Last week, I had the opportunity to revisit an extraordinary place here in the Philippines – the Taal Volcano. Located on an island in the middle of a rugged and windswept lake, we actually hiked up to the volcano’s crater for an up-close, stunning view.
 
Located only 35 miles outside of Manila in the upscale lakeside region of Tagaytay, Taal is a remarkable feat of geography and geology alike. 
 
Get this: the Taal Volcano sits on an island in a lake in the middle of a volcanic crater on a larger island, which sits on a huge lake on the giant island of Luzon.

If we follow that inside-out, tiny Vulcan Point Island sits inside the Main Crater Lake, which is on Volcano Island and surrounded by Taal Lake sitting in a volcanic “caldera”, which is on the Philippines main island of Luzon, surrounded by the Pacific Ocean. Wow. 
 
That’s like something out of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie…except it’s too fantastical to be made up. According to my research, it’s also the only one of its kind in the world

​Of course, there are plenty of active volcanos in the Philippines (53 to be exact) since it sits on the western Pacific edge of the Ring of Fire. Most of them are dormant, but some still spit lava when we anger the gods, like on the island of Camiguin, which is home to seven volcanos but only five towns. 
 
Mount Pinatubo provided one of the largest eruptions in the world in 1991, causing the overnight evacuation of the USA’s naval and air force bases nearby. That’s also why there’s so much seismic activity in the Philippines (aka earthquakes that scare the shit out of you).

​But Taal still holds a fiery, menacing presence over the surrounding countryside, erupting 34 times since Spanish friars first discovered it in 1572 and started keeping written records. For that reason, it’s been designated a Decade Volcano, one of only 16 in the world, warranting close monitoring to prevent further natural catastrophe.
 
Taal, which means native or original in the Philippines aboriginal language, is also notable because it’s one of the lowest volcanos in the world, cresting at only 1,020 feet above the onyx-colored beaches, lakeshores, and tropical jungle below. 

That wasn’t always the case, as the Taal peak used to be a mountain reaching 18,000 feet high. But every time the volcano erupts, rocks, dust, and magma are shot into the sky, knocking the mountain down like a sandcastle and reshaping the whole island.
 
The most powerful of all Taal eruptions took place in 1754, when the volcano raged smoke, fire, and ash a full 200 days nonstop from May 15 to December 1!

​A Catholic priest stationed at Taal at the time of the 1754 eruption, Friar Buencuchillo, wrote this account: 
 
“The volcano quite unexpectedly commenced to roar and emit, sky-high, burning flames intermixed with glowing rocks which, falling back upon the island and rolling down the slopes of the mountain, created the impression of a large river of fire.”

While there were plenty of volcanic explosions and seismic events over the ensuing decades and centuries, the next huge eruption occurred in 1911. That explosion was so profound that it obliterated the main crater floor completely, allowing water to fill in and creating a volcanic lake. The volcano started raging on the night of January 27 and by the end of the next day, there were about 240 total seismic shocks, 10 of which were severe.

​With Taal still shooting fire and debris on the night of January 30, residents of Manila who saw the flashes of light 30 miles away first thought it was a thunder and lightning storm. But they soon saw a massive mushroom cloud of debris and dust, illuminated by sparkling fields of electricity, rising until the eruption ended and the cloud disbursed around 2:30 am.
 
By mid-morning, a blanket of dust and ash settled on Manila, covering streets and the inside of homes, leaving a thick layer on floors, furniture, and all surfaces. In total, that eruption shot about 80 million cubic meters of debris into the air, dissipating it over an area of 770 square miles. The titanic sound from the eruption was heard more than 600 miles away.

Back in 1911, the area around Taal island and the lake region was far less populated than it is today, but the official death toll still reached 1,335. The true loss of life is estimated to be up to five times more.
 
At that time, there were seven barangays – small fishing villages or farming communities – on the island. They were all completely wiped out, sparing no man, woman, child, and turning the 702 cattle on the island into smoking carcasses. 

​Buried mid-stride as they only managed one or two steps in a futile attempt to run, the deceased were found to have perished from boiling steam and scalding volcanic mud, melting trees and nipa huts in its path.

