Skagit County’s derelict barns

The Skagit Valley is one of the most important agricultural areas in the United States. It’s also just an hour’s drive from the Seattle area, and a wonderful place to find (among other things) derelict barns.

Abandoned barn

It is said that half of the spinach, beet and cabbage seeds used in the country are grown in the valley. Skagit farms grow over $300 million of crops, livestock, and dairy products on just 100,000 acres of land.

Abandoned barn

The Skagit was settled by European Americans in the second half of the 19th century, after some fifty years of occasional exploration due to the fur trade. The settlement process itself was relatively peaceful, with relatively few instances of violence between natives and whites. However, the newcomers came accompanied by silent killers. The Skagit tribes were decimated by smallpox in the late 19th century, largely settling any further question of land ownership.

Abandoned barn interior

Today, the Skagit River delta is lush expansive farmland, with only small patches of forest. In the 19th century, however, the same area was a classic river delta: mud flats, salt marshes and patches of dense forest. The transformation of the land was largely achieved by hand.

Abandoned barn windowAbandoned farmhouse interior

During the settlement days, each pioneer was responsible for staking his claim over an area of marsh, then painstakingly building dikes around that land. This was pure backbreaking labor, without the benefit of machinery: just a man, his shovel, and his wheelbarrow at low tide.

Abandoned farmhouse interior

Today the delta remains a floodplain, but now both forks of the Skagit river itself have been diked. Flooding is an occasional problem,but so far the land reclamation gamble has been paying off for the Skagit farmers. The resulting land, of course, has been incredibly productive, as river delta soil often is.

Abandoned barn roof

In addition to farming, logging, mining and railroad construction also drew laborers and settlers to the nascent Skagit towns. Not every town was successful, however. Driven largely by bribery, the railroad routes determined to a large extent where the larger population centers would develop.

Abandoned farmhouse roof

In many cases, settlements were fueled only by imagination. On Samish Island, the town of Atlanta was founded by a Confederate veteran, designed as a "sanctuary of persecuted Confederates and other sympathizers with the lost cause." Next to Atlanta, a Unionist founded Samish, and the two towns rivaled each other in various economic endeavors to the point of violence.

Samish Island today is a sleepy little hamlet with little visible trace of this not entirely ancient feud.

Abandoned truck and pipe

In the early pioneer days, one of the greatest challenges of life was finding a wife. The Skagit was no exception, and those pillars of pioneer life, the whorehouse and the mail-order bride, were no strangers to the valley.

Derelict barnDerelict barn

The original Washington Territory prohibited interracial marriages between whites and natives. However, this did not prevent many settlers from marrying native women in native ceremonies. As white women gradually colonized the Skagit, not all of these arrangements ended well. When Washington was incorporated as a state in 1889, interracial marriages were grandfathered into legality, but only after requiring that they be legally formalized before the authority of the state.

Derelict barn

As the story goes, one settler refused to engage in the second ceremony, due to concerns that his children would be seen as illegitimate. He was indicted for this small act of resistance, although later acquitted.

Derelict barn

For the casual visitor, the Skagit looks first plain. Strip malls, casinos and outlet stores along I5 paint a garish picture of the area, as do the numerous alpaca-related lures. The highway is a source of entrappable Canadians and Seattleites, and the drive is long. So while not pleasant, the driveby shooting of commerce is understandable.

Derelict barn

Once off the highway, however, perceptions shift. The more ludicrous appeals to your attention disappear, and the county settles down to the business of exploiting the land in a thousand different ways.

While the derelict barns call out to lens and eye alike, they are not symptoms of decay but exceptions. Instead, the tulip farms, farmers markets and weekend homes add up to a rural America that’s less desperate than optimistic. While ultimately fueled by unsustainable green revolution agriculture and tourist wealth from surrounding urban islands, the Skagit is generally a prosperous and peaceful place.

Even the tribes are doing reasonably well. After surviving a smallpox epidemic, a century of white settlement and a pair of toxic Shell Oil refineries, they continue to occupy their 1855 reservation lands. The Swinomish population has grown past 900, and their casino has been highly successful. In fact, they seem to be an entirely enterprising bunch.

