Just Like Nothing (else) on Earth: Coton Bridge Trailhead

By Tim Jon

I kept telling myself that if I didn’t slip and break my neck on the rocky slope, and if I didn’t slide all the way out into the moving water, and if I didn’t run into an early-rising copperhead snake along the descent, I’d most likely be okay. That’s what I kept telling myself: well, maybe not in those exact words, but the basic feelings were certainly conveyed. 

You’re reading the proof that I actually survived the morning’s adventure, so I guess my equilibrium made a deal with the laws of nature to get me to my appointed destination. Now, I’d been meaning to make a personal visit to the riverside access to Coton Bridge for quite some time, and, after locating the nearest parking accommodations to the trail and walking the intervening half-mile or so to the road-side placard, I entered the mature hardwood forest that lined the eastern side of Goose Creek. 

“Wait a sec! What Bridge? Where?” 

Yep, I hear ya: this is not one of the more ‘newsworthy’ river crossings in the DC Metro area— with most of the big, bold ink devoted to those few, traffic-ingested (yes, I said ingested) spans that connect the opposing sides of the Potomac, a little closer to Washington. No, the structure in today’s story runs along Riverside Parkway, east of Leesburg, and crosses the aforementioned, and comparatively humble, Goose Creek. 

But …  Oh, how well I remember the day of the ‘christening’ of this public works project: this brings us back over two decades—to the Fall of the Year 2002. My most vivid memory of the ribbon-cutting for Coton Bridge will probably forever stick with me: a police helicopter hovering over the proceedings, while uniformed officers and their cars lined the roadway in either direction. You see, this was the time of the DC sniper killings, and authorities seemed to be taking no chances with the safety of then-Governor Mark Warner, and many other state and local officials. That day’s event proceeded without incident, but, in 10 years of local news coverage, this was the first and only airborne security detail I had experienced. Authorities in Maryland would eventually arrest the two killers in late October of that year. 

So—to me—Coton Bridge will always represent, at least partially, the organized and successful response of regional authorities to those acts of atrocious and senseless violence. All these memories accompanied me—on that recent visit—as I made my way along the wooded ridge above the River, looking for any type of civilized trail down to the water. 

What I found was a daunting slope of rock and clay, mostly free from vegetation, with some fallen trees strewn across the surface, just to make things a bit more interesting. “More interesting” to an aging storyteller with multiple injuries and other medical issues—at least these days—doesn’t take much. I especially didn’t want my trusty digital camera to end up in the drink; I also wanted to keep at least most of my body parts dry and fracture-free. And, as we know, the elements coalesced to allow my relative safe passage to the River’s edge, which I then followed upstream in the direction of the Bridge’s pilings at water-level, with the morning traffic whizzing by overhead. 

Now, driving along Riverside Parkway and crossing Coton Bridge can seem a very passive, innocuous thing—one could even pass over without realizing that a water crossing was in progress; seeing the structure from the level of Goose Creek was much more impressive, as if seeing the edifice turned upside down—revealing the massive pieces involved, and getting just an idea of the obvious amount of planning and design, as well as the heavy work  of muscle and machinery. I realize that this paragraph consisted of only on sentence, so ya got me.

And, having carried the far-off, dark memories of the DC sniper shootings to the shores of our local river, I’d like to think I left some of the emotional weight of those times, and images and words in the slow-moving water; perhaps they’re somewhere far out into the Atlantic by now, settling to the deep bottom. And, yes—I made my peaceful way back along the shore, and up the steep bank, and across the ridge, all the way to Riverside Parkway, and then to my waiting car at the nearest crossroads; I had no swift plunge into the drink, no lost camera, no broken bones and no poisonous snakes. Just a friendly (so I told myself, anyway) box turtle, who—if he didn’t grant an exclusive interview—he didn’t totally shun my presence.