Remember that this was well before seismologists and meteorologists could measure and share data, so there was no warning, and only grainy black and white photos of the event exist. ​

​While that was the deadliest saga in the history of Taal, the ring of fire exploded violently once again some 54 years later in 1965. During that eruption, ash and debris were shot a full 12 miles straight up into the atmosphere. ​

The eruption of '65 was different because it was actually caused when underground magma hit the lake water, creating what’s called a cold blast or base surge (the scientific name is 'phreatomagmatic eruption’). 

Traveling like a supercharged typhoon of ash, mud, and boulders, it screamed furiously across the lake, crushing villages and jungle canopy at the water’s edge two and a half miles away, killing about a hundred people.
 
The other difference was that in 1965, more people owned cameras, so there are more photos from during and after the eruption, including one shot of people on the “mainland” fleeing with suitcases in hand.

The blast was so powerful that it rearranged the landscape of the island, cutting a new crater that was one mile long and 1,000 feet wide.

No significant eruption has taken place since 1977, but plenty of minor disruptions, toxic gas leaks, and seismic activity occur periodically. Those include rumbling threats in 1991 (when Mount Pinatubo erupted), 1992, 1994, and June of 2009 most recently. For that reason, it warrants careful monitoring with advanced scientific instruments by the Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology.

You’re also not allowed to swim in the crater lake inside the Taal Volcano anymore. While a few of the shoreline areas are inhospitable but safe to swim in, other parts of the lake are so hot that your skin would burn right off if you jumped in. Or, the waters contain poisonous gases that instantly kill all of the livestock on the island when released by seismic activity.

That’s also where the volcanic lake’s water gets its majestic emerald color, but there are no fish under the water. That color has changed over time, too.
 
Before the 1911 eruption that redrew the map, the 18-mile diameter Taal lake actually had several openings because it was lower than sea level, with a green lake, a rusty red lake, and a bright yellow lake based on the minerals and gases it was interacting with. Some were so hot, steam billowed off of them incessantly. ​

But, now, things have settled into one massive lake, filling most of the Taal caldera.
 
The most telling sign of an impending eruption would be a precipitous rise in the lake’s water temperature. For example, the water temperature rose from a bath-water-like 86 degrees Fahrenheit to a scalding 113 degrees right before it erupted.

Taal will blow again - it’s just a matter of when and how big – and that’s the reason the government has banned the public from living there, so there are no official towns or barangays.

​
​But we weren’t trying to flee the volcano this sunny day in July – we were trying to actually go to it, boating over to the island, hiking up to the volcano, and entering the crater.
 
Stay tuned for my account of that adventure in next month’s postcard!

​Stay cool, everyone!
 
Norm  :-)

​We’re getting really old
In 2050, the world’s population will look much older than it does today. By that year, it’s expected that one out of every six people on earth will be 65 years or older.

​This is due to several factors, but more prominently advances in health and medical care (and less major wars) that are allowing us to live longer, and as well as decreases in fertility rates.
​
By 2050, some industrialized nations like Germany, Japan, Canada, and, yes, the United States, will have public health campaigns and economic incentives in place that encourage its citizens to have more babies!

“Oh, you’re a writer? Wow. That’s impressive!” she said in her thick Filipino accent.
 
I stood a little taller, puffed out my chest a bit, and started calculating the odds that she was a sapiosexual. 
 
“Yes, I am a writer,” I said, smiling at her.
 
“That’s so cool,” she said, visibly excited. “And dangerous!”
 
Dangerous? I never thought of writing as dangerous. I did get a nasty paper cut once but soldiered through it.
 
“What do you ride?” she asked. 
 
“I write books, blogs…” 
 
“Do you ride motorcycles?” she asked.
 
“What?”
 
“Do you ride horses? Do you race them?”
 
“No, I’m a W-R-I-T-E-R,” I explained. “Not a rider.” 
 
But she was already scanning the room for someone with a speedier vocation.
 
The rider/writer thing actually happens more often than you may think here in the Philippines, so I’ve started scribbling in the air as I tell them what I do, instead of revving the throttle on my imaginary motorcycle.
 
It’s also a perfect metaphor for my career.
 
It’s been a journey cleanly stripped of any “success,” accolades, or financial gain, like a fish down to the bones. In fact, my chosen life as a rider…err a writer…has been filled with solitude, sacrifice, and a lot of fudging hard work. 
 
