Six years ago, in Boulder Creek CA. We lived in a surprisingly normal-looking house in a tiny group of houses on the other side of this bridge. If you didn’t like this bridge, or your gps had misled you, there was another bridge over the same creek like a quarter mile away - the road definitely went through someone’s back yard if you went that way.

The surprisingly normal looking house was a rental, by a widower who’d moved in with his new partner. Back when he’d lived there with his family, he’d hand-dug a tiny basement under the house, set it up as a movie room, and hidden the entrance behind a bookcase in the garage. It was still a quite normal house for BC, all things considered.

One of the neighbor houses was located on the other side of a seasonal creek from its driveway, so they hiked across with their stuff. Another neighbor house was red tagged, then sold to a nice fellow who probably had his life ruined when he found out it had absolutely no septic and not enough footage on the lot to put anything in. It was a tiny cabin, from the summer cabin sundowner days - back at the turn of the 20th, BC was turned from a logging town to a “summer cabins for the whites of Oakland” town, and it really showed.