A glimpse into the past – Ostrich Creek Bridge

Jack Story Special to The Village News

In my neighborhood there is frequently a gathering of guys, old and young, who love to tinker with and talk about old cars. Now and then I enjoy hanging out with them, when time allows, because the talk usually includes a lot of historical content.

One person mentioned that he needed a hubcap for his 1936 Plymouth, and an old timer said maybe he might find one in the weeds down around the Ostrich Creek Bridge.

I knew exactly what he was referring to because I grew up in a home very close to that bridge. There was a mile or so of fairly straight road on both ends leading up to the bridge and drivers sometimes traveled too fast to negotiate the crossing safely.

Sometimes they missed it completely, or they would make contact on the sides, causing all kinds of damage to their vehicles. The result was a substantial amount of debris gathered over the years around the area − things like chrome strips, head lights, bumpers and lots of hubcaps.

My first recollection is of my dad pulling cars out of the creek with a team of horses, and later on he used a tractor. If you do not know where the Ostrich Creek bridge is located, I will tell you how to find it.

Head south out of town till you pass Fallbrook High. Approximately one mile beyond that point look to the right directly across from the Hawthorne feed store, which was the location of Story's dairy in my day, and you will see a partly hidden little bridge which looks like a miniature of the old abandoned Bonsall bridge.

It is hard to believe that prior to World War II, every vehicle that wanted to go from San Diego to points north on an inland route had to pass over that bridge. The bridge was so narrow that if two large vehicles tried to pass, there would only be room for onion skins between them.

As a small boy I spent hours playing under that structure, sometimes with other kids in the neighborhood. There was always water running there with tadpoles and frogs and sometimes even snapping turtles. There were Indian grinding stones, and arrow heads were not hard to find.

The swallows built their nests there, lots of them, and I thought it was fun to destroy them with my sling shot. As I think about that now, I wonder why I thought that was so much fun. Those birds weren't bothering anyone and it sure interrupted their family life. Cat tails grew nearby and I tried to make cigarettes using dried cat tails for tobacco but the taste was terrible.

In the old days I have seen the creek roar and overflow with lots of debris passing through during a heavy winter rain storm. One time a semi-truck loaded with sacks of potatoes spilled several while trying to cross through and he didn't stop to retrieve them so everyone in the neighborhood showed up with buckets, baskets, and gunny sacks and picked up the spuds and we all ate well for a time.

I really didn't know the bridge was called Ostrich Creek until I joined the Historical Society. I didn't know it had a name. I see a lot of activity happening near it these days. I hope that it doesn't get destroyed. I watched as the road was being straightened out and improved, leaving the little bridge off to the side by itself and not needed anymore.

I don't suppose that any one went looking for the Plymouth hubcap that was mentioned at the beginning of this piece. That was all tongue in cheek, I'm sure, but in an earlier time, it might have been a worthwhile effort.