Most days, I ask myself, “Why the hell did I give up a job making tens of thousands of dollars a month for this?!” Why on earth am I fighting it out on the scrapheap of society while every Instagram marketing punk is raking in the dough?
 
I’ve even called writing my “beautiful failure” before.
 
But when I get over my daily freak-out, I realize that I wouldn’t change a thing. Being a writer has granted me plenty of amazing new friends and opportunities, a creative outlet that’s given life new meaning above just paying bills, and, perhaps the most valuable thing of all, freedom. 
The friendships, laughter, and deep conversations – with people near and far - have been invaluable, and worth more than gold to me.
 
So, when it all starts to feel like I’m the piano player on the Titanic, I remind myself that I have a rare opportunity to make a difference in the world through my writing and outreach. Through my words, I can impact a positive change.
 
I must confess that when I started this crazy ride (not write) in 2011, I had less than altruistic goals. In fact, I had visions of grandeur floating through my head. I was moving to Costa Rica, eschewing my worldly goods, fast toys, and high-paying career in California. On the beaches of Tamarindo there, I would write my first book, which would be a smash hit because…well, because I wrote it, of course.
 
I’m not kidding – I really thought that’s how it works! 
 
Let me tell you in my own words, from this passage I wrote in my second book, South of Normal in 2012 as I contemplated success and fame:
 
“I’d daydreamed about that for hours while I should have been writing. 

Most likely it won’t happen—there are over 2,000,000 books published every year, and even the established authors with big publishers have a tough time making a living at it.

BUT...let’s just fantasize for a second and say that lightning strikes and my book hit it big. Here’s how I see the whole thing going down: 

Have you ever heard people say that when they get rich or famous, they won’t change? Or. lottery winners who keep their jobs and remain the average Joe? 

Not me. I’m going to turn into a completely self-absorbed asshole!

The moment I sign with a publisher, I’m going to morph into a totally different person, leaving behind everyone who’s been good to me. 

Let’s just say that my first book hits it big and does end up on the New York Time’s Bestseller list. The critics will probably call me “Raw and refreshing, with prose as smooth as a $50 cigar. The best underground American writer since Bukowski.”
 
The royalty checks will start coming in faster than I can take them to the bank. I’m going to start wearing leather pants, put product in my severely-thinning hair, and don gaudy fur coats while walking down the street. Actually, I won’t walk anywhere, but hire someone to drive me around in my Bentley. 

It’s important to me that when I get famous, I forget all of my old friends. Every chance I get I’ll “Big Time” the compadres who supported me through thick and thin. I’ll hire two super model assistants to screen my calls, until even my mom can’t get through. 

I’ll buy a mansion in the hills and decorate it all in white leather. I’ll have a huge “N” tiled onto the floor of my massive swimming pool. I’ll buy a rare white-striped tiger cub that I’ll walk around on a diamond-studded leash and develop a huge coke habit. 
My old friends and family will shake their heads and try to talk to me about their concern for my behavior, but that will just incite one of my tantrums where I curse them out and throw escargot and fire the super models and have them all forcibly removed from my estate. 

Then, my next book will come out, but the critics will turn on me. They’ll call it “self-indulged drivel, a soggy excuse for literature,” and publicly question whether I plagiarized the first one. 

By then, my spending habits of $20,000 a day will be impossible to maintain. I’ll have to return the Bentley and donate the white tiger to the Los Angeles zoo. The pressure of my poor-me existence will be so overwhelming that I’ll snort twice as much coke and start brushing my teeth with Jack Daniels. My finances will go into a tailspin and even the mansion will be up for sale. But, all of the potential buyers will be named Justin or Kanye or Ahmed, so no one will want an “N” pool. 

Soon, the bank will foreclose. All of those fair-weather friends will disappear when I can’t afford limousines and VIP bottle service anymore. I won’t be able to sleep, little Norm won’t work right, and, worst of all, I’ll suffer from a horrible case of writer’s block. 

I’ll lose it all and be resigned to the life of an average drunken bum, sleeping under my fur coat in the dumpster behind a vacant Borders. I’ll live off discarded McDonald’s French fries and rant and rave to anyone I pass how I used to be a somebody. 

Eventually, my true friends will hunt me down and drag me out of there and set up an intervention at the local Olive Garden. I’ll have a complete emotional breakdown, realizing the error of my ways, and vow to never be an a-hole again. 