Derelict barnDerelict barn

The complete Flickr set.

(And thanks to the Skagit River Journal for much of the content discussed above.)

BNSF Train Bridge over I-90

Drive from Seattle past the suburban blight of Mercer Island into the savage wastelands of the Eastside.  Drive from Issaquah or farther east towards the urban hell-hole across the big water.

Either way, you’ll find yourself approaching the place where I-90 and I-405 meet, right next to Bellevue’s Mercer Slough.  You’ll enter a landscape of parking lots and shopping malls known as Eastgate.  You might even see Enatai Beach Park beneath you, as you speed through the wilderness at 70mph.

What you won’t see is an unassuming train bridge, one of many overpasses and underpasses crisscrossing the mighty I-90 in this area.  It’s just an ordinary piece of rusted BNSF metal, a thing hidden in plain sight among similar things.  You won’t see it.

Rust never sleepsHold the line

The only aspect of the bridge slightly out of place?  A touch of graffiti on the western side.  This is unusual in Bellevue, a city that makes of whitebread not just sandwiches but an entire lifestyle.  So if you’re unusually perceptive, you might see the word seared in white paint:  Emre.

Perhaps you’ll wonder what the nameless speaker of an ancient Turkic dialect found poetic about the setting, hanging off a train bridge at 3AM, spray paint can in hand.  Most likely you won’t care.

Night trainInto the distance

When the world began, to each trade and profession a special charge was given.  For photographers, it was a simple thing:  to notice the ordinary

To do this well, an alert gaze is required.  Often this will lead to nothing:  the veil of the world may remain securely in place, or further matryoshka shells of mediocrity may be found underneath.  But every now and then, a doppelgänger is unearthed.  Maya is Devi, but alas also Kali.

Then the alarm may be raised, the hatches battened down, the torches lit to ward away the dark.  And in this way, the photographer defends civilization from the other.

Abandoned train bridge over I-90

For this reason, we decided to examine the abandoned BNSF train bridge and, if possible, cross it on foot.  We climbed the embankment at SE 32nd St and walked along the tracks.  What we found was not quite ordinary.Abandoned train bridge over I-90

The train bridge is literally covered in graffiti.  Nothing so organized as a mural or structured composition, but many isolated instances of graffito, some overwriting others, covering walls that would otherwise have been a uniform rust red.

Abandoned paletteTetris

Spent spray cans litter the ground, rivaling broken beer bottles as the most common accent to the BNSF-laid gravel.

Canned art

No particular theme presents itself to the observer.  Instead, the painted walls exhibit many different messages, mixed by happenstance and accretion as one contributor built on the work of his predecessor.

It's the thought that counts

Another kind of fish

One can imagine the first graffiti artist venturing onto the bridge, perhaps decades ago.  He keeps a a wary eye out for passing trains, as he chooses a likely swathe of rusted sheet metal to begin his composition.

Abandoned train bridge over I-90

After that, the broken windows theory comes into full effect, or so the modern criminologist might observe.  Word of mouth travels quickly in the underground.  A legend is created, a place where paint can be sprayed without fear, condemnation or notice.  Spray cans are purchased, using false papers, pseudonyms and unmarked bills.  The vandals sally forth to sack Rome, or to leave a mark on the world – any mark.

Simultaneous concepts

And so the bridge undergoes a metamorphosis.  From pristine object of industrial function, slightly decrepit, to a site where the imagination literally runs wild.

Layers

One can envision frantic attempts to complete a night’s work, as the torchlight threat of rolling liquid metal death rolls towards the young artist at ever-increasing speeds.  And as the roar in their right brains matches the din in their ears, both streams finally climax into the only raison d’être anyone can possibly imagine:  to create, or die trying.

Eris and eros

Why this place, one might ask?  In all the Eastside, why did this insignificant train bridge become such a popular counter-cultural destination?

