Approaching the Rio Grande Gorge, photo © 2007 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.
I’ve always been afraid of bridges. I remember last year Natalie Goldberg took us slow-walking the length of the Rio Grande Gorge bridge outside Taos. I had to walk as close to the road and as far from the railing as possible. Each time a semi-truck passed, I pictured the wind force coming out the side of the truck, like a wake from a boat, and lifting me up and over the edge. Surely the wind couldn’t lift my 120 pounds of flesh and bones, but still, when the semi-trucks passed I hung on to the railing, imagining that at least if my body flipped over the side I might be able to pull myself back up.
Mom gave me this unnatural fear of heights and bridges. I can still picture her lips pouched in concentration as she strained to look over the long hood of the Caprice each time we drove up to the Fedways rooftop parking lot in downtown Albuquerque. “Oo-wee,” she said in a low voice as the car crept toward the roof of the multi-story building. I sat on my ankles so I could see outside, too, and it really did seem like we were driving over a cliff.
Every summer our family took a roadtrip to visit Aunt Helen and Uncle Nemey in Long Beach, California. One time Dad stopped en route so we could all look over the edge of the Grand Canyon. Mom held on to me as we approached the scenic overlook. She didn’t let me get close enough to see the canyon bottom. “Ay, Dios mío,” she said when I tried to pull us both closer to the edge. “Leo, Leo,” she motioned to Dad to grab Larry by the back of his t-shirt when he went running up to the railing.
Years later my sister Janet and I were in San Diego. I’d received an award for work on a project and was invited to a banquet at the Hotel Del Coronado on the Coronado Island. Janet and I headed to the island in our rental car. Our windows were down and the flowers in bloom — purples, pinks, and yellows. It felt like we’d stepped into Old California, the California of I Love Lucy re-runs and roadtrips to see our cousins. We approached the bridge leading to the island; it was narrow and curved in a long, slow slope. I moved the car as close to the center line and oncoming traffic as I could without completely imperiling us, and I slowed down like an old lady driver.
“Look over the edge, how beautiful” Janet exclaimed, and I said, “No, I can’t!” She must have seen the terror in my face because she said, “Don’t look,” and I told her back, “Don’t you look, either.” It was as if our childhood fear of heights suddenly joined us as a third passenger in the car. Janet and I leaned in toward one another and trembled our way to the end of the bridge.
Last night when I saw on TV the Minneapolis Bridge collapsed into the brown waters of the Mississippi River, I immediately imagined QuoinMonkey and Liz trapped on that bridge. QM had been off email all afternoon, unusual for her, and Liz’s mom had been due to arrive for a visit. I didn’t know where the airport was relative to their home, but surely they had to cross the I-35 bridge to get there. As it turned out, QM and Liz were home safe. Safe but shaken. We talked on the phone this morning. QM described how high that bridge was and how much of an impact its collapse would have on everyone who lived in the Twin Cities. She said they were projecting it would take two years to rebuild.
We reminisced about the slow walk on the Rio Grande Gorge bridge, recalled how it vibrated whenever a car passed. I told her Jim and I took the girls to see the bridge last weekend. Jim walked with them across the gorge while I drove the car to the other side. I drove slowly so I wouldn’t scare them with vibrations and imagined wind tunnels. I couldn’t look at them as I passed, though. Em, such a waif — surely a good gust might lift her.
While I was waiting for them to come across, I got out of the car and approached the gorge. I wanted to meet them halfway, at the gorge’s deepest point. I wanted to tell them about my slow walk on the bridge, how for a few moments I managed to overcome my phobia. But as soon as I got onto that bridge, the railing seemed so short and I felt unnaturally tall and prone to toppling over. I turned back, deciding it was probably best that I not subject my girls to this particular side of me.
I’m relieved QM and Liz are safe, and my other friend in Minneapolis, too. I wonder if this collapse is going to make them fearful of bridges. I know it will exacerbate my fear, and I don’t even live there.
