Covered Bridges and their Secrets

Inside of a small, old and musky movie theater, seated in a well-worn red cushion, I watched The Bridges of Madison County. I was somewhere between 12 and 13 years old, and my grandmother had taken me to our family’s weekend getaway spot, Lost Valley Lake Resort just West of St. Louis. I had a cousin about my age to keep me company, but we only agreed on so many activities, and after two nights together, we were lucky to return home alive. We had just finished swimming in an over-chlorinated pool; the chemical smell of chlorine seeped heavily from my hair and seemed to follow me through the white-washed hallways, into the racket-ball courts, even into the sauna.

I watched this movie alone. I needed time to myself, something I’ve always craved and my family has never quite understood. I left my cousin to her flirting with a much older worker and dodged into the movie theater unnoticed. An hour and a half, maybe two, to myself sounded like complete bliss.

As for the movie, I hadn’t a clue what it was about. I recognized the female lead (Meryl Streep) from a scary movie my mom had watched years before, “Death Becomes Her” where the woman’s head had turned circles like an owl. I didn’t care for Meryl’s accent in Bridges, but her character’s polite reserve always on the edge of bursting explained many things to me about my pre-adolescent self. The man I knew, of course. Clint Eastwood was a common figure in my grandfather’s collection of Westerns.

Bridges is the first romance film I can recalled watching. I’m sure I’d seen others before in passing, but this one landed in my view in just the right place at just the right time, when I craved escape just like Francesca and, at thirteen, was all too interested in the “magic” that possibly surrounded men. My father having passed before I reached toddler-hood, men were nearly complete mysteries to me. What did that kind of love feel like? I thought it must be like the swelling I felt in my chest at the end of the movie, the frustrated exhaustion that raced my heart and gave me stomach cramps and made me feel a little like throwing up. Even so, I was sure that what these two characters shared was the adult secret that I’d been waiting to learn.

The Bridges of Madison County left an imprint on me that I carry around today, much in the way a good book never really leaves you. I haven’t watched it since that day in the dark theater, and I avoid it like an adult might her favorite children’s book. What if I enjoy the memory more than the film? Watching the movie now could alter that perfect hour and a half of wide-eyed wonder, achievable only on the brink of teenage years.

Since my last visit, Lost Valley Lake Resort suffered two fires. A 2005 fire burned a lodge where I kissed a boy on a second-floor balcony overlooking the lake. The theater burned down in 2009, along with the entire sporting complex where I played racket ball with my grandmother. The swimming pool where I learned to swim, an arcade room where I discovered my mad air hockey skills, and the long hallways smelling of chlorine are permanently out of my reach. My grandmother passed in 2003, and when I heard the news of each fire, it was as if she passed again. The resort has since rebuilt, but I haven’t been back. I’d like to keep Lost Valley in the same place that I store The Bridge of Madison County, in a nearly-perfect, rose-colored bubble of memory.

  

Now I have visited my own covered bridges, with a not-so-forbidden love (my husband), and photographed them with Francesca in mind. In Parke County, Indiana there are a series of 31 covered bridges, making Rockville and the surrounding communities the Covered Bridge Capital of the World. We visited and photographed only a handful, and they are displayed in the photos above. Truthfully, after the second bridge, my husband became bored, my Great Dane had a panic attack and tried to belly-crawl across the bridge, and all nostalgia had left me. The day wasn’t glamorous; it was hot and humid, and, as I stood on the wooden planks of Crooks bridge, I only wished for Clint Eastwood to pass me his water tin. Real life is, at best, a distant cousin twice-removed of the movies, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. This is the adult secret that I learn a little more about each day.

The Lincoln Highway: the original road trip

When summer months hit, consider it road trip season. Still, in this virtual age, families and friends are busy mapping out scenic, yet speedy, routes to cover as much road, see as many rock formations, and take as many state line pictures as possible. We’re Americans and, while we may be on vacation, time is still money. We want to see and do as much as possible over our budgeted vacation days. And, unlike many other countries, we’re able to do this because we have direct routes from point A to point B. We have a stellar highway system. If you’re still angry from your morning commute and don’t believe me, travel about a little. Experience the tiny and winding unnamed roads along the countrysides of Ireland, or better yet, Wales. While they are beautiful, they are not efficient.

The U.S. hasn’t always had a smooth ride from coast to coast. Before Eisenhower’s numbered roadways connected the East Coast to the West Coast and Canada to Mexico, and even before Americans got their kicks on Route 66, there was The Lincoln Highway. In 1912, with the help of the automobile industry minus one Henry Ford, an entrepreneur named Carl G. Fisher began his quest to build an intercontinental highway. But this was a time when railroads ruled transportation. The American majority believed that the few highways in existence were reserved for the rich, that those concrete roads were “peacock alleys” built for the luxury traveler. Their dirt roads were just fine, thank you.

But Fisher was a dreamer set on changing this mindset. He saw the invent of the automobile and the subsequent rocket launch of sales. Americans wanted highways, they just didn’t know it yet. Once the public saw ideal stretches of paved roads with pedestrian walkways and ornate streetlights, (the very image we associate today with Main Street USA), they would embrace the next wave of American infrastructure. His highway would stretch from Lincoln Park in San Francisco to Times Square in New York City. This highway would not be a luxurious and winding scenic route, but the shortest distance between two points. It would make the faraway accessible, spread wealth throughout each state as it passed, and make travel a more affordable pastime. The Lincoln Highway would be the people’s highway.