My mom will take me home and tuck me into the twin bed in her guest room, where I’ll sleep for three days straight. Over the months, I’ll clean out my body and rebuild my constitution, until I’m gulping down raw eggs and doing one-handed pull-ups in her basement...and writing again. 

The ensuing book, “White Tiger Dumpster Fries: My Life from A-hole to Amen,” (Random House, June 2016) will be such a testament to the resiliency of the human spirit that it will shoot me right back to the top. 

“Bravo, a fete de accompli! Our generations Siddhartha!” the critics will applaud. 

But this time, I’ll donate all of my royalty checks to children’s charities. I’ll be invited to the Ellen show, taking public transport to the studio, and we’ll laugh and hug like old friends, even doing a little victory dance together before the commercial break. 

But I haven’t put a lot of thought into it or anything...” 

No, White Tiger Dumpster Fries never came out, and I never did more than sell a few hundred copies (at best) of a few self-published books over the years. 
 
But I’ve still managed to eke out a living writing blogs, websites, reviews, and all sorts of marketing content for companies and entrepreneurs. I estimate that I’ve written almost 5,000 blogs or other forms of content since 2011 – each one nearly 1,000 words!
 
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working as a ghost writer on other peoples’ books, too. In total, I have my fingerprints all over more than a dozen books available on Amazon.com and Apple Books right now, and each and every one of them is special to me, whether or not my name is on it.
 
I’ve advised on a series sheet for a TV pilot, co-wrote a book about legendary martial artist Judd Reid, was chief blogger for Marijuana Weekly, did the marketing for a pro soccer team, got to write about Fantasy Football for a couple of years, got paid to write travel reviews for a great site called AllWorld.com, and even got to blog about bondage and S&M for a product website for a while. 
 
The subject matter, too, ranges from fascinating to mundane to just plain random, but I’m always up for the challenge. 
 
However, most of my work deals with topics that aren’t quite as sexy, like dentistry, taxes, credit scoring, and I even had to write all of the content for a huge website about ice fishing.
 
I appreciate all of the work, but I assure you that life as a writer is a lot more ice fishing than it is bondage! 
 
I have no idea where this all will lead me, but I’ll keep forging ahead, because one thing I’ve learned is that you only lose if you quit.
 
And I’m more all-in than ever.
 
As the calendar now starts flipping towards the 10-year anniversary of when I left the United States and decided to start anew as an author, I find myself prone to reflection – and nostalgia. I’m looking forward to putting together my next travel memoir in time for a 2021 release, with all of the crazy, remarkable, and insightful experiences from life abroad. 
 
It will be called simply, “Less.”
 
Until then, when someone asks me what I do for a living, I can just point to my wrist and say, “Norm Writes.”
 
-Norm  :-)
NormWrites.com
 
 
 

Bathrooms are straight-up nasty
In most countries in the Developing World, public bathrooms are positively nasty. In fact, you may encounter little more than a whole in the ground, a bucket, and a water spigot on the wall.

​If you want to know how civilized any country is, just take a look a random sampling of bus station bathrooms.
 
By now, I’m well-prepared, and carry around an emergency hygiene kit in my backpack, including hand sanitizer, wet wipes, bug spray, Axe spray deodorant (to crop dust over others, or myself), Chapstick, tissues, bubble gum, and a stack of Starbucks napkins to use in case of emergency.
​

Security that's omnipresent
Every single store, apartment building, office, restaurant, pharmacy, and coffee shop has an armed security guard on duty – if not more than one. Sometimes, they carry rusty pistols older than they are.

​But, most of the times here in the Philippines, they’re toting 12-gauge shotguns or semi-automatic AR15s – and they ain’t afraid to use them, as robberies are/would be common. I don’t even really notice it anymore – except maybe when a guard is eating lunch and Burger King and his rifle is on the table, pointed right at me.
 
A funny thing is that the security guards here are super friendly to me, calling me “sir” and even saluting me as I pass by. Since I have a shaved head and in decent shape, they all assume I’m in the U.S. military and want to show their respect!
​

Skin whitening
A good part of the world's population are obsessed with having lighter skin. 
 
That’s incredibly sad and ridiculous but true. There are many reasons for this, but it’s directly tied into the cultural norms and preferences in many countries that were colonized by the Europeans and, in some cases, Americans. The deeply rooted effects include a power dynamic and social stratification that’s directly correlated to how light your skin is. 
 
