The ford ("shallow creek crossing" for you Bama grads) connecting the Colonel's westernmost field to the rest of the vast holdings that comprise Eegeebeegee has been impassable for the better part of the last year. Heavier than normal rains washed most of the rocks downstream, and just about the time the Colonel finished prying the boulders from the sucking sand and waddle-carrying them back upstream to the ford, another heavy rain swept them tumbling back downstream. Hydraulics is a fascinating power...unless it's working against you.
So, the Colonel has decided to build a bridge.
For the better part of his adult life, most of the professional study and preparation to which this Marine subjected the loose collection of grey matter laying fallow in the recesses of his brain-housing group dealt with the destruction of bad people and their things. The largest construction projects attempted rarely exceeded the complexity of assembling a bookcase out of 1 x 6s and milk crates. Engineering and erecting a bridge, substantial and sturdy enough to safely accommodate the Colonel and his trusty tractor Semper Field, certainly must seem to anyone even remotely acquainted with him to be folly in its fullest meaning. No matter--there ain't enough brain matter left to cobble together a convincing argument against the attempt.
Said bridge building project began in earnest a week ago. The near-shore bridge pier construction phase began with three behemoth (meaning: very large--for all of you LSU grads) railroad ties hauled down to Caleb's Crossing--so named in honor of the Colonel's second favorite person on the planet. Holes were excavated large enough to accommodate the ties stood on end and encased in several yards of concrete. Mind you, ALL of the digging and maneuvering of said behemoth railroad ties was done by hand. Yep, the Colonel ain't smart and you can't make him.
As the Colonel and # 2 son stood over on the far shore admiring completion of Phase I--three (did I mention they were behemoth?) railroad ties towering straight and tall and spaced five feet apart across the point where the road ended in the creek--an errant thought took shape in the few remaining brain cells in the amorphous goo at the base of the Colonel's skull. But, before he could translate thought to speech, #2 gave verbal shape to the Colonel's thoughts.
"Well, Dad, you've either made substantial progress toward bridging this creek or you've made it so that no one will ever cross at this point again."
Seems the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda gave birth to a mind-reader.