In these belt-tightening times, it is a question that ought to be on the minds of planners and politicians: Why build a bridge if a pole will suffice? Historically, the bridge-versus-pole dilemma has been confined to one low-lying corner of Europe. In every other part of the world, the obstacle presented by a span of water has been tackled with a limited arsenal of solutions. Poles are not generally among them.

But the Netherlands never restricted itself to conventional thinking. This is a nation that looked at the sea and saw land. A quarter of the total land area lies below sea level, having been reclaimed using a system of sea walls, dikes, pumping stations and canals.

Even inland, you’re never far from water in the Netherlands. The flat countryside salvaged from the North Sea is crisscrossed with an extensive grid of drainage channels. This little country boasts thousands of miles of manmade waterways, which is fine if you have a boat and plenty of time to get from one place to another but can be a major inconvenience if you’re a farmer attempting to inspect the water-hemmed fields that constitute your farm.

Medieval Dutch farmers had neither the wood nor the money to construct the dozens of bridges required to unify their estates. But they did have the innate ability to think outside the box. All they needed were strategically placed long poles, enabling them to vault from one piece of land to the next.

In the 20th century, this rustic practice evolved into a modern sport, complete with specialized equipment, rules and annual championships. Locally, it’s known by three wonderfully expressive names: fierljeppen or polsstokverspringen or bongelwuppen. We know it as canal jumping, and for novices it’s not as easy as it looks.

The poles — once made of wood, now of aluminum — are up to 15 feet long and are usually propped upright, ready for use, at the end of a canalside jetty. Jumpers sprint across the jetty then leap into a monkey-like embrace with the pole, which then begins to fall toward the opposite bank.

If the jumpers stay where they are, they’ll inevitably get wet. On initial contact, they are only halfway up the pole — not enough distance to vault the width of the average canal. So as soon as the pole begins to topple, they must shinny up (some jumpers strap bicycle tires to their feet for extra grip).

Time is of the essence. The forces of gravity are already at work. Within seconds, the jumper must begin preparations for landing on the soft, sandy area on the far bank. Failure to achieve the right position on the pole or the necessary forward momentum across the canal will result in a dunking.

For spectators and recreational jumpers, the prospect of a splashdown is one of the great attractions. In summer, all comers can sign up for canal jumping instruction at several venues in the Netherlands. In stark contrast to its practical origins, the sport has become a popular activity for stag parties and student gatherings — with predictably raucous consequences.

But a serious hard core of expert jumpers pushed the boundaries. The world record jump is more than 60 feet, and even amateurs can comfortably vault a width of more than 30 feet.

The time has come for canal jumping to be exported from the backwaters of the Netherlands to meet the needs of our economizing local governments. Instead of expensive bridges across waterways, long poles can be provided for public use. Don’t call it a sport. Call it infrastructure.