Abandoned train bridge over I-90

One reason is abandonment.  Despite the tracks being in beautiful condition, no trains have braved their way through this corridor since 2007 and usage was light for quite some time.  This bridge is on the same train line with the Wilburton Trestle, known as the Eastside railroad or, in BNSF parlance, the Woodinville Subdivision. After the demolition of the Wilburton Tunnel, the train line is no longer even intact.

So there has been no risk of encountering a train in close quarters for some time. Perhaps there never will be again.

Abandoned train bridge over I-90

But neglect alone is an insufficient explanation.  Unless graffiti, like rust, is to be understood merely as an agent of the second law of thermodynamics, its spray-painters merely automata in the grand old state machine that is the universe.  This might explain why not all of the writing would pass a Turing test of intelligibility.

Riveted, graffitied wallRiveted wall

But at its core, the train bridge is an example of a public space abandoned by the custodians of such spaces.  On the train bridge, the forces of entropy reacted by inviting in not only oxidation but a few intrepid souls who made it their own place.  A place that they cared about, in their own way.  A place where they were willing to invest their time and souls towards creating something unique.

Riveting

These days, too much of our civilization’s urban space has become limbo on Earth, a set of places we don’t care about.  Or care about just enough to provide the perfunctory, standardized, mass-produced kind of maintenance for which minimum wage is sufficient compensation.

Whether it’s the corner gas station, the parking lot next to the chain store, or the neighborhood street where it’s no longer safe for children to play, what we’ve seen is a continuous devaluing of our living space’s currency, a withdrawal of our interest in creating and interacting to the private sphere of our houses and yards – which have become miniature gated communities, Roman villas from which private cries of pleasure can occasionally be heard.

Railing

Protected by the bridge walls from observation, by BNSF’s budgets from erasure, the bridge has become a unique concept of what a public space might look like, an antidote to the antiseptic monotony and uniform aesthetic that our identical towns and cities have come to be.  A place where furtive bacchanals and the fertility symbols of gangs have become something more:  a kind of railroad chic that, given the right kind of focused madness that creates pop culture worldwide, might be mainstreamed into something your father might trendily appreciate.

Abandoned train bridge over I-90

Naturally, the industrial immune system has not remained, well, immune to this development.  As of 2009, the Port of Seattle has become the new owner of the rail corridor, which strongly implies the possibility of future development.

So like the Wilburton Trestle, the fate of the train bridge is in the hands of the bureaucrats.  It is they who will decide whether the other will be suppressed or embraced into the fold.  My money is on suppression.

Hobo says goodbye

The complete Flickr set.

SR 520 Abandoned Overpass

One day, we set out to find the source of the SR 520.

Like Richard Burton and David Livingstone before us, we had no idea what to expect.  Unlike them, however, we had the internet.

The internet told us to park in a conveniently-located lot near 2512 Lake Washington Blvd E.  This is where we would find the entrance to the abandoned overpass, otherwise known as a ghost ramp, that haunted us every time we crossed the bridge.

The internet also instructed us to plot a course from the parking lot to the east, on foot, into the wilderness known as the Washington Arboretum.  We girded our loins, donned our hiking boots, avoided the woman with an excessive quantity of dogs, and set off on our way.

We found our target underneath a megalithic structure upon which actual live traffic continued to flow.  A short climb onto the ramp, and we were at the beginning of our journey.

Abandoned exit

Our path was choked with garbage and debris, relics of ancient ceremonies known as “benders”.  We then found ourselves obstructed by millennia of thick vegetation, grown out of control as the jungle gradually absorbed the ancient structures.

Willow blocking highway entrance

We brandished imaginary machetes and hacked our way through to sunlight.  We looked back for a brief moment, then continued north.

No way out

An ancient road lay before us.  Paved with mortar, weathered by years of rain and lichen growth, but still in excellent condition.  And wide, many shoulders wide, enough for two or even three chariots to pass each other at high speeds.  Clearly the work of skilled craftsmen, not cheap laborers, conscripts or (god forbid) a labor union.

Road to nowhere

At this point, we began to see ominous stone carvings warning us to proceed no further, etched in an archaic martial script by some forgotten king’s mandate.

