A Bridged Gully

A narrow cleft split the cobblestones ahead, carved deep by runoff. I grounded my rifle barrel against the grit and calculated the breadth. It spanned three strides—too wide for a steady leap. Rather than retracing my bearing along the wall, I looked to the dried debris caught in the ivy roots. A weathered wooden clothespin lay half-buried in dead tendrils. I worked it loose with the butt of my rifle, testing its spring against the stone. Sound timber, bound by tarnished wire. Kneeling with slow deliberation, I laid the flat pin across the trench, pressing both wooden jaws into the soil seams on either side. It held true under weight. A solid bridge secured for the onward march.