Natural Bridge, VA

It was cloudy, overcast. We descended down concrete stairs engulfed by the little of nature that the gift shop and tourist stop had not yet encroached upon.

It was warm but surprisingly not the typical hot June weather one expected in Virginia.

We talked. It was nice to be together, just the two of us. It seemed a little out of the ordinary. Usually we were accompanied by a relative or we were shopping and surrounded by strangers and strange people, but something about where we were, outside and "one with nature," seemed to make the world stop. And we were alone, though dozens of others passed us by armed with cameras and water bottles and herding children away from danger.

At the end of the stairs sat a pimply-faced boy in a blue polo shirt who took our tickets and pointed us in the direction of a small path by what appeared to be a stagnate river. We began to walk towards our destination.

I saw it first but my brain did not comprehend what was in front of me until we rounded the corner and were directly upon it.

It was big. Huge. Beautiful.

I was stunned. I had seen pictures of it before, of course. I had heard about this place ever since elementary school when I had studied every year the history of our state.

But I was completely unprepared for how perfect it was. A sign to the left spoke of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and I thought about what they had first thought upon seeing this bridge. I thought about the Native Americans who considered the place sacred. I wondered at the blasphemous fact that Thomas Jefferson had purchased such a place from King George for less than $3. It was unreal that any man could own it.

We walked under it and through it, stopping to watch the fish that swam in the now flowing freely river. We saw names carved into the old stone, and I read "Emily Stevenson" and wondered who she was and were she was and if she was still alive. Across the water on the other side was a small square carved into the stone in which I could just barely make out other carved letters and I realized that this must be were legend meets the real world. This was the spot that they said that George Washington had carved his initials just as one might carve one's name into the bark of tree.

We continued down on the path, exploring and meeting others who were as enthralled as us at what we had seen. There was a cave that was slightly boring since we could not go in, and down the trail there was supposed to be waterfalls, but she wanted to go back. Her foot was hurting and the others were waiting on us. It had been almost an hour since we had begun this little exploration.

I didn't complain but walked back with her the way we came. We moved quicker now, having seen everything already. Then it appeared again, and again we stopped and took a minute and breathed in. The sun was out now, and it was hotter. Muggier. On the other side where the water was still there was a slight musty smell. We passed through and under once again and I heard a man in costume telling some children about George and Thomas and the Indians, pointing at the initials "G.W." on the rock and I smiled.

We were back at the stairs and the pimply boy was waving goodbye. I took one last look back and thought, "How could anyone ever think that there is no Creator masterminding all of this beauty around us?"

And then I turned, and followed my grandmother back to the parking lot.

Today I saw the Natural Bridge.