Bridge Stories

I think the bridges in Portland represents the strength of our common bonds. Even though this city has diverse political and cultural populations, tolerance allows us to celebrate our creative lives despite our differences. A Portland festival couldn’t have identified with a better metaphor. Celebrate your bridges, don’t burn ‘em!

I’m a eastside Portland native and grew up with a love of downtown and a love of bridge architecture, but some anxiety about crossing the bridges in a car or bus. While I was a student at PSU years ago I decided this would never do and made myself walk the Hawthorne Bridge a few times as a cure. The first time was terrifying and I will never forget looking through that grate at the water below while the wind and rain whipped around me. It worked though and now I can fully embrace my love of Portland’s bridges!

Born in Portland – I have crossed the Portland bridges more times then I can remember- My parents taught me their names like an adult points out the names of the birds or flowers between the houses and the streets to a child
Tho being in the elements on “the bridge” can be the beginning of many adventures- I want to touch (amidst another point) the sensation of riding as a passenger in a car over these notorious bridges -as a small child I grew respect of “the bridge” – maybe it started with my view of the world – one my height/eye location-second an imagination as wild as the universe- so together with limited view of the ground from a window seat in an automobile, even more limited if in the middle seat- Never being on any roller coaster/airplane/train/bird at that point,,it looked…felt as if I was going to skate right off the road into the Willamette- not that I do not trust my parents -maybe it is the rain- maybe the lack of the fenced in view that is so common for children- even to this day anytime I’m a passenger in a vehicle on a bridge or roadway over a water way, I have a strong desire to imagine that I’m flying off frankly its a lil fun at the same time a lil petrifying- I do not want to be like that lady and actually drive off the Morrison Bridge tho- Thinking about the strength in a bridges structure, the purpose of its connection- how every car and walkway,path on Portland bridges has life, beautiful life,,,the bridges are alive in Portland BUT The Willamette River is also alive(without man)that is why Portland even has bridges- We must remember the importance of the river and we must stop treating it like our toilet- If this event(s) is not going to help the Willamette River we have nothing to celebrate. onelove-jes

my favorite PDX bridge-based tradition is breakfast on the bridges:

http://shift2bikes.org/wiki/bikefun:breakfast_on_the_bridges

each month, at least once but sometimes as many as 5 times in a month, a group of hardy volunteers rises before the sun (or perhaps at the same time as the sun, in june), brews coffee, bakes pastries, puts on weather-appropriate clothing and a smile and hangs out for 2 hours on the east shore of the steel pedestrian bridge and the west side of the westbound sidewalk of the hawthorne bridge, and feeds passing cyclists & pedestrians for a couple of hours. in recent years since i’ve started participating, we’ve upped the ante from coffee and donated pastries to baking contests, special holiday versions (i dressed up as the cutest male version of the virgin of guadalupe last month), and even occasional on-site cooking throwdowns: vegan versus carnivore biscuits and gravy made live while you watch, vegetarian versus vegan pancakes, a breakfast bar featuring over 20 toppings to go with some donated yogurt, and my favorite, “how much bacon can PDX cyclists eat in an hour?” (the answer was a bit disappointing–only about 1.25 pounds per hour…sustained for 4 hours though! this was perhaps rate limited by my cooking bandwidth…)

some portland-typical info tidbits about the tradition?

- the strange interplay between the city and the county and ODOT on bridge/street/highway “ownership”/responsibility means that we set up in somewhat of a grey (geographical) area and have never been harassed by any authorities despite carrying on this tradition for years. our closest brush has been with the navy’s MP during fleet week, who buzzed us in their police-boat a few times.

- we limit waste to a very small amount by using normal coffee cups (we bring hot water and soap to wash used cups as needed); brewing coffee and transporting it in reusable air pots; and we don’t provide napkins or utensils. eat neat, lick your fingers, or choose your breakfast items very carefully!