Fisher saw an American need before it existed. The wandering spirit was certainly not a new phenomena, but now that spirit had wheels. Dirt roads wouldn’t due for a society that was propelling into the future one American Dream at a time. These Americans weren’t all immigrants, but they were descended from those international travelers. They’d cut their teeth on stories of lengthy ocean journeys to a new land. Now generations had passed. They were restless. They had an automobile in their drive. These new Americans wanted more and they wanted it fast. Fisher had already given them the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, what would become the Indianapolis 500. He knew fast. Now he set his sights on an open road.His highway laid the foundation for the iconic American road trip and gave Kerouac his muse.

The Lincoln Highway originally ran through thirteen states for a total of 3,389 miles. Radio programs broadcasted shows about the highway. Parades were given along Main Streets. Advertisements went out calling the new American traveler to visit towns, “Along the Lincoln Highway”. Road trips along this route were taken by artists, writers, diplomates, and one young soldier, Dwight D. Eisenhower. Based on his experiences in Germany and his long journey across The Lincoln Highway, this soldier would later implement a numbered interstate highway system in 1956. Yet, the Interstate Highway System that we’re familiar with today is why the Lincoln Highway was divided off into subsections, numbered, and only marked by nostalgic towns with active history clubs and Boy Scout clubs of America.

The original route included Fisher’s home state of Indiana, part of which you can still drive today on US 20, US 30, US 33 and Indiana 2. Traveling these roads by accident allowed me to find one of these nostalgic towns and subsequently learn of The Lincoln Highway. Below is New Carlisle, Indiana, a sampling of the forgotten Lincoln Highway.

New Carlisle, Indiana is a picturesque town from a bygone era that has been well-preserved and is open for business today in mint condition. The town’s main drag is Michigan Street, one small piece of The Lincoln Highway. They are proud of their heritage. The tree lined Michigan has village shops, smooth roadways with pedestrian walkways, and more than one of the best restaurants I’ve eaten at in recent months, maybe longer. When Fisher was looking for an “ideal example” of what Main Street USA could be, the vision he had in mind is that of Michigan Street, New Carlisle.

Along this street is Moser’s Cafe, a place well worth the drive over an hour out of Chicago to sample an authentic schnitzel that will make you think of Meg Ryan’s cafe scene in When Harry Met Sally. If you don’t know her famous orgasmic cafe scene, please proceed to Youtube or Netflix before continuing to read this post. Moser’s deserves more than a few small words. Keep a look out for my upcoming post on the schnitzels of Moser’s and their recent ranking as a Top Ten Destination by Midwest Living Magazine.

Interest and awareness of the Lincoln Highway has faded over the years with spotted resurrections here and there in literature, film, music, and now mass media. Not many Baby Boomers remember the highway, much less, Gen X or Millennials. Now, in my generation, a phenomena is occurring among us Millennials.  Growing up in a rural area, turning sixteen meant freedom behind a wheel. Everyone raced to get their license as nearest to their birthday as possible. Yet, when I entered college and the number of Millennials in my acquaintance grew drastically, I realized that many of them did not have a license. They saw no need for a drivers license. Indeed, many of them cited the expenses of maintaining a car, the rising gas prices, the rising prices of insurance that would be mandatory for them to carry. And then, where would they store this car? Millennials are not buying homes with two car garages. They’re, for the most part, not buying homes at all.

It seems that railways are back in fashion, from subway systems to trolly cars and the Amtrak. I find it a shame, though, that while this might seem practical to my Millennials, they are missing out on the quasi-freedom of owning a vehicle. Without my vehicle and the ability to get lost, for instance, we would have never discovered this:

Another star for New Carlisle, Kate O’Connor’s Irish Pub is also along the former Lincoln Highway, although just around the bend on Michigan Street. Another fantastic restaurant that warrants a full blog to themselves, and they’ll have one, after I sit by their fire and sample more of their house-smoked meats, with a few more brews too. It is a pub.

New Carlisle is the embodiment of that ideal American town. They have an active and knowledgeable historic committee that keeps the doors to the town open for visitors and preserves the small town feel for residents. Original brick buildings line Michigan Street and have produced a thriving art scene. Many of these buildings boast murals along their old bricks with a visual representation of what the establishment once was, and what it is today.

These murals can be found all over town. They have become a source of pride for business owners and a creative outlet for the town as a whole. Many of the paintings were done by local artists who were raised in New Carlisle. You can learn about them and upcoming events in New Carlisle here.

The Lincoln Highway left a legacy, we just don’t know about it. I hope to change that a little. With restaurants like Moser’s Austrian Cafe and Kate O’Connor’s Irish Pub rubbing elbows with American staples like True Value Hardware along a tree lined main, I just wonder what other tastes of the melting pot wait to be uncovered along this forgotten highway. As truly the first of its kind, The Lincoln Highway deserves a resurrection, or at the very least, an inclusion in the vast pool of routes to choose from when planning your next road trip.

If you’d like to learn more about The Lincoln Highway, visit here. If you’d like to map out your road trip along this historic route, a downloadable map and educational stop guide can be printed here.

Plan your visit to Moser’s Austrian Cafe here or to Kate O’Connor’s Irish Pub here. I hope that you get a little lost along the way and enjoy the journey. I did.