Turning Back, photo © 2007 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.
redravine.wordpress.com 
I feel that way about heights and bridges too.
There’s a certain amount of trust and faith we put into the structures around us. When a bridge collapses, our perspective changes. What can we count on?
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From Minneapolis
My niece Ruth and I drove over the bridge yesterday, six hours before it collapsed. We were driving to a bookstore, and moved slowly by the construction workers resurfacing the road. We felt sorry for them. It was high noon and very hot.
At 6:30 she called me on my cell phone. I was walking around Lake Harriet, and she told me the bridge had gone down. I didn’t get it. I thought maybe a piece had fallen off. So after my walk I drove down to the river, expecting something small and manageable. It wasn’t. Obviously, it wasn’t.
Today I have been in a fog, tears streaming down my face unexpectedly. I haven’t called most of my friends. I somehow can’t. Have emailed some, and we’re relieved to know we’re both still alive. No one knows what to do. My family is safe, that I know. We don’t know any names of the dead. We don’t know who is missing. Minneapolis is somehow still a small town, close-knit and homey. It’s excruciating to not know the names. I feel desperate to get down to the river, but everything is blocked off. They’re asking us not to go down, that it’s dangerous and the emergency vehicles need to be able to navigate.
I crossed over the Mississippi twice today, using the Lake Street Bridge. I drove slowly, straining to see up river, straining to see the rescue effort. I couldn’t see anything.
And I wonder why it collapsed at the moment it did. Not six hours earlier. I listen to the reports of the families waiting for word at the Holiday Inn by the bridge. And I feel numb. And desperate to get down there.
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I am so relieved your family is safe, Teri. But so many other people you know. I can hear in your voice how excruciating the not-knowing is.
My naivete relative to bridges surprises me. How it didn’t dawn on me until I saw the video of the Minneapolis Bridge collapsing that each section is dependent on every other section. Of course, that’s how bridges work. Yet, I was incredulous when I saw it.
Your point, mariacristina, hits home: we put our faith in structures. And when they fail us, what? I haven’t experienced it very often, for I don’t live in a big city with big bodies of water, but I can recall sitting on a shaky bridge in rush hour traffic, feeling the weight and motion of the vehicles. I remember having to talk myself out of panic. Sometimes I get that feeling when I’m flying over an ocean at night. Something unnatural about it all, like the only thing that’s sure is that at some point, technology will fail.
And now, just a random thought. When structures fail, do we put our faith in structure?
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Teri tells her story with such immediate detail that I feel like I’m hearing news from a friend. In a way I am, since we’re all swimming in the same tide of time, as Annie Dillard said.
I forgot to add that ever since the San Fracisco quake of ’89, when the bay bridge collapsed, I’ve been afraid when stuck underneath a bridge, like in a traffic jam. And I live in Georgia, far away from the San Andreas fault line.
Do we decide to foster our faith in a safe universe, in spite of natural disasters and human error? I’m still working on that one.
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Back From the River
I took a chance and drove down to the University of Minnesota, on the bank of the Mississippi. I decided before I went that I would leave if I was getting in the way. It turns out there were hundreds of us walking around trying to get a glimpse of something. Trying to put the TV images together with our familiar landmarks.
The scene of the bridge collapse was completely inaccessible, yellow tape and police officers everywhere. People would congregate in spots where you could see a car flipped over or a pile of rubble. There were media people everywhere. Standing on street corners with smooth hairdos talking at cameras. I looked at them perplexed. What are you all doing in my city? Media vans from everywhere, with huge tower-like structures on top of the vans. I tried to see if I could catch the eye of a few of the reporters. But once the camera was turned off, they stared blankly into the group–perhaps a defensive mechanism from being gawked at too many times.
There was only one moment when I understood that they are still buried under that water. I could see a red car upside-down on top of a blue pickup. And they are not alive. Yesterday they were.