- we’re currently partially supported by local businesses large and small: black sheep bakery, voodoo doughnuts, trailhead coffee roasters (coffee delivered by, and occasionally brewed on, a bike!), and fred meyer among others.

- when you thank us for the free breakfast, we thank you for biking and politely refuse your donation. the time, food, and camaraderie are our donations to the PDX personally-powered community.

join us sometime! last friday of every month, 7-9am. every friday morning in june! you can find more info about joining the crew, and many pictures from many mornings at the website linked at the top of this comment.

I remember the first time I got to drive by myself over the Fremont Bridge. It was a cool, fall sun setting on the sky and I remember seeing the arch coming up into view and two waving flags greeting me to the freedom of the road. To the chill air coming in from the sunroof and the backdrop of our humble skyline, I dreamed anything was possible.

The other memory I have is walking over the Hawthorne Bridge and being mesmerized by the grating that made the road. It was exhilarating to see the river below and foreboding. The sound of the cars going over it, a distant memory of coming of age in Portland — that this is what it meant to be from somewhere.

My grandmother was raised in St. John’s. I grew up with her telling me about how, when the St. John’s bridge was first built, she remembers walking across it holding her dad’s hand and looking down into Portland.

I moved to PDX from northern Minnesota last January. I was unemployed, had never been here, didn’t know anyone and officially on my own for the first time. The only solice that I found those first few bleak months was wandering into the downtown area from my SE apartment and walking the bridges. They were so beautiful and unique – just like Portland.

Now, a year later, I returned to the bridges during the recent snowstorm and was giddy with excitement to snap a few pictures of those bridges covered in snow. I wandered for hours; my toes and fingers were freezing and I was soaked from all of the snow that landed on me but I couldn’t have been happier. I wrote “Thank you for everything, Portland” in the snow on the Hawthorne bridge walkway and smiled the entire way home.

Wising Up On Water

I grew up in and about the Lents Neighborhood, which might as well have been Osaka or Sydney for the times we crossed the Willamette into downtown Portland, ten miles west of our gravelly driveway.

My mother suffered with agoraphobia–fear of going out, and my grandmother, gephyrophobia–fear of bridges, though none of us knew how to name our panics. These and my father’s and grandfather’s fears of “the bulls”—slang for police whether or not either of them were driving sober, coalesced to eliminate visits to OMSI, the zoo, or the Oregon Coast.

My best friend Irene moved to Corbett and we swam in the Sandy during the teenage years of our summers. After my parents permanently diverged, my mother dated men who fished the Clackamas. In the 1960s, Johnson Creek flooded our kitchen up to the cabinets. I married at seventeen and my husband and I moved to Minot, North Dakota, about as far away as you can get from the Rose City in terms of shade and water. Since I’d never been to Washington Park, I didn’t get the flowery nickname either.

I wrote The Portland Bridge Book in 1989; about the time I’d pulled my head out of the mud of my thirties. At the outset, I didn’t know the difference between a headwater and a headwaiter. Counting and scaling bridges, I began to locate myself–a single parent who wanted to be a writer. The bridges were my ticket to explore both banks of the Willamette.

I counted twelve highway-only bridges in the twenty-six miles between Kelley Point and Oregon City, plus two railroad bridges, and one burly black bridge built to carry trains and cars. In the midst of the tallying, I pushed up my cuffs and dug both hands into the Willamette, seeing if I could feel which direction was upriver and which was down. This was before I knew about the tidal influence that turns it back as far as Oregon City a couple of times a day.

Now, still directionally dysfunctional around the edges of my personality, I lead bridge and city tours for hundreds and hundreds of people every year. If we have a big enough bus, and the right kind of teacher in our schedule, I get to ride to Kelley Point with whole classes of third graders. We stand where the Columbia swallows the Willamette, kick sand, and admire current that will look up to the undercarriage of the Astoria Bridge before riding the Pacific to Asia or Australia. If no bus, we skip along the downtown Greenway between the Broadway and Steel bridges, where we’ve seen all sorts of things, including sea lions.