No trespassing

The warnings were at times accompanied by more modern writing.  These might have been left by earlier trespassers, attempting to communicate some obscure message to those who might come after them.

C3PO

We ignored our misgivings, and continued our quest.

Blank

At length, we reached a metal gate.  It seemed like a late addition to the monumental structure, perhaps added by desperate holdouts as a defensive measure while civilization collapsed around them.  It might have served to defend precious water supplies, or perhaps to repel a hypothetical barbarian horde advancing along the 520.

Gated community

Past the fence, we encountered further writings that helped shed further light on the last dramatic moments of the collapse.  Clearly this was an important supply route during these times, perhaps the only open road from the farmlands to population centers towards the west.

Don't block

In the distance we observed a gigantic structure that would no doubt prove to be of great historical importance.  We speculated that it might serve as a site for gladiatorial games of some type, perhaps as part of some institution of higher learning devoted to the combat arts.  One of our party suggested it might be the site of an obscure ball sport believed to have been practiced in those days, but we found that theory entirely implausible.

Education

At length, we reached the very coordinates where the famous Gina IU markings had been observed by aircraft several years ago.  While some scientists affirm that the original words were part of a longer and more complex message, we remained agnostic to its actual meaning and longed for an on-site inspection.

This being the very inspiration of our current expedition, we were disappointed to find that little to nothing was left of the original etchings.  Clearly some agent beyond the usual erosive forces of wind and rain had contributed to scrubbing this primitive graffiti from the causeway.  Perhaps it had been some local catastrophe, an earthquake or mudslide.

Cement jungle

In the same area, we began to gather further clues about the fall of this ancient civilization.  Seeing the monumental structures build alongside our causeway through what appeared to be highly sensitive wetlands, we could only speculate at the creativity of the Environmental Impact Statement that could have justified such indiscriminate environmental damage.

Columns and screws

Clearly a civilization capable of this must have known no boundaries on its population growth and its thirst for natural resources. Once carrying capacity was exceeded, open warfare for precious resources must have rapidly developed between hostile tribes.

This hypothesis was immediately confirmed as we encountered a cache of primitive weaponry, perhaps abandoned to the elements after a major battle.

Rust never sleeps

Another interesting find was a metal structure whose purpose wasn’t immediately obvious.  While some in our party speculated that it might serve to facilitate the manufacture of simple textiles, others suspected a more bellicose purpose:  perhaps even some ancient type of torture device.

Cage

We found two similar forms of this artifact.  The second appeared more recent in construction, and also more flimsy – perhaps an indication that metal was becoming more difficult to obtain in later years, as local mines were exhausted and trade routes became more dangerous.

Dereliction

During our exploration, only once did we encounter any signs of native human life.  Given our observations during the expedition this far, we had become concerned that a face-to-face confrontation might result in a hostile welcome.  We were also concerned that initiating a first contact with heretofore un-contacted peoples might exceed the charter and scientific wherewithal of our expedition.

Fortunately, the natives paid little attention to us, being more preoccupied with the pursuit of what we deemed to be some intense hunting activity.  Given that such a flimsy craft could not be used for large-scale trade, we speculated that the native survivors were likely organized into small autonomous tribal encampments, using the river for transportation in times of necessity.  Surely such people would live hand-to-mouth, with little time for recreational activity or water sports.

Pristine wetland

As the abandoned causeway reached its end, we felt a mixture of relief and disappointment.  We saw derelict architecture give way to well-maintained urban structures.  We heard the trappings of civilization once again begin to drone around us.  And we felt ourselves the target of some very strange looks from passing drivers.

A choice loomed before us.

We could either walk down into the populous city and again lose ourselves among the traffic, the crowds and the mercantilist bustle.  We might even be able to make it to the Montlake bus stop.

Or we could turn around and walk back, through the silent echoes and stillborn dreams of aborted urban development, trespassing again upon the sleeping authority of the forgotten highway builders.

It did not take us long to agree that the latter seemed by far the better option.

Abandoned entrance

The complete