The Rusted Bridge
by Russ Mullen
It’s 7 a.m. in the morning,
I’m driving my ATV to my favorite spot to revisit the scene.
over six decades ago when I rode my one speed bike there as a young teen.
It was a river with a high arched, riveted truss bridge,
too high for me to brave walking on the rusted, steel ridge.
I never asked myself why I was drawn to this place.
Maybe it was the boyhood freedom of speeding in the open air.
Maybe it was the warming sun or the wind tossing my hair.
The bridge now stands alone behind concrete barricades and “Do Not Enter” signs
on an abandoned road overrun by weedy brush and morning glory vines.
It was a stream with clear waters and gentle disposition.
Dandelion tufts floated in circles, while tadpoles and fish played hide and seek,
dancing in the swaying shadows of willows and cottonwoods along the creek.
Bordered by protective woodlands of elms, ash, oaks and hickories,
deer, fox, squirrels, and hawks moved silently in the peripheries.
The creek was my streaming service, no internet connection, no satellite intervention.
Flowing waters brought coffeehouse music, with soothing, calming notes.
Muskrats, mink, and otters danced and glided in their oil-slicked coats.
Fish tapped the water surface, beavers slapped drums behind ponded dams
where mallards and wood ducks chattered and dived for hidden river clams.
The bike ride home was a personal contest
to count and hear the residents and visitors along roadsides and fencerows:
meadowlarks, orioles, and cardinals swayed and sang on the limbs of wild rose,
pheasants and quail nervously bobbing and weaving on their hunt for insects and seeds,
rabbits, moles, and bobcats hopping and high-stepping in the shadows of road ditch weeds.
I returned to my family home and turned off my ATV.
In the distance across the valley, a barred owl greeted me,
its deep melodic song piercing the forest from some stately tree.
I’ll go back to that rusted bridge, in search of mink and muskrats.
I’ll go back to that rusted bridge, as long as the floor will last.
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Photographs courtesy of Russ Mullen and Jill Mortensen.
Copyright © 2026 by Russ Mullen.
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The Rusted Bridge was first published in The Blazing Star Journal. Russ Mullen, an emeritus agronomy professor at Iowa State University, originated the word bio-sanctuaries. He supported the contest below to encourage others to establish natural refuges to nurture wildlife.
AgArts Announces:
The 2026 Bio-Sanctuary Contest
First prize: $1000
Runner-up: $500
Deadline: October 1, 2026
Entry fee: $10
AgArts announces our 2026 Bio-Sanctuary Contest featuring $1,000 (first prize) and $500 (runner-up prize). We are seeking writing—poetry or non-fiction, 500-word maximum. Along with your writing, submit 1-3 excellent photos that document the specific bio-sanctuary that you’ve enhanced or created. Winners will be published in The Blazing Star Journal and Emerging Voices Substack page.
What’s a bio-sanctuary? A refuge that allows flora or fauna to flourish. A bio-sanctuary can be as small as a balcony bird-feeder, or as large as a wetland. It can be a pocket prairie or a windbreak. It can be a mason bee house, or logs and branches stacked up to create a dead hedge, inviting insects, frogs and toads, and fungi to take up residence.
Why are bio-sanctuaries important? To build robust and resilient ecosystems, providing food and shelter to vanishing wildlife.
AgArts is a nonprofit designed to imagine and promote a healthy food system through the arts. We are based in collectives throughout both rural and urban areas in the U.S. where we help fund and support artistic projects that envision better ways to grow and consume our food.
Deadline is October 1, 2026. Submit here.
I loved this story. There was a very similar rusted bridge in my childhood. When we were driving from our home to the farm where we lived before my dad passed we would use the bridge because it was the shortcut. I was afraid to cross that bridge for a very long time. because it was so rickety. And then, one time on a crossing I looked down at the creek and I saw my dad, my brothers, and me fishing from the bank of the creek and drinking Cokes. I was 2 years old when my dad passed, but the memory was real and rich for me. It was a comfort then and the memory of that feeling will always be a comfort to me. Rusted bridges hold a precious history for so many of us.