Minding the Gap: the Future of the Burnside Bridge
Creative Non Fiction by Anita Macauley & Photography by Goldandfaceted
Bridge City
In late summer 1999, we moved into an apartment complex wedged between the Willamette River and Union Station in downtown Portland. It was a gritty bit of land on the west bank of the river, with a tiny dock near a stretch of polluted sand just north of the Steel Bridge. It was a weird time to be living in downtown Portland, and it was a weird address. It was not an upscale neighborhood. In fact, it wasn’t really a neighborhood at all, just a strip of apartments along the riverbank. Technically a part of the River District, it was cut off from the other residential areas by railroad tracks. Our neighbors were bank tellers and receptionists and new graduates like us. The building, constructed in the early 1980s, had pressed wood kitchen cabinets and beige carpet. Its one luxury was a pocket door that could be pulled closed over our bedroom window to dull the sound of the Amtrak and Union Pacific trains rolling past.
We moved there because we felt it brought us closer to the things we found interesting about Portland at that time—shows at Berbati’s Pan, drinks at Shanghai Tunnel, morning runs in Waterfront Park, Saturday Market. We didn’t realize we were moving into a construction zone, or that over the next few years our choice of neighborhood would give us a front row seat to the construction of the northern end of the city.
One winter evening, while on a dog walk, we happened upon the recently dismantled Lovejoy Columns stacked in the rail yard adjacent to Naito Parkway. Anyone who has lived in Portland for a while knows the Lovejoy Columns have attained near urban legend status. In the late 1940s bored train watchman Tom Stefopoulos decided to use the pausing trains as a perch from which to paint bright images; chalk-white owls, trees, and Greek philosophers. The soot-blackened underside of the Lovejoy Viaduct made a perfect canvas for his copperplate, calligrapher style. The resulting effect was a sort of DIY cathedral populated by mythical characters. The underside of the Lovejoy Viaduct has been memorialized in pop culture history. You can still catch a glimpse of how the columns looked in an Elliott Smith video (“Lucky Three”), or the beginning of the movie Drugstore Cowboy. Although there were many efforts to preserve the columns, only remnants were saved; you can view them at Elizabeth Plaza on NW 10th Avenue in the Pearl District. As poetic as the columns were, Lovejoy Viaduct was problematic for developers because it was standing in the way of buildable land just north of the city center—the area we now know as the northernmost end of the Pearl District.
During those months after the Viaduct came down, we would take long walks through this construction zone, as condos sprung up seemingly overnight. What used to be empty rail yard was now covered with new sidewalks and green parking meters. We were captivated by the new Portland that was materializing around us. We read in the papers that the developers had modeled the Pearl’s condos after the five-story Haussmannian style buildings in Paris; a city that was rebuilt on top of its razed medieval predecessor. After work we would go for walks to look at these new buildings, watching as blocks and courtyards formed and streetlights were installed and turned on. Watching the flurry of it all being built so quickly made an impression; it threw everything about Portland as we knew it into stark relief. The places we frequented suddenly appeared gritty and (literally) covered in a patina; regular everyday Portland shopfronts with wood-paned windows now quaint. Everything seemed to grow a layer of moss overnight. And with this new perspective we seemed to be able to appreciate the historic Portland even better. We marveled as each new building went up; awed not by the architecture—but because we felt we were witnessing something from its beginning.
The Steel Bridge
One of my favorite moments in the Steel Bridge’s cultural history was the time Phoenix (an indie synth-rock band from Versailles, France) chose the Steel Bridge bike path as a location for a promotional video, the four band members cycling across during cherry blossom season on a beautiful sunny day in March 2013. In the video, the band pedals under the delicate pink blossoms of the adjacent Waterfront Park and the camera follows as they enter the bike path on the lower deck of the Steel Bridge.
