A crisp, silver dawn broke over the southern valley, painting the underside of the high cloud deck in shades of soft apricot and lavender. The morning air was remarkably cool, carrying a sharp, clean tang of damp pine needles and wet granite down from the high mountain gaps. A low bank of ground mist clung to the riverbed, swirling in lazy, thick eddies before dissolving against the sun-warmed rocks along the bank.
I stood on the central deck of the small timber footbridge spanning the upper creek, holding a heavy iron pry bar and an oak carpenter’s square. Bending low, I wedged the chisel end of the pry bar beneath a split cedar plank near the middle span. With a steady levering motion, the old copper nails creaked in protest before pulling free from the joist below, releasing the sweet,