I am not afraid of bridges. I thought of it today when I crossed the river a few times. I don’t fear the normal things like heights or walking alone in the dark or traveling across the continent solo. I fear dying alone and forgotten. I fear never getting to have a full life, the one I want. I fear ending up homeless and desperate.
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I’m sitting on the couch watching my town, Minneapolis, on Larry King live as I write this. Liz and her Mom are on the couch beside me and I can hardly take in what’s before me on the screen. As I was sitting here, Liz said, “It’s that section over by the Red Cross. You know how it winds around there on the parkway?”
That’s when it hit me – my god, I ride that parkway on the motorcycle all the time. I know that curve intimately. It’s one of my favorite paths along the river. I had a sinking feeling in my heart, like, yes, that really could have been me.
I haven’t been down to the river yet. I don’t want to see it like that. I want to wait a while. I’m kind of like that. I’d rather see it later, alone and quiet.
Like Teri, I know that Minneapolis is a small town city. It’s one of the things I love about this place. The collective energy here is good, supportive, for the people. And you can feel people pulling together to support everyone else.
Oddly, I sat at work today, kind of vacant. I heard a few stories of where people were and what they were doing at 6pm yesterday. Some were very close to the bridge when it went down. It’s so strange to be watching the rubble on the national news and know I drive under that bridge all the time, breathing in the river. For the moment, I don’t know what else to say.
Perhaps structures are only as good as their foundations. And maybe they wear out over time. Or break down, pull up, and rise to something bigger.
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Wow. I hate to babble on a writing blog, but I can’t quite form the things I want to say into a cohesive composition. Sorry about that.
QM and Teri, I’m glad you and your family are OK, and sorry that this has happened so close to both of you.
ybonesy, you’re making me miss my best friend. And the Gorge Bridge scared the hell out of me, too, when I was in Taos. I never quite made it out to the lookout point, because the first car that crossed shook the bridge enough to send me back to safe ground. I can’t imagine sharing the bridge with a semi.
By the way, the Gorge Bridge is one of four NM bridges now slated for immediate inspection…
Regarding placing faith in structures: Bodies are structures. Inorganics sometimes last longer, but we have to believe that those structures are permanent in order to get through the small bits of life that make up our own imagined permanence. Breaking down, pulling up, and rising to something bigger is all very 8th House (transition, i.e., Scorpio, which is opposite Taurus, who is “the builder”, i.e., structures).
OK. I’m through babbling. This, by the way, is why I rarely comment.
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Don’t ever be shy to comment here, Sam. You’re not babbling at all. I didn’t know the Gorge Bridge is slated for inspection. Makes sense, though. Just like after Katrina when folks scrambled to inspect levies.
Something quite poignant about understanding what people are afraid of. When I read your fears, Teri, I thought, Wow, my fears aren’t so fearful. Bridges, heights, and abandoned houses. Ghosts, the ocean. But then I remembered, fear is fear.
QM, I recall several pieces you’ve written — writing practice to our first online group — where you described a curve along the river and riding your Rebel on that road at night. I imagined the wind coming at you so fast that you could hardly breathe, that good feeling where there’s too much oxygen instead of not enough. I wonder if that was the same ride you just mentioned in your comment.
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I read on the news today a line that struck me as a thought we take for granted to be true. The line went something like this: “bridges just don’t fall down in the U.S. There will be an investigation” It made sense because the story stated it with such confidence, yet lately this statement does not seem to uphold itself. Maybe it is my naive self growing up as I go through college, but all I seem to hear about is infrastructures breaking in this country. And I don’t mean physical infrastructures. Maybe its the gridlock of war. Or maybe I just seem to pay attention more. I’m working in a town called East Palo Alto this summer doing a public health intervention. The city used to have the highest crime rate in the nation 10 years ago, although its gotten better. However, the community is still plagued with crime, sometimes targeted at children. In the school I work in I recently saw a memorial set up for a 12 yr old boy who was shot outside his home, 1 block from the elementary school in broad daylight because of his affiliation with gang activity. Yet, next door to EPA, right across the 101 freeway is Palo Alto, one of the richest communities in the nation, right near Silicon Valley. How do we forget these communities, leaving them to self destruct?