Watching this scene gave me a new appreciation for the bridge; I could see it through a visitor’s eyes for what it was—an urban planning triumph—a draw for visitors and a river crossing connected so seamlessly to the adjacent Waterfront Park it requires barely any pedaling. It is arguably one of the best biking experiences to be had in our city. When you bike across the Steel on the lower deck, there is a feeling of gliding barely above water. Arriving on the eastside, you shoot out onto the Eastbank promenade into a panorama of downtown Portland cityscape and watery reflections, as if you’ve entered an urban watercolor painting. As you pedal south on the Eastbank, downtown comes into full view, tucked behind the pink-blossomed cloak of the Waterfront Park. The bike path was added to the lower deck of the Steel Bridge in 2001. But during the time we lived next to the Steel, there was no pedestrian bridge on the lower deck for foot traffic or bikes. There were only lonely freight trains and the occasional Amtrak. Living next to the Steel Bridge was to appreciate the hub of activity it represented and to consider its working quality. It was designed to allow cargo ships to pass under its central span; to carry train, car, streetcar, bike, and foot traffic. The Oregonian has called it “the hardest working” bridge of the Willamette.
If you have never spent time in proximity to bridges, or you’re just in the habit of using them to get somewhere else, it can be shocking to see steel and concrete suddenly churn into motion. During the three years we lived in that riverside apartment, we had a front-seat view to the workings of the Steel Bridge. We watched as river traffic moved up and down the Willamette, triggering bridge openings for the larger vessels. A loud bell would clang several times to alert foot and auto traffic of an impending lift. Then a continuous high-pitched bell sounded as the street was closed. We could watch from our deck as the center span rose while the two 800-to-900-ton counterweights, connected via cables, slowly lowered to just above street level. It was like living next to a giant steel creature with an impeccably hinged mechanical jaw. Fully raised, it allows enough clearance for cargo ships to pass—165 feet in total. It loomed over our apartment, blackening the sky when raised and creating a squared aperture through which you could imagine what a bridgeless Willamette River might have looked like. Then, with a dull rumble, the deck of the upper bridge would lumber back into place.
There were the days where the bridge played tricks on us; we would wake to see the bottom of the Steel Bridge completely obscured by fog; then, minutes later, like a magic trick, the sun would burn through and the bridge would slowly come back into the visible world.
Ghost Bridges of the Willamette
When you’re young, you tend to think of the built environment as immutable. Bridges stay put. In most people’s collective memory (those born after the mid 1970s, at least) the bridges we know today have always existed. The Fremont Bridge, built in 1973, is the youngest of the seven bridges visible from the city center that cross the Willamette. The Sellwood Bridge was replaced in 2015, but of the bridges visible from the city center that cross the Willamette, there have been no major demolitions since the 1905 Morrison was replaced in 1958.
A longer view of history reveals bridges that existed before the nine bridges that now cross the Willamette River near the city center; they were made of less durable materials and degraded or were consumed by fires. There are historic photos of the Willamette River that are like puzzles—multiple spans of historic bridges that no longer exist can be seen layered on top of each other. The first incarnation of the Steel Bridge, constructed in 1888 in nearly the same location as the current bridge, was built to accommodate foot and horse-drawn streetcars on top, and train traffic below. The Morrison Bridge, the first bridge across the Willamette, started out as a wood swing span structure in 1887 and was replaced twice—once in 1905 and once in 1958. You can find photos online of the 1905 Morrison next to the 1958 Morrison before the older bridge was eventually demolished.
When you consider that the first five bridges built in Portland, between the years 1887 (Morrison, of iron and wood) and 1894 (the original Burnside, built from wrought iron and steel) are no longer in existence, you can appreciate that while we live in a city where much of the built structures of Victoriana still endure, there are a lot of ghosts here too. Among these ghost bridges were the swing bridges, built with a center span that swung out like a fence door, to accommodate large ships. If you want to see a cool depiction of these swing span bridges, you can go to a bar called Solo Club in Slabtown with a wall mural titled “Portland, Oregon and Surroundings, 1890” that depicts the Steel, Burnside, and Morrison bridges in their swing span eras; in 1890, the Hawthorne Bridge hadn’t been built yet. Swing span designs were constructed on a central pier, which essentially halved the size of the river. For these reasons, the swing span design gave way to the more modern lift and bascule types we see today.
In the comments section on the Vintage Portland website, people say that you can use Google Maps to see the historic pier footings of the original 1888 Steel Bridge, which still exist, underwater. It’s interesting to think of bridges—seemingly durable parts of our everyday lives, as ephemera.