People with darker skin tend to be more indigenous and less mixed with European blood, as well as known for being manual laborers and those who traditionally work in agriculture or out in the sun.
 
Skin whitening is most popular in Asia, with Japan and Korea make up a huge part of the demand, as its perfectly normal for me to see travelers from the country walking around like lily-white ghosts reminiscent of Michael Jackson later in life, covered head to toe against the sun even when swimming. Creepy. Globally, the skin whitening industry is expected to bring in about $7.8 billion dollars this year alone and rise to $8.95 billion within a few years.
 
But, no one is more concerned with the lightness of their skin and spends more on these products than Filipinos. Girls who are darker get teased and bullied mercilessly, called skin shaming. There are less social, educational, employment, business, and even marriage opportunities for them just because of their skin color (which I think is perfectly beautiful!). But it’s not just women who are obsessed with lighter skin. In one Philippines study, more than 25% of all young male university students were regularly using a skin whitening product! 
 
This misguided standard of beauty is blatant is everywhere in daily advertising and media, and all of the celebrities, actors, and models are all unnaturally white. 
 
Everywhere you turn, you’ll see lightening cremes, lotions, soaps, pills, sprays, even surgeries. (I can’t even find aftershave for sale that doesn’t have skin whitening additives, so I have to bring it back form the U.S. with me!). It also gives rise to a host of shadowy practices and downright quackery performed by unlicensed medical professionals or scam artists. Friends of mine had someone come to their hotel room to administer an IV with a “special” formula that was guaranteed to lighten their complexion, only to get them violently ill for days. 

Rice is life!
A good portion of the world lives on rice, and that’s no exaggeration. It’s also definitely true in Southeast Asia and the Philippines where they say, “Rice is life.” For some unknown reason, they LOVE rice! To me, it’s completely tasteless except for whatever you serve it with, but they literally eat rice for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even have sweet and sticky rice for dessert. 
 
It goes to hilarious lengths, like when people check into hotels carrying their own rice cooker. When you ask Filipinos what they had for their meal, they’ll just say, “rice.” Upon asking them if that’s all they ate, they’ll answer, “No, we had fish/chicken/spaghetti, etc. too.” But to them, the highlight of the meal is the rice – not the steak haha.
 
Rice also serves as an efficient way to feed billions of people, as it grows year-round, is ecologically self-sustaining, and takes advantages of moist and flood-prone climates.
​

Even the average educated or service worker with a "good" job still has to commute several hours each day via crowded Jeepneys and buses, endure long work shifts, often during the night in call centers or the BPO industry, and just scrape by as they try to support their extended family or children - who often live back in the province. This environment creates unfathomable stress, isolation, and even hopelessness for so many, and I have a whole lot of respect for these folks and I'm proud to have a few of them friends. ​

The apartment came furnished with a solid bed, green couch that I never sit on, and a kitchen table that's uncomfortable to sit at that serves as my workstation. I'm slowly by surely filling out the place and making it livable, although I do need to add an electric burner because I don't have a stove or even a microwave as yet.
 
But it does offer a view of the pristine jungle and a big pond that serve as training areas for the Army base next door, and that full natural panorama from my window is invaluable in this concrete jungle. ​

I absolutely love the Bonifacio Global City (BGC) area that’s only a 15-minute walk from my hood (I’m thinking of getting one of those electric scooters, which make it easy to tool around and you don’t even have to park), but the rents there are insane. ​

​Around day two, my mind already screamed “NO MORE!” as a litany of self-doubts and excuses came calling. How could I possibly survive the entire camp, I wondered before every single session? 
 
While the other athletes in the camp had a considerable edge in skill, technique, and the ability to withstand blows since they all trained regularly at their Kyokushin dojos back home, I did possess a few distinct advantages.
 
Most of them had to travel extremely long distances from places like Canada, Europe, and Australia, so they were coping with jet lag, the time change, and a new climate, while Southeast Asia was already “home” to me. 
 
I also came prepared, purchasing a little coffee maker for my hotel room and fortified with packs of Red Bull, oatmeal, almonds, and Tylenol to keep my tired old bones going.
 