I’m so glad to hear that your family members are all accounted for. I too greatly fear heights. Maybe I also got it from Nanny. I live right near San Francisco. Everytime I cross the Bay Bridge or the Golden Gate, I think about earthquakes. I hold my breath, push the gas, and hope for that 20 seconds I’m on the bridge, the earth ceases to shake.
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You’re pretty wise for someone your age, Bex. Yes, some basic infrastructure failed for that 12 year old boy. Society, community, family. All of the above? You should write about your experiences there. Is this a job you’ll only do this summer?
I have only crossed the Bay Bridge and Golden Gate a few times, when I’ve been there to visit. I was, of course, freaked out the entire way across. I don’t think I’ve crossed the Bay Bridge since it collapsed in the earthquake. So it’s really been a long time.
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Bex09, you bring up two good points for me.
Your line:
How do we forget these communities, leaving them to self destruct?
…reminds me of the Abandoned Topic piece (link) that ybonesy recently did. And the comments from our readers about abandonment. Unfortunately, I think it’s part of today’s world to push forward into what is new and fresh and bigger and better (and makes more money). And as we do that, we lose sight of what is being left behind (which many times are the people). The whole abandonment of cultures, people, houses, and parts of cities, is so much a part of where we are going. It’s people like you (and neath of Walking Turcot Yards, and anyone else who is writing about the issue) that are paying attention and can make a difference by keeping this issue at the forefront.
And then when you wrote this:
The line went something like this: “bridges just don’t fall down in the U.S. There will be an investigation” It made sense because the story stated it with such confidence, yet lately this statement does not seem to uphold itself. Maybe it is my naive self growing up as I go through college, but all I seem to hear about is infrastructures breaking in this country. And I don’t mean physical infrastructures…
I was thinking about a piece I heard on NPR yesterday. The guy was talking about how in America, we have this image of ourselves, of thinking we are number one, that we carry in our pockets, our hearts, our breeding – but that it’s just not true anymore. We still think it’s true – and act like it’s true. And as a result, things are breaking down all around us but we aren’t paying attention because we have this idea that we are still at the top – this includes infrastructures like education, highways, government, you name it.
It’s not fair to generalize like this, I know. But the point he was trying to make I think merits some deep thought on our part. And I think the abandonment issue relates to the idea of some cultures or countries thinking they are better than they are – they then don’t work toward holding with great value what they already have. Or at teaching others to value the resources that are already here. They are too busy moving forward into the future. And leaving everything old and used behind.
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mariacristina, I like your question:
Do we decide to foster our faith in a safe universe, in spite of natural disasters and human error?
Strictly speaking for me, I’m going to keep fostering faith! The strange and shadowy things that happen in the world serve to wake me up and jog me out of the everyday, mundane routines that I sometimes sleepily walk through.
In some odd way, this bridge collapsing has woken up the Twin Cities, and I’m guessing, bonded us together even more. In the Midwest, we already have a culture of putting one foot in front of the other, to keep going and persevere, no matter what happens. I think in this case, there is the added idea of impermanence. And maybe it will alert us all to live more in the moment. And be kinder to each other.
At least, I know it had done that for me. Along with this low-grade kind of numbness around the whole bridge collapsing, is an undercurrent of – I only have this one moment. Breathe deeply. And take it in.
Given a choice – I choose to believe. But I sure don’t think everything is safe in the world. The more stories that come out from Twin Citians, the more I wake up.
One woman who usually takes another route because of construction, for some reason that day, decided to cross the bridge. And they announced her death last night. That hits really hard. What does it all mean? Or is it just the way things have been since the beginning of time? What if it’s just life?