The Burnside
In Spring of 2024, Burnside Bridge is a bit of a forgotten place, cycling-wise. The bike lane is separated from the traffic lanes by a rickety row of plastic delineators; and once you’re in the lane, you can’t easily stop to check out the sights; you’d need to pick up your bike and step up onto the sidewalk. The bike lanes are still covered in gravel from the past winter’s storms; the freeway is loud, and even without the recent street race takeovers, it’s one of the more precarious bridges to cycle over. The bridge’s only connectivity to the Eastbank Esplanade is via a scary four-flight staircase that is rarely used. The metal staircase on the west side leading down to NW First Avenue is not ideally located either. Even in daylight hours, the staircase is heavily shaded by the buildings and the bridge itself. Although a useful shortcut to quickly access Old Town-Chinatown, carrying a bike up or down these stairs is difficult.
The derelict feeling of crossing the Burnside by bike is also reflected in the statistics for cycling from the previous year. Portland Bureau of Transportation’s recently released 2023 Portland Bicycle Counts report shows bike counts “slightly increased from 2022 levels but still down substantially compared to pre-pandemic years.” But the Burnside Bridge, despite its problems, is still a place that draws people. On an April evening this year, I biked down to the bridge to see if I could catch the sunset. I noticed a group of kids on scooters, pausing to have their photos taken. It is the crossing that divides the city into four quadrants, and it serves as one of the most iconic vantage points to view the neon Portland, Oregon sign presiding from atop the historic White Stag block in Old Town. The centrality of the 1,382-foot-long structure is such that every plane of it is culturally significant; The underside of the Burnside Bridge has served as the home of the Saturday Market since the 1970s, and on the West side, historic districts hug either side of the bridge (Old Town-Chinatown and the Japanese American Historical Plaza).
The bridge has played a central role in the history of our city. According to a presentation put together by a team examining the aesthetic qualities of the Burnside, the 1926 bridge we know today was originally envisioned for streetcars, and in its nearly 100 years of existence, has witnessed numerous significant cultural events starting with union strikes in the 1930s and most recently, the “die-in” of 2020 to protest George Floyd’s murder.
Both ends of the Burnside Bridge have played an important role in forming Portland’s 1990s DIY culture. At its east end, a mural on the building that housed the former Disjecta arts center, reads “Long Live the Wildcards, Misfits, & Dabblers” in stark black and white block font. Underneath the east end of the Burnside is the Burnside Skatepark, funded and built by skaters in 1990. At the west end of the Burnside, is the historic location of X-Ray Café, an all-ages club that existed from 1990-1994. As one of the narrators in a video created about the Café notes, “The X-Ray was physically as close to the geographical apex of the city as you could get, i.e., it was the closest building to the middle of the Burnside Bridge, which is where east meets west and south meets north in the river.” The X-Ray Café was important because it not only provided an easily accessible gathering spot for young people to experience DIY music and homegrown art; it also was enough of a presence that it actually displaced crime plaguing that part of downtown. In the documentary on the club, one of the owners notes how the club kids would go out into the street with a clown wig and a megaphone and bark at loiterers to move to the other side of the street.
I’ve always thought the Burnside’s design elements were kind of a random pastiche. Bridges, designed by engineers, can be functionally beautiful, their every element a useful part of the design and also beautiful in their own right. The Burnside always seemed like the antithesis of this; it is squat and has the feeling of a freeway with fancy railings. In 1926, when the Burnside was completed, the City Beautiful movement was in full swing. This urban planning trend’s hallmark was to borrow design details from European-style buildings, which may explain the Burnside’s two different kinds of railings (cement on the outer spans and wrought iron in the middle) and its Italian-style towers. Looking more closely at the ornamental wrought iron railings, I notice that the pattern is of a square with an X in the center. Standing in the middle of the Burnside Bridge, you can’t help but feel as though you are at the center of something; a middle coordinate. It makes me think of the medieval churches I studied in college art history, designed on a spiritual axis, with the nave facing east and doors facing west. These kinds of details make me second guess my assessment of the Burnside’s design a little. I wonder how far we’ve come since City Beautiful, and whether, in contemplating a new design for the Burnside, we can honor what has been while transcending it.
