In my youth I chased adventure. It was everywhere – it was in the trees, it was in the bushes, it was in the dark, dank corners of the basement. When you’re seven, adventure is everywhere, and the only thing holding you back is yourself. My brother Adam and I would wander off to find our adventures together, back in the days before adolescence and maturity had had their way with us.

At the end of our street at the top of a steep hill sat a few acres of woods. The challenge was to bike up the hill without losing momentum and having to walk the rest of the way. The woods were right at the edge of a cul-de-sac where my brother’s best friend lived. Our adventures in the woods would often start with Adam stopping by his friend’s house, usually to catch sight of his friend’s sister. He was eleven then, and just crossing the threshold of learning to appreciate the fairer sex.

I usually went ahead into the woods while Adam stammered at his friend’s sister. I would inspect the trees for moss, turn over rocks and watch the bugs, and play the games of drama and intrigue that accompanied most humdrum suburban childhoods. A pirate, a detective, a princess, a little girl who just found an alien in her shed – these were all my personas for the taking. Adam would come out and find me just as I was getting bored with my little melodrama, and we’d go tramping through the woods looking for sticks to float down the creek that ran nearby. We often found other things – abandoned toys, empty bottles, tires – and we’d float those down the creek, too.

Over the creek was a narrow footbridge with peeling red paint and a handrail that gave you splinters. Instead of posts holding up the handrail, there were sheets of plywood to keep the kids from jumping off the side. The weather-beaten planks of the bridge stuck out past the plywood, just wide enough to walk across if you were feeling brave. When Adam and I were bored with each other, we would often dare the other to climb over the side and “walk the planks” – balancing there on the other side of the warped plywood, trying not to look down or look scared as we wobbled from one end of the bridge to the other. It was a twelve foot drop to the creek, which was only three feet deep at best.

It was a drab, wet afternoon in late September when Adam and I last walked the planks on that bridge. Adam’s friend had stayed home with a cold, and Adam had been ignored that day by his friend’s sister as she chattered and giggled with the other fifteen year old girls. I saw them sitting on the front steps, saw him turn away dejectedly. In typical eleven-year-old fashion, he took his disappointment out on his little sister. We were bickering about Gilligan’s Island, how he thought they were too stupid to deserve to get off the island. It turned into one of those fights that aren’t about anything at all; it’s just for the sake of fighting. We stood on the bridge, pushing each other, calling each other every name we knew.

When he suggested that I didn’t have the guts to walk the planks, one end to the other (without the usual rule of being able to grab hold of the rail three times) my pride was offended. I went to the end of the bridge, where you could side-step the plywood and handrail. I can still see my scuffed sneakers standing over the dark, chipped wooden planks. The creek still rushes by in my mind, making small eddies where the larger rocks clustered around the bridge supports. The old planks stuck out about six inches; the ends had been gnawed on by Mother Nature and Father Time, making them ragged. The boards were weakened and slippery with the recent cold September rain. Swallowing my heart, I let go of the rail.

The first few steps were shaky, but fine. I slipped a little, and nearly grabbed the rail once. I found it was almost as good to just lean against the plywood. My brother urged me on, mocked me for leaning against the plywood and handrail, and I did my best not to let him see that I was shaking.

I was about halfway across the twelve-foot span, and my foot slipped. I fell on one knee, caught myself on the planks and pulled myself back up. Four feet further on, I didn’t get a chance to catch myself. I fell, tumbling and screaming, into the creek. I was disappointed to find that being knocked unconscious was not much different from sleeping – just dreaming. I woke to find the trees all around me shaking – leaping up and down and turning at times. It took me a minute to realize that I was on Adam’s back – he was carrying me out of the woods. The relief of this realization was so great that I got sick all over Adam, who dropped me immediately.

He took me to his best friend’s house, where his mother fawned over me. She tried to call my mother, who was out for her two-mile run, and proceeded to poke me, prod me and ask me how many fingers she was holding up. She asked what happened, and I avoided the story with the best cop-out known to childhood: tears. I knew what she would say when she found out what I’d done; my mom would tell me the same thing. I knew it would be worse for Adam – he was responsible for me, and this would end up on his shoulders. It would have been easy to pin this on him – play the “he made me do it” card; but I had seen the terror in his eyes after he dropped me. He had been through enough – we both had. I gave the adults the abbreviated, slightly altered version of the story: we were playing near the creek, and it was wet, and I fell. The specifics weren’t important, only that I was ok, so my mom let it go.

Adam and I still don’t talk about it. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to be that scared in his life, before or since. He and his wife are living in Alaska now, and we don’t get to talk much. But in the ensuing twenty years, he never dared to doubt my bravery again.