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It’s strange how disaster plays out. There’s the actual disaster, then the trying to figure out what it really is and who was killed/hurt, then the days of asking and trying to get answers for why, then all the fear that the disaster might occur elsewhere. It’s this slow-motion process, and for someone who sits somewhere else, it flows in a time that’s very different, I imagine, from those who sit close up. And I view the sitters as being in concentric circles. Those affected because they were on the bridge, those who narrowly missed the bridge collapse, those who knew people who were on the bridge, those who rode the bridge every day, those who see the bridge, etc., etc. Every disaster — Katrina, tsunami, World Trade Towers — we pass through them in this modified space and time. Like walking underwater.
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Yeah, concentric circles. Ripples that go out. But we’re all moving slow, like walking underwater. Good descriptions.
I think the collective mental impact will be the greatest. Like Teri talks about, all the hype around it is still going on here in Minneapolis. But after all the cameras and adrenalin are gone – we are left here with just us, our grief, and a collapsed main artery through the largest city in our state. It’s hard to hold all that.
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ybonesy, that curve along the river I wrote about in practice (I think that was the night a few summers ago when I was on the Rebel and saw the Northern Lights) is right down the road from this second curve near where the bridge collapsed. It’s all connected and comprises a little stretch of West River Parkway road from the Plymouth Street Bridge in Northeast, down to the Lake Street Bridge in the Longfellow neighborhood (that Teri was talking about in her comment).
That stretch of the river is magical. The Mississippi winds wide at a couple of points, and when you’re on a motorcycle, the curves seem like they are going to take you right into the river. It’s heaven to ride at dusk. And the Weisman is right across the river, near Bohemian Flats, another of my favorite places to hang. There is a long history there for all cultures that settled Minneapolis.
I wrote about part of this section of the river in the red Ravine piece: Natural Wonders: A Pentagram (link). (You probably noticed, that piece got a lot of hits yesterday.) It’s right down from where the bridge fell. Unfortunately, you can’t see the bridge from the photographs in the post. They are of the Stone Arch Bridge, another wonderful landmark here along the Mississippi. I took them after a snowstorm, long before they redeveloped the area. It used to be pretty low-traffic and kind of deserted.
So, to answer your question – it’s one of the curves I loved. It’s a curve you could really lean into, and as the road rose up to head down toward the Guthrie, the lock and dam, and where Spirit Island used to be, the bike would move more parallel to the ground. The great thing about riding a motorcycle is the sense of freedom. When you are in a beautiful stretch of road, even if it’s in the city, that feeling seems to triple.
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ybonesy, I had a good friend 20 years ago, a guy I traveled in Central America with, whose mother was terrified of bridges and tunnels. She lived in Oregon and when she came to visit Ken she refused to ride across a bridge. They drove down to San Jose, made a U-ee (sp?) and up the peninsula to SF.
It was a nerve-wracking visit for him. Ken lived in Hayes Valley, near overpasses, and she kept freaking out whenever he drove home, under them. I think he was close to snapping at her to stop freaking out: “EEeeeeeeeeeee!” a couple times. I mean, he was sympathetic and indulgent, up to a point. But it was really getting to him.
FWIW, after the earthquake those ramps, connectors to I 80 and the bay bridge, have been torn down. I work near Hayes Valley now, and go there blue moon occasionally at lunch. What was gloomy and depressed (junkies and hookers in the shadows) is now sunny, upscale shops and restuarants, and the neighborhood revitalized.
Of course, getting on and off I 80 is a nuisance. But our culture services the auto too much, IMHO.
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I’m trying to get a visual sense of the area. I picture it as a long stretch along the river, with perhaps a once abandoned but now revived industrial area across the way? Does that stretch eventually run under the I-35 bridge? Well, you don’t have to try to explain. I can try to find a map that shows some detail. I know you’ll eventually also get down there an take photos. As you said, all the cameras/media will leave, and you’ll be left with the grief.