Other Crossings
On the cover of the album by the 1980s Scottish new wave band Altered Images (known best for the poppy hit “Happy Birthday”) you see the band having a party on a small floating dock; in the background, two historic-looking bridges seem to layer one on top of the other. If you are prone to internet rabbit holes, you would learn the photo was taken between George V Bridge and the Second Caledonian Railway Bridge over the River Clyde in Glasgow. The First Caledonian Railway Bridge was originally constructed in 1879 and replaced in 1967; except that, curiously, the bridge piers of the more historic bridge were left intact, so that today, the new 1967 bridge coexists with the 1879 piers next to it. In addition to serving as a backdrop for new wave band album covers, the bridge and piers, artifacts of the 1879 structure, serve as a reminder of the historical crossing. In the 1980s, these piers were covered with Greek inscriptions and took on a new life as public art. Murals cover the street side views of the Second Caledonian Railway Bridge so that the whole area feels like a pleasing jumble—of new and old, and art on top of history.
Glasgow, Scotland, like Portland, Oregon is a city of bridges—16 bridges cover its River Clyde. One of them, the Albert Bridge, constructed in 1871, has riveted lower arches painted an olive green that recall the surrounding foliage. Its upper deck is ornamented with wrought iron streetlamps, and its piers feature medallions of the bust of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. In 2016, the bridge was restored, and a peeling iron coat of arms bearing the inscription “Let Glasgow Flourish” was repainted in striking colors. Another well-loved Glasgowian bridge, the Tradeston Bridge (nicknamed the Squiggly Bridge) was constructed in 2009. The Squiggly Bridge, so named because it cants upward in a curved shape to give room for ships to pass underneath, is a pedestrian-only bridge and was built partly to revitalize the Tradeston district by connecting it with a financial district.
Paris is another city of bridges. There are 37 bridges crossing the Seine, with no less than six pedestrian bridges, or “passerelles.” The Passerelle Simone-de-Beauvoir, constructed in 2006, is one of its most modern. Constructed by the Eiffel Company (a descendant of the same firm who built the Eiffel Tower) the bridge is a trippy lens-shaped structure with upper and lower decks, multiple perspective points from which to view Paris’s landmarks, and a central space for events to be held. It connects the National Library and the Parc de Bercy district on the right bank. Another of Paris’s bridges, the Pont des Arts (the famous “love locks” bridge) was originally constructed in 1804. It is one of Paris’s most beautiful. Designed to resemble a hanging garden, it is a beloved crossing with trees and park benches and places to sit and eat a leisurely lunch. Artists and musicians can perform on this bridge in the summer.
It strikes me that although the surface design details of these structures are important, more interesting is the way a bridge allows you an opportunity for connection. Adam Gopnik, in his book about living in Paris, muses while crossing the Pont des Arts: “What truly makes Paris beautiful is the intermingling of the monumental and the personal, the abstract and the footsore particular; it and you. A city of vast and impersonal set-piece architecture, it is also a city of small and intricate, improvised experience.” I think that’s what makes the Altered Images album cover so special. It personifies exactly what Gopnik describes; it’s the small and human set against the large and communal. It is an image that captures a highly personal—and joyful—moment against an imperfect yet richly layered historical setting. It feels improvised, but that’s what makes it a place worthy of an album cover, instead of just another anywhere.
A Burnside Reimagined
The Burnside Bridge is now in the process of its own disappearing act. As part of the preparations for an earthquake-ready structure, the county will fully replace the Burnside beginning in 2027, with an expected completion in 2031. As problematic as the Burnside in its current form is for cyclists and pedestrians, I feel a kind of impending loss knowing that it will soon be replaced. I spent my early twenties walking home from work over this bridge. There is the 26-year-old me who found $40 on the stairs leading from the Burnside down to First Avenue. There is 49-year-old me, now carless after a traumatizing car accident in 2021, biking to Powell’s from my house on the east side. The brutalism of car culture is amplified now that I ride my bike everywhere; pedaling to visit friends downtown or heading back home after an evening at a reading or a show. Burnside used to be a straight shot from my old apartment to inner east side venues like La Luna and later, Doug Fir, and it is still the quickest route to get from my house on the eastside to downtown.
