silent and he found a comfortable gait, beginning to feel some distance from his birthplace. He stopped and turned back to look at the Homestead Bridge, still visible with the sun blazing off the girders. His eyes then drifted to the river, the Monongahela. He always considered it a manly river because of its strong, tough history through the ages of the coal and steel industries. It flowed north, which in itself was unusual for rivers. Eventually it reached Pittsburgh, where it blended with the gentler Allegheny to form the broad and forceful Ohio. He thought of that natural constancy of the rivers, which had sustained people along their banks for centuries. He thought it ironic that he was on a mission to try and provide access to water for people, while these rivers flowed with a resource so abundant in this area. As he looked at the river this morning, it made him realize how critical it was to get his data to the UN so that this land could remain peaceful even though he would not be part of its future.
He hadn’t walked more than a half-mile when he noticed a fabricated steel bench with a brass plaque affixed to its back. The plaque read “DEDICATED, JANUARY 1, 2000, TO THE WORKERS WHO MADE THIS
RIVER VALLEY, THE FORGE OF DEMOCRACY FOR 150 YEARS”. Kurt looked at the plaque, shook his
head, “They should see the “forge” of Democracy now,” he muttered.
He covered the distance from Homestead to McKeesport in a little over an hour. The walkway was absolutely empty. He stood looking across the Monongahela and far down to the mouth of the Youghigheny River. He looked at his maps and realized this would be the most exposed portion of his trip. He saw the two bridges he would need to cross. The first, a transit bridge, would get him over the Monongahela and the second, an old railroad bridge, over the Youghigheny. Once he got over the Youghigheny, he would walk along the riverside until he reached the entrance to the Great Allegheny Passage. Kurt looked up and down the broad expanse of the Monongahela this early morning. The river was quiet but activity on the streets across the way in McKeesport had picked up considerably. He sat down against the banked ridge. He needed to plan his next move carefully.
At that moment he saw a patrol boat splitting the waters of the broad Monongahela. The patrol boat was headed toward Pittsburgh. It was his first sighting of any Security on the river since he had left the night before. Kurt reached back into his backpack and pulled out his leather bound notebook. He retrieved a map he had copied at the library. He looked up and scanned the riverbank across the way.
Kurt looked at the transit bridge that he would need to cross. The maps listed Security posts at both bridge entrances. Then he saw again the patrol boat, which must have circled back, come toward where he was sitting.
It continued past him until it reached the entrance of the Youghigheny. It turned sharply and went down the river in the direction he was soon to be going. This mission might be more dangerous than he anticipated.
Kurt lay back against the ridge. He looked up at the sky and rested, but almost immediately, heard a loud whooshing noise, that sounded like an old vacuum cleaner. He looked up and spotted a Skimmer swooping down river from Pittsburgh. It came zooming overhead and turned suddenly down the Youghigheny River.
What had they observed or picked up that would cause them both to go down the very direction he was headed?
He realized he couldn’t let that bother him. He had to get across the river and on to the Great Allegheny Passage and soon.
As it happened, the transit bridge was perfect because it had a lower maintenance track that hung under the main deck and the Security posts were unguarded. Kurt walked gingerly across the Monongahela, looking below to the swiftly moving river. He climbed around a barricade and slid down the side of an embankment to the path below. He could see the rooftops of the City of McKeesport and hear traffic noises. It was morning and McKeesport was coming alive. Without hesitation, Kurt headed to his next crossing at the Youghigheny. Once he got over that bridge, he would be on his way to the entrance of the Great Allegheny Passage or what was left of it.