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A good friend of mine drove the I35W bridge twice on Wednesday, and his wife was approaching it when traffic backed up and she was re-routed. She heard all the emergency vehicles approaching and driving by.
I tried to blog about it, not very successfully. I used to work down in the river flats below that bridge, for the U of M, many years ago. I just couldn’t pull anything very cohesive or coherent together, and kept tearing stuff out. I put my friend’s email, telling me they are all okay, in the comments. It’s the best part.
The people I know back there are so stunned. A couple have comaprd it to the bay bridge collapse — but you know, we expect earthquakes out here.
This came from so far out of the blue that even witnesses didn’t realize what a catastrophe they were seeing.
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Hearing about your friend’s mother, ombudsben, and how they had to make these detours makes me realize that my fear is probably not a true phobia. (I do have one true phobia — I won’t say what it is here, although I’m sure some day I’ll write about it — and my method of dealing whenever I’m exposed to the thing, is to faint. I can’t do anything but pass out unless I’ve got myself an anti-anxiety or other pill, which my mom gives me from her batch to deal with my phobia.)
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ybonesy, go to Google maps. Paste this in the locator:
11th Ave SE & SE 2nd St, Minneapolis, Hennepin, Minnesota 55414, United States
and hit return. (It may give you options: any saying “SE” will work).
Once you get the map, click on the satellite feature, and you’ll have a view of it. You can click on the map and move it around, to see different areas, and the “zoom” feature at left will move you closer or farther out.
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ybonesy, yeah, the road by the river goes under the I-35 bridge. Or used to. And then winds up by the new Guthrie and the Stone Arch Bridge. There’s a series of bridges along that section of the Mississippi going into different parts of Minneapolis.
Liz was looking at a map last night, and that section of the parkway is now closed off. But it’s open a few blocks down by the Guthrie and I’ll be at the Guthrie Sunday night. I’ll see how it feels down there then. Maybe I’ll be able to click off a few photos. Though that hasn’t been very appealing to me thus far.
ombudsBen, strange to hear about your friends being on the bridge that day. Glad they are okay. It’s amazing how it all ripples out from the epicenter of the bridge – connected to our own history with the city and that section of town, and the people we know that live here.
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Ben, I thought your post was very good. This notion of Minnesota with its harsh weather being built solidly, and how you grew up with that sense of safety. I also appreciated the conversation in comments about other bridges and their daily commuter loads. Here’s the link: http://ombudsben.wordpress.com/2007/08/02/i35w-bridge-in-minneapolis/#more-127
I just got off the phone with my sister Janet and told her about this post. (She doesn’t have a computer.) She told me she remembered Dad stopping on the Rio Grande Gorge bridge so we could all look over the edge (in fact, I might have confused the road trip to California and the detour to see the Grand Canyon). She stayed in the car crying, she was so afraid of heights. She also brought up how scared she is of ramps on freeways (they recently redid all our ramps on I-40 and I-25 in Albuquerque, and several are high and the curves sharp). And her daughter now lives in New Jersey and has to cross one of the bridges on the bridges list in Ben’s post.
Also, thanks for the Google Earth coordinates. I’ll check that out now.
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Thanks for the link, ybonesy. I read your piece, Ben, and it truly does speak to the culture in Minnesota. It does feel like a very safe, well-taken-care-of place to live. Which, like you said, is part of what makes it even more jarring.
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I used to scared out of my wits sometimes from extreme heights. More so with extreme heights where the only way to come down is an unreliable, unstable, rocky terrain or something of the like.
Luckily, haven’t been anywhere too high recently to say whether I still have that fear!
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Ay yes, the navigating down from extremely steep trails or sides of mountains. I know that feeling. I don’t understand the thrill of rock climbing, especially free climbing. And the extreme mountain biking that’s big now.
I remember Jim being in Moab out on a ride, and there was a photographer shooting images of a famous biker who kept riding across one of the natural arches that extended over a gorge. Jim isn’t afraid of heights, but even he said he couldn’t watch. He said it was like being a voyeur to someone’s death (although the rider didn’t fall — still, that was the sense of what Jim’s role was).