In a city that consists mainly of a flat grid of neighborhoods hidden under tree canopies, cycling onto the Burnside gives a feeling that you are crossing into a clearing; a place where water and sky and mountains are visible all at once; where you can see things in the foreground and in the far distance at the same time. I can stop and look at the morning light hitting Big Pink. I can remind myself how many incarnations of the neon Portland, Oregon sign I’ve lived through (three). I can remember how Elliott Smith used to like walking across Portland’s bridges after nights out with friends. I can smile at the fake little towers, imagining the kind of people who planned them. I still find the middle of the Burnside Bridge the best place in the city to pause, look at the West Hills, and all of the city’s landmarks and crossings at once. And when I look north, in my mind’s eye, beyond the Steel, the Broadway, and the Fremont, I can see my high school years in Tacoma, or further into my past: childhood, in Southeast Alaska. And by simply turning around, I can look south, and see the Morrison, Hawthorne, and Tilikum Crossing, and see my years spent as a college student at U of O. Something about the unique way the light hits and calls up memories; standing there, you feel connected to something; a citizen in a place. You can see things from the Burnside. And that feels significant, and something that shouldn’t be lost.
The design phase of the new Burnside began in January 2024 and will run through early 2026. An FAQ published by the county states that “In summer 2024, the project team will ask the public for input on a range of bridge type/form options. In early-mid 2025, the project team will seek public input on additional bridge aesthetic features.” In a KGW news article published in November 2023, one of the design phase project managers acknowledges the importance the design will have for Portlanders, saying: “This bridge is located in the geographic center of Portland. It is on display to everyone who travels to this region.” The journalist goes on: “But that doesn’t mean it’s going to be an art project; the bridge suffered a funding setback with the failure of a Metro transportation ballot measure, and the county made some high-level design changes in 2021 to trim the cost from more than $1 billion down to its current level.” Multnomah County’s current estimated budget is $895 million for a four-lane bridge.
It’s interesting that those reporting on the aesthetics of the new Burnside seem to already be bracing for an argument from Portlanders about what the future of the Burnside will look like. There has been a rich discussion among the cycling community of the concept of ramps leading to and from a new Burnside, in lieu of less desirable elevators or less accessible staircases. The spiral ramp leading from the Morrison Bridge is cited as a possible concept that could be replicated. What’s clear is that the city’s residents—its cyclists and pedestrians and anyone with an interest in how they will use the future bridge—hold a collective power to weigh in, not only on what the new bridge railings will look like, but on functional aspects of the structure itself.
I like to imagine what kind of design details Portlanders would impart upon their new Burnside Bridge if they were engaged with the design process. We have an opportunity, during the ongoing public input phase, to decide what it looks like. If you look at the current schematics of the replacement Burnside Bridge, shown online, you see austere gray concrete without ornamentation, something akin to the 1950s-era Morrison Bridge (the Portland bridge that most resembles a freeway overpass). There is much discussion about the width of the to-be-built Burnside Bridge, and how much room should be allowed for foot and bike traffic. With cycling numbers stagnant, the planning of the bridge could resort to cynicism if planners use the recent past as the prediction of future desire to bike the new Burnside. Right now, the preferred design plan shows a space about 14 feet wide on either side of the Burnside for bikes and pedestrians to share, separated by something transportation planners call a crash barrier. Grade separation is an important feature for bike commuting safety (separation from traffic is always preferable to no separation).
But the conversation feels like an afterthought more than a dedicated conversation about how encouraging more pedestrians and cyclists on the bridge can contribute to the cultural and artistic fabric of our city. There has been no discussion of the sightlines that can only be accessed while standing or cycling—not driving—on the Burnside Bridge. There has been no exploration of what it sounds like, or what it feels like, or how it could be made more enjoyable—for people, and not cars. While the public has been invited to weigh in on “design details,” this loses sight of the fact that we deserve not only a safe new Burnside, but a Burnside that retains and amplifies the best of the sensory experiences we already know exist in this unique crossing at the center of our city.