However, I had to keep working during the camp, which means I awoke at 4 am every morning to send emails and write blogs before heading downstairs for the first workout at about 5:30 am, or “O-dark-thirty” as they say in the military. 

​The first session started promptly at 5:45 am, everyone half-asleep and stretching in the pitch black on the hotel's back lawn, dressed black Muay Thai-style shorts, black camp t-shirts, and sneakers (ok, “runners” or “trainers” for the rest of you!)
 
After a quick shower, we convened downstairs for breakfast, as we ate every meal together, Uchi Deshi (live-in student) style. Once “brekkie” was over, that only left us about 90 minutes or less for the next session.
 
But the next training session came up way too fast, as we met at 1030 am in a hotel conference room that was cordoned off and converted into a fully functioning dojo for us. There were rubberized mats spread across the floor, mitts, pads, and kick shields lined up, banners with traditional Japanese writing, and posters with quotes by the martial art’s legendary founder, Sosai Masutatsu Oyama. 

​We wore our crisp white gi's for that second session, which usually entailed lessons on technique, punch and kick combinations solo and with a partner, and a mashup of pushups, sit-ups, squats, jumping jacks, and burpees in between. We even enjoyed forays into wrestling, jiu-jitsu, street self-defense, and full speed jumping break falls, as Shihan Reid pays little consideration to labels and definitions within the martial arts, instead promoting whatever is most effective.
 
After another group gathering for lunch, we had the longest break of the day – about three hours – before the final afternoon session at 4 pm. ​

Luckily, my driver, who was soaked to the bone and shivering like a puppy dog by now since he probably weighed all of 130 lbs., knew someone in that community who might help us, his Uncle Joey. We came upon a storefront on the main road with a balcony and apartment overtop, and he called out. 

A well-built, smiling man in his late 20s came out and after hearing our story in rapid-fire Ivatan, eagerly brought us up to his apartment, where he brought out two dry shirts and cups of coffee. 

Thanking him profusely, I squeezed into the too-small shirt and muzzled the mug of hot coffee to warm up my hands, giving my windbreaker to the driver. 

Uncle Joey was born and raised right there but had made it over to Saudi Arabia for a few years to work construction, which allowed him to build this store and apartment for his family when he returned, as well as start his own little construction company. 

The three of us watched as police and local service workers clamored back and forth with trucks and shovels. ​

​Another buddy had professional experience managing non-profit organizations, and our wonderful friend from South Africa was a whiz with growing small businesses, as well as adding a unique cultural (and female!) perspective to the group. 
 
We recruited one of my childhood homies who was already active in philanthropy on a high level and had a certain celebrity, and our Lifted team was complete. 

​Oh, and me? I guess I added an intimate knowledge of the communities we were aiming to help, since I lived in impoverished countries such as Nicaragua, Cambodia, the Philippines, etc. and traveled extensively. I was to be the “boots on the ground,” so to speak.
 
As we started the long and arduous process of forming a non-profit (there are A LOT of hoops to jump through!), we had to clarify our vision. 
 
Who would we try to help with Lifted? And what was the best way to really make a difference in the world?
 
We wrestled with this decision.
 
After all, there are SO many causes that need our attention. Do we work to eradicate homelessness? Crusade against domestic abuse? Find a cure for cancer? Or, is our environment the most pressing need of all?
 
Furthermore, do we give $100 to one charity or $1 to 100 charities? 

​“Ty…did you say typhoon? There’s a typhoon?”
 
“Yes, we have a low-pressure system coming in,” she said looking up at the lone television playing weather reports from the mainland.
 
“When is it supposed to hit?” I asked, the pancakes suddenly like lead in my stomach.
 
“Which one?” 
 
“The typhoon,” I answered.
 
“Yes, which one?” 
 
“Wait, there’s more than one?!”

​Indeed, I found out that there were not one but two typhoons rolling into, over and through Batanes, a smaller one the next day... and a big one later that week.
 
The rest of that day, I decided to take advantage of the incessant rain and relax in my room, getting some work done and watching movies. Maybe it would get sunny later that afternoon?

I walked over and checked it out, too, and already the river was a bull rush of churning brown water, mud, branches, and anything else it picked up along the way, including the parts of a few houses, as the water was frighteningly close to overflowing its channel and submerging a few structures already, if not the entire bridge. This was just after a couple day’s worth of rain, I reminded myself. ​