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“bridges just don’t fall down in the U.S. There will be an investigation”
We believe that in Canada too. But there has been a lot of stuff coming out in Quebec lately indicating that we have been really skimping on maintenance budgets for a long time. Maybe this is across the board in North America. The Minneapolis bridge was apparently cited as “structurally deficient” as early as 1990. That is unacceptable. How many more public access structures are there that may be beyond their actual and not hypothetical “expiry date” but are still open because of good faith between inspectors, contractors, government, etc? The people that die in these terrible accidents had a lot of faith in the structure being safe.
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Somehow I’m having a hard time with the notion that a country which provides healthcare for all its citizens can have the same magnitude of deficiency in infrastructure as we have in the U.S. But you’re a reliable source, neath, so I believe you.
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neath, I just noticed you did a couple of posts on the bridge collapse, including this one that has some background on the structural deficiencies in Quebec:
http://neath.wordpress.com/2007/08/03/structurally-deficient/
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It’s been another long day in Minneapolis. It strikes me that it hasn’t even been two days since the bridge collapsed. It feels like it’s been a minimum of two weeks. I’m already so tired of people being here. I want the reporters to all go away. I feel this intense privacy growing in me. This sense that we need to pick up the pieces and figure out how to rally and it is such an intrusion to have all these people here watching us. We’ll take care of our own, now go away. Again, I feel compelled to go down to the river. Even though logic tells me I won’t be able to get there, I’m already planning my strategy. I need to do something. I need to help. I need to be a witness with my people. I need the families still waiting to know they’re held up. I need to do so much, but know I’ll just circle ’round & ’round the police and yellow tape.
My friend J. told me that all the planes from New York City are booked through the weekend. Full of reporters. I can’t believe there will be more.
I heard news reports that are turning from shock/compassion/disbelief to blame, blame, and more blame. It is so not helpful. Maybe later I’ll join in with the finger-pointing. Who knows. For today, I just want my city back. I hear that that sounds silly as I write it. But I’ll leave it in anyway.
I’m heading back down to the river.
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A Little Relief
I went down to the river again. I was able to mostly avoid the reporters, and spent three hours drifting in and out of interaction with the common man. On Wednesday night there was chaos and bedlam and fear by the river. On Thursday there was silence and reverence and disbelief. Tonight people were starting to talk again. Not a lot, and not about things that usually fill the air between people. Just little comments about the bridge. People would stand for a long time looking at very little. It was comforting. The best view was at the crest of the hill at Gold Medal Park. We could see the two ends of the bridge bending down toward the river. The hill was irresistible to children, and they’d roll end over end laughing. It was good to hear their innocent laughter. It helped, the being together. I will sleep well tonight.
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Me, too. Thanks for the report from the hill. Your voice is far more relevant to me than some talking head.
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I forgot to mention that in Google maps you can choose “satellite” or (even better) “hybrid” to get a photo of the mapped area. You can close in and see it really well.
I’ve heard politicians there saying it may be two years or longer before they re-build. Maybe so. But somewhere deep down I have this gut feeling that, once much of the collapsed parts are cleared away, they will roll up their sleeves and get it done.
Out here in CA, a tanker truck driving too fast hit an overpass support in April causing a fire and overpass collapse (just a few miles from our house, a the crow flies, over Oakland estuary). They got it rebuilt very fast; less than the projected two months.
It was a smaller project, true, but it was also a mess and complicated by the “spaghetti bowl” of crisscrossing freeways. (It’s in a section called “The MacArthur maze.”)
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Praise the Lord that not more were hurt.