What’s clear is, whatever we decide collectively, the Burnside’s new design will reflect what our values are. If Glasgow kept the piers of its historic railway bridge, what might we retain, if anything, of our 1926 Burnside? I think of the Burnside Skatepark, dubbed “anarchy in action” by the nonprofit that now supports it, originally funded and built by skaters without permission and endured for roughly 33 years, and wonder how the spirit of that place will be remembered. I think of the 360 Douglas Fir trees pounded into the bedrock of the river as part of the supporting pier structures, and wonder how these will figure in the story of the new Burnside and how that story will be shaped. Will we want a bridge deck we can easily walk across to get to venues that are important to us? Will the new bridge deck be appropriate to sit or lie down on, if Portlanders need to demonstrate again, as they did in 2020?
No one disputes that a new Burnside Bridge is necessary. The Burnside is a main emergency route. In 2017, The Oregonian shared a video created by Multnomah County that shows a simulation of what the Burnside would look like during an 8.0 magnitude earthquake: the unreinforced concrete collapsing over the west end where the MAX runs; and on the east side, the two bascule pieces of the bridge falling into the river and impeding shipping routes. The video is terrifying, and it does a good job of showing a worst-case scenario.
But the current designs we are being shown fall short in a big way. The conversation about earthquake readiness is unquestionably important, but the designs we are being shown lack a certain kind of input, something that Portlanders know how to do intuitively: use their creative ingenuity to remake something old into something better than it was before.
What hasn’t been explored or adequately discussed—yet—is the potential for the repurposing of the existing Burnside Bridge piers—either as historical artwork or as a functional part of a car-free pedestrian and bike-only crossing. If only bikes and pedestrians were to use this repurposed bridge, it could be rebuilt much lighter, and have much better connectivity to the Eastbank Esplanade.
An accessible pedestrian and bike-only path as a major component of a new Burnside Bridge, which could still carry the emergency responders and car traffic, is something we should advocate for. If you find this idea outlandish, consider how many pedestrian-only bridges have been built in the last few years to bridge the gaps in our bike and pedestrian routes. There’s Tilikum Crossing (2015), the Ned Flanders Crossing over I-205 (2021), and our youngest bridge, spanning I-84, the Blumenauer Bridge (2022). We are already a city that minds its gaps; we need to apply this creativity to the design of the new Burnside that incorporates a pedestrian and bike crossing as a major component of its design and not as an afterthought.
If the Steel could have a bike path added to its lower deck years after its original construction, there is no reason the new Burnside’s design shouldn’t include a separate, pedestrian and bike-only space from its inception. Imagine a double-decker Burnside Bridge, where people use the lower level, like the Steel’s bike path? Or a bridge where people and bikes get the top level, and cars are confined to a completely separate road underneath? Or, a Burnside with long bike and ped-only approaches, paths that diverge from the vehicle lanes, wing out over the water, via a lightweight structure that doesn’t need to carry the weight of vehicles? Or, a separate floating pedestrian path, similar to the Eastbank Esplanade, that opens up like an old-style swing span? If we do not engage, we will likely get a bridge that is no more than what we require: a crossing less prone to earthquakes with cars as its main focus.
What we do not want is a bridge that doesn’t serve us. City Beautiful, the planning movement that brought us the Burnside’s quaint turrets, has been criticized for applying “pretty” design details somewhat haphazardly. What we don’t want for the new Burnside is a structure that people don’t really connect with. Absent participation in the planning process by its citizens, the new Burnside will become the Morrison Bridge’s 2024 twin—a freeway-esque structure with some “prettified” details. When I think about a “new” Burnside Bridge, I can visualize its potential. The task ahead could be fun—harnessing the collective imagination of the citizens of Portland—particularly its creative communities, who also happen to frequently be cyclists, to achieve a more functional and aesthetically pleasing Burnside.
We all stand to benefit from a pedestrian and bike-forward Burnside. Getting this from vision to reality will require funding and engineering solutions, but more than that, it requires public will. I have faith in the DIY culture of this city. We’ve been repurposing things for decades. There’s always a gap between a vision and reality. Tom Stefopoulos, when he stepped between the rail cars to better bridge the distance from his paintbrush to the upper arches of the Lovejoy Viaduct, added to Portland’s mythology with his own artistic vision, bringing it into our reality. If we step up to participate in the planning process as a city, we could collectively remake the Burnside Bridge into something we can be proud of, something that serves us all.
