The bridge was beautiful and made of oak, solid beneath my feet. We were standing halfway across the canyon, the waterfall in the distance spilling over the cliff and into a river that was at least forty or fifty feet below us. We could hear the roar of the water avalanching over the cliff but below us the river was gentle and clear and serene.
“Are you ready?” she asked me, taking my hand and leading me to the broken section of railing. “It’s a real rush. Every time I do it I feel like I’m brand new again.”