In my research, I’ve discovered that our river nearly died of pollution about the time I was born, in 1944, but we’ve both made it. No doubt getting better due to the awareness that comes with age.

Where do I start, and what do I say? Cuz so much comes to mind…all good! I’ll just say HAT’s OFF to You’s. The opportunity’s bridge’s supply to us mortals is numerous & notable. First, a governing law of life is ‘access’. Need I say more on that notion. Think not. The aesthetic opportunity results from a combination of sculpture, engineering, and architecture.
And the metaphorical link, as well as the metaphysical connections afforded are life sustaining. And lastly, though certainly not least -in our case here in Ptlnd- is the flow forever flowing beneath each of our city bridges. I am a recent arrival to this city of bridges(mid 90′s). I come from the east coast and have history in Boston. While there I founded a non-profit to address the neglect of one of the revered crossing’s in that old town; the Longfellow Bridge that connects Beacon Hill to Cambridge (over the Charles River Water Basin). My choice to land here in Portland is on the river, below the large Fremont Bridge. My business partner tells me his father brought him here (Terminal 1) in 1973 to watch tug boats deliver up river, the entire arch (built eleswhere and floated up the river)…to be lifted and connected. Amazing.

I love the Steel bridge – a beautiful bridge, and a great smell in the summer – very industrial – ride your bike across the lower deck and you’ll smell it too.

I created a short documentary on a Hawthorne Bridge operator. It’s called Lift and it documents the struggles of Matt Craft to find a balance between loneliness and solitude. It will screen on August 5th as part of the Bridge Festival.

If you have a Bridge film (metaphorical or physical bridge) please submit to the festival at http://www.pdxbridgefestival.org/submit by June 21st.

I have two bridge moments. First, I used to travel across the Hawthorne Bridge all the time by car. There is a deep tone that comes from the rubber of your wheels gliding across that metal grating. It always makes for the best ‘monk chanting’ when you sing-along with it. When you hear the tone, sing up a half step. Get a chorus going in the car. Really. Try it next time. It sounds amazing.
Secondly, when local radio show host Rick Emerson had his 06/06/06 Horns Across the Hawthorne party, it was amazing to see so many die-hard fans turn out to span the Hawthorne Bridge, all throwing horns at 6 pm. Literally, my most favorite memory of a downtown Portland event EVER!

Here is a poem that I wrote for the bridge poetry open-mic last Sunday at Powells Hawthorne.

While Hiking the Marquim trail

I find a tree
whose roots
had given out;
now just a log
spanning
a narrow creek.
I part my arms
like a tight-rope walker
and balance
my way across.

I remember
taking my first
tenuous steps
across
the Hawthorne.
Watching the river
below
through the thin
metal slates
of the bridge.
The water
whispered to me;
telling me
the summer could
be cool again
if only
I would just give in
to its overwhelming
embrace.

I have had a passion for bridges since I was 10 years old. My love for bridges began with the Steel Bridge. I don’t remember why it was the Steel Bridge that caught my attention over the other bridges. Maybe it was because it provided a route to Lloyd Center, a place which I also loved as much as the bridges. I loved all of Portland, and I still do. Since then, I’ve collected tons of research on these bridges, and have all kinds of info about them stored in my head. I have found out how exactly the Steel Bridge works and what makes it so special. Last year, I annoyed my parents by making Mapquest take a detour across the Steel Bridge!

At the start of my bridge obsession, I was still trying to figure out which bridge was which. I thought the Hawthorne Bridge was the Steel Bridge (an excusable mistake; they have lots in common), and later I mistook the Hawthorne Bridge for the Morrison Bridge. I asked my grandfather to take me across the Morrison Bridge. I thought I was going on the Hawthorne Bridge, but to my surprise, the bridge I wanted to be on was the next one up the river!

Now I know which bridge is which, and I’ve found out more I never even knew about ten years ago.