I took another long walk through Forest Park because what the fuck else am I going to do. The reopening of Multnomah County was delayed at the last minute so pretty much everything remains closed, just as it has been for three months.

It was a rewarding hike. I spent $0.49 total (on a Powerade drink). I noticed connections and correspondences everywhere I looked:

A dead mole (pictured)

The cyclists on the Leif Erikson trail (or perhaps the rampant off-leash dogs) kill these insectivores frequently. It seems like a lesser version of roadkill from cars. It’s one way in which even quiet recreation has an impact on nature.

Women seeking wealthy men and men prizing youth and looks

Near the 5 mile marker a woman was giving confidential advice to what looked like her preteen niece. She was saying, “You want to look for a man who is worldly, who has his own money, who has social status…” and she continued with other synonyms for wealth.

Before I even heard what they were saying (or saw their ages) I was comparing their asses and vulvas, which were on display in bright yoga pants. The young girl had scrawny features and the adult woman was fat and bulging out of them. I was thinking, “It’s nice when there is a middle ground.”

A little while on in an amazing coincidence two older women were talking about how to divide up the money from a divorce settlement. No joke. I was astonished at how I saw two ends of the cycle: the young woman being conditioned to look for wealth and the older ones using the law to coldly walk away with as much as possible.

So, there is nothing new about these two mating strategies.

Suicide patrol

I emerged from Forest Park and marched straight down Raleigh Street to the Broadway Bridge. Right before climbing up the stairs to the bridge I made a comment to a walker about the acrid diesel exhaust coming off an idling train nearby. I then bounded up the stairs to the bridge. I passed a homeless guy with face tattoos and a crazy-looking grin. When I got to the center of the span, I looked up at the elevated “house” where an operator sits and at the crossbars and links of the bridge. I stopped and took a photo of the Fremont Bridge across the way. I was thinking about how I am now a part of the problem of traffic and pollution since my employer moved to a goddamn suburb. I peered over the edge at the water below.

While standing there a boat sped into place a few hundred feet upriver and a crew watched me with binoculars. I suddenly grasped that this was a suicide patrol. They apparently watch the behavior of people crossing the bridge and then get ready when they see signs of a “jumper.”

There are many cameras on the top of the bridge and even on the stairs leading up to it. Someone, perhaps from the fire department, was watching me the whole time and evidently paged the boat crew to get into place. There might even be a live feed on monitors on the boat. I suppose they may have already been in place because of the other guy. I didn’t see what he was up to before I arrived. 

As I walked home contemplating this, I felt a bit spooked. Then I was a little annoyed. What marked me as a potential jumper? Was it being a lone white male? Saying something to a passerby? Stopping for a photo as if to make a bitter final status update?

It was probably nothing. Suicide is one of those things that can affect anyone. It’s also done impulsively. As I walked I realized this is the exact concept of many horror movies: “Any one of us could turn at any moment.” It’s also a scary aspect of the current pandemic in that asymptomatic infected people may be responsible for a significant share of transmissions.