Tag Archives: Public Art

Walkway Over the Hudson

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I don’t remember how I first heard about the Walkway Over the Hudson, but it was several years before I developed the habit of walking bridges. Even at that time it sounded like a cool place to check out. Once I became a bridge-walker, it became a must-experience site. Over a decade later, I finally walked the Walkway Over the Hudson.

The Walkway Over the Hudson crosses the Hudson River at Poughkeepsie, NY. It opened in 1889 as a railroad bridge. It closed in 1974 after being damaged by fire and reopened as a renovated pedestrian bridge in 2009. It is both a National Historic Civil Engineering Landmark and on the National Register of Historic Places. At 1.28 miles it claims to be the longest pedestrian bridge in the world.

It is also 212 feet above ground or river level. In discussing my experience of climbing to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, I glossed over the fact that I almost didn’t reach the top due to my discomfort with heights and instead focused on the fact that claustrophobia almost prevented me from coming back down. Proportions and railing heights have a significant impact on whether I can manage heights. The Whispering Walk inside the base of the dome in St. Paul’s was too narrow and enclosed for me to handle the height above the floor (98 feet). The Walkway Over the Hudson, on the other hand, was quite wide having once carried two railroad tracks side-by-side. And so despite being more than twice as high up as the Whispering Walk, I did not experience much trouble with the height. I was more concerned about the possibility of the wind tearing my phone/camera out of my hand and over the edge.

Despite the potential damage that objects falling off the side of the bridge could cause, extra high barriers to prevent that are only located over the railroad tracks. As I’ve discussed in previous posts, some bridges have extra fencing only along portions of their walkways, typically over railroads and sometimes over automobile roads. The extra fencing on the Walkway Over the Hudson is from a time after it was common to curve the top, creating a cage-like feel, but before the need for extra height was incorporated into the design of the bridge itself.

There is no shade on a deck-truss bridge 212 feet off the ground. On a hot, July day, you feel the full force of the sun when taking such an exposed 1.28 mile walk starting at 11:30. If I hadn’t discovered that there was another bridge that I could walk across, I probably would have opted to take the shuttle back.

Leap Frog 6

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LeapFrog! was a fundraiser in Erie, PA, in 2004. While in 2023, I was prepared to use Amy H.’s map to find more of Erie’s frogs, I found this one in a classic case of driving along to a specific destination and suddenly spotting a frog. “The Big Blue Frog (I’m in Love With)” by Abigaile Brace was sponsored by St. Joseph Apartments, HANDS, and it still sits on their lawn.

Leap Frog 5

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LeapFrog! was a fundraiser in Erie, PA, in 2004. This “Literary Leaper” by Nancy Hall caught my eye in 2012 (above). When I went back in 2023, it had been repainted (below) and is now know as “Accentuate the Positive.” In both visits, it was outside the public library connected to the Maritime Museum. I think I found it in 2012 on my way to the bus station across the street. In 2023, I rediscovered it thanks to Amy H.’s map.

Chicago Waterfront III

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I’ve had multiple aborted experiences in Chicago. In 2013, I aborted an attempt to bike to the 1893 World’s Fair site. In 2019, I aborted an attempt to reach the waterfront. But during the eventually aborted bike ride, I experienced several miles of interesting waterfront. I don’t recall how I got to and from the waterfront for the bike ride as Chicago has the classic US urban problem of using highways to divide the waterfront from the rest of city. Once I was on the waterside, I enjoyed a variety of natural, architectural, and sculptural sights. I even unknowingly captured the remaining buildings from Chicago’s other World’s Fair (post pending).

Chicago Dangos

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Chicago is one of the US cities with perhaps the most well-known art parade fundraisers, though I’ve only found a few of the sculptures after the fact (two cows, a dog, and a dog). Jun Kaneko’s temporary installation of Dangos caught my eye in 2013 as a similar kind of artwork, but one that I didn’t have to go hunting down each individual piece.

San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts

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As a child, I was a fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder (author and heroine of the Little House on the Prairie series). I read all of her books, biographies about her, the books about her daughter, and as they began to be released the books about her mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. I also researched her family tree and found her ancestors back to the time of Henry VIII.

I no longer remember the exact order of events. When I was 12 (almost on my birthday), we moved to California. Either before or after that event, I read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s book West from Home, which are letters to her husband written on a visit to her daughter, a reporter in San Francisco, in 1915. Because Laura had visited the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition (World’s Fair) in San Francisco, I wanted to go visit what was left of it. I never got the chance while I lived in California. Years later, I finally got there.

Sitting by the lagoon of the Palace of Fine Arts was very peaceful, with the small fountain splashing and birds chirping and cawing. As I sat there enjoying the scene, there was a moment when I could almost picture Laura Ingalls Wilder and other women of the 1910s in their multi-layer dresses, hats or bonnets, and gloves strolling past in a promenade and gazing with wonder at the sights around them.

The Palace of Fine Arts was of a scale to inspire awe and intimidation. It was far more massive and taller than I had imagined. Walking underneath the rotunda, I felt insignificant. Are such large structures built to show us the insignificance of humanity? And yet, they are designed and constructed by humans, which means we create what makes us feel our own insignificance.