Hawthorn Bridge Adrift in Time

The Hawthorn Bridge turns 100 this year and, as a part of the Portland Bridge Festival, I thought I'd share my experience of the bridge.

The span lifts!
(photo copyright 2010 Aaron Schultz)

Part 2 (Part 1 is on my photography blog and is more photo, less lyrical essay)

Stepping onto the Hawthorn Bridge a subtle new reality slowly takes over my awareness. I smell a sentient mix of metal and river. The roadway sings as each car passes. The elegant superstructure latticesses light and oncoming traffic. A soft breeze carrying sun or rain, but always tinted with moisture, caresses my exposed skin. Whizzing bikers pass on my left while tourists lean against the railing and gaze at the river. I feel my identity drift away and a new definition of time and place take over.

My favorite part is when the span lifts as it has been doing for 100 years. First, off in the distance, there is an air horn blast from an approaching boat, usually a tugboat pushing a barge. Then spinning warning lights blink red and a barely tolerable, high-pitched sound repeats. A voice, magnified by loud speakers, says “all pedestrians clear the span and stand behind the white line.” Preceded by a loud bang the span unhitches from the deck and rises. Finally, the barge goes under the bridge and then I see the pilothouse of the tugboat float across the deck, pilots diligently staring forward, shadowed by the span.

Tugboat pilothouse moves under the span
(photo copyright 2010 Aaron Schultz)

But that’s not all. As the powerful engine-wash from the back of the tugboat comes into view and the warning sound continues to chirp, the voice now repeats, “stand clear of the rising gates and behind the white line!” It is always calm and insistent, almost comforting but in total command. Even though I haven’t moved during this production I always double-check my distance to the white line. The bridge shutters softly and the span begins to lower, stopping two feet above the deck so the operator can make sure everything is lined up correctly. Then with a shutter and a bang the bridge reunites. The chirping stops, the gate raise and everybody breaks forward, their business no longer on hold.

At first I thought the voice was a recording, but one day a man ignored the voice and the warning sound and continued to stand in the middle of the span. The voice changed from polite but insistent to annoyed and urgent. As the barge bellowed it’s air horn again and bored towards the Hawthorn Bridge I realized a computer couldn’t change tone like that and somebody actually inhabited the old operators cabin above the bridge. Finally, a lady ran to the middle of the span and tapped the man on the shoulder. Maybe he forgot his hearing aide when he packed for vacation.

The Hawthorn Bridge exists in a reality all it’s own. As I travel across it I feel I am transitioning between worlds and suspended in time. The murky water of the Willamette flows below me, the sky arches above me and Mt Hood gazes from far away while the neighborhoods murmur at my back and the downtown beckons. Surrounding me with its song, smell and gentle swaying, the Hawthorn Bridge makes me want to forget my hearing aide and stare forever at the stream of time.

(Please check out part 1.)

Sunset over the Hawthorn Bridge and downtown Portland
(photo copyright 2010 Aaron Schultz)

Three Weeks in Portland

It seems… not quit real yet.

Everyday we consciously navigate our way through unfamiliar terrain. The effort needed to move effectively burns extra calories. For a place to feel like home I guess it takes routine and comfort generated by familiarity. It takes an ability to move through ones surroundings half aware of them.

There also needs to be some type of connection with an area’s theme or feeling. Like the weather, street names, neighbors or friends, the familiar smile of the checkout girl at the supermarket, avoidance of the same pothole everyday as one makes a right hand turn onto a main artery of the city.

Weather is the best way to develop a connection. This connection can be a conversation between two strangers standing in a coffee line or being in tune with the seasonal weather patterns of a place. As an immigrant to a new city I am building, through daily experience, a time-lapse of local weather patterns. It will take at least four seasons. My body’s seasonal clock is used to a colder and dryer mountain climate. All week it’s been 65 degrees and rainy so, despite what the calendar tells me, I can’t quit feel out what season it should be.

Also, the texture of the air is different here. I can’t quit put my finger on why yet. It seems thick, bulky and persistent. Could be the humidity. Could also be the millions of people thinking, breathing and moving as each one navigates their individual mythos.

The texture of life is different here. In any direction we drive constantly through city. For most of my life I’ve lived in places where I could drive ten minutes and be in the country. Fields and fences line the two-lane road as it contours the mountains’ toes, dipping in and out of draws, cricks and drainages. Here, in the city, we drive on a grid made from overlapping rulers, hemmed in by giant vinyl and felt erasers, zipping along at whatever speed the traffic wants.

Last Wednesday we hiked a nature preserve located within Portland. It is an extinct volcano, one of many in this area. At the top we could see for miles and it was great to see beyond the next stoplight. But everywhere there were houses and power lines and streets crawling through the trees and up the sides of other extinct volcanoes.

I think that’s when it really began its seepage; the idea and the understanding that we are in a new area, in the city. It’ll be a slow and steady seepage, but one day, without me even knowing it, I’ll comprehend that this is my home.