I considered replacing the boards, then decided against it.
Not because I wanted a monument to pain, but because damage did not always need to be hidden before a place could become useful again.
I reopened Blackwood as an adaptive wilderness training center.
The first group included climbers with prosthetics, spinal injuries, and limited mobility.
We practiced emergency transfers, bridge evacuations, cold-weather communication, and the stubborn discipline of preparing before disaster arrived.
On the final afternoon, I stood beside the bridge control box while snow drifted gently over the gorge.
One participant heard the soft hiss of my carbon-fiber foot against the timber and glanced down.
For a moment, I remembered Mark’s disgust inside the truck.
Then the participant smiled and asked how the bridge override worked.
I handed her the key.
This time, the sound of my prosthetic was not a reminder of what the mountain had taken.
It was the sound of someone still standing on it.