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I’ve stated unequivocally that I am not afraid of heights or bridges. I still that’s true. But today, when driving over the Mississippi River on the Lake Street Bridge, the traffic completely stopped. Far up Lake Street there was construction going on, and it had cars backed up in a way I’ve never seen. Three times (while going over the river) my car stood still. I look north, knowing two bridges up and around the bend the recovery effort was happening. It was more eerie than anything, I knew it could crumble. Why not? A few minutes later my friend K. called me from her cell. She was stuck on the bridge, too. She just kept saying, “Oh, get me off this bridge, get me off this bridge.” I guess we’re simply forever changed. Period.
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I have a picture in my head of every single person in every car on that bridge saying the same thing you and your friend K. were saying. Collective trauma.
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Teri, I thought of it late yesterday when I was on the motorcycle going across a bridge to get to my destination. It was just a flash that went through my head: “I wonder what would happen on a motorcycle if this bridge collapsed right now? Would I have more of a chance because I wasn’t constrained by the car windows and doors? Or less of a chance because I have no protection but my helmet?”
It felt morbid to me to think that but I couldn’t help it – it went through my head. And then it was gone. We *are^ changed. I am hoping that over time, the collective fear lessens.
Thanks for sharing. I know the Lake Street Bridge covers a long span over the Mississippi between Minneapolis and St. Paul. And you can see how high up you are from there. Like ybonesy, I am sure every single person was flashing on the same thing you were. It’s good to know we’re not alone in that.
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I never fear bridges except when I am stock on the highest part of the bridge and look down. Yeah I have a fear of heights and as of now, I still have a fear of heights but not as worst before, every time I’m on a high place I always think that I will fall. Now I can ride the roller coaster and look down when I am at a building but still a little bit scary. At least I am recovering bit by bit.
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Brain Health, thanks for stopping by. I hadn’t looked at this post in some time and the photograph of the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge really brings back memories of the few times I’ve stood on her deck.
Also reading these comments from Minneapolis the day after the bridge collapsed — whew. Brings back all that was going on summer before last. And recently, I’ve driven the brand new bridge several times. It’s amazing. You still can’t tell you are going over the Mississippi at astounding heights when you are on the new bridge.
I’ve discovered that my fear of heights gets more pronounced the older I get. When Liz and I went to Itasca, we were all gung ho to climb up this old wooden fire tower with a hole you had to crawl through at the bottom of the structure when you got to the top. We made it about 4 or 5 rungs. That was it!
Another tidbit about bridges, Liz and I watched on the news last night as the Lincoln Memorial Bridge between Bismarck and Mandan, North Dakota was blown up, demolished to make way for a new bridge. I went over it once with Liz and it was one of those bridges that still had the metal grates. She said that bridge really used to scare her. The video was amazing.
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I’ve discovered that my fear of heights gets more pronounced the older I get.
Mine, too, QM. This spring we went on a rock-hounding expedition in the west mesa—great for sharks’ teeth, fossils, petrified wood—and I kind of freaked out when we were on a narrow ridgeback between some sand dunes. I literally started to cry in the truck. I felt so bad because I don’t want to pass that fear on to my girls, who so far have been pretty brave on account of doing this kind of stuff with Jim.
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Ybonesy, I had to come read your Fear of Bridges post after your reply mention on my bridge post. Thank you for commenting and stopping by.
Wonderfully written, and thoughtful replies that followed. I do remember the Minneapolis bridge collapse, as well as the I-40 bridge collapse near Webbers Falls, Oklahoma.
I’ve been on bridges that would scare a person who wouldn’t fear being on a bridge.
I’ve walked the Royal Gorge bridge outside of Canon City, Colorado several times. I’ve driven on the outside roadway of a bridge in St. Louis—very old bridge and the metal-grate roadway perched high out in the open. I lived in Tampa when the Skyway Bridge collapsed because a freighter hit it. I’ve been on long, long bridges and shakey, almost swinging bridges. Normally, though, being on a bridge hasn’t caused fear. My fear is being beneath a bridge, and I do not know why. I cannot stand to be under any kind of bridge, and that includes highway overpass bridges. And don’t get me started on those many-tiers parking gargages. Yikes!
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