The bus ride was a grueling two-hour slog through switchback roads that required three separate stops for various classmates to scramble out for a kneeside view of the magnificent vistas and roadside ditches. I was slightly nervous about our plans to work up a sweat, stuff ourselves with trout and clamber back on the bus at the end of the day, but as most of the riders have doped themselves up on dramamine, the return trip was considerably less eventful.
Said trout was served at a restaurant in the mountains, which also boasted a zipline, which many of us--emboldened by dramamine and the recklessness of youth--decided to try. The zipline ran from one high rock to another across a wide expanse of grass and a creek. To get from the landing rock to the restaurant, you had to cross the kind of bridge which is sometimes referred to as a "suspension bridge" and sometimes as a "rickety collection of boards," although in my own house, it would more likely be called "that bridge Mom doesn't want us on."
That's it above and to the right, and in the picture, it actually looks pretty sturdy--which it was--although as I was preparing to cross it, our professor called out to me, "If you're walking across, you might want to bear in mind that it's missing a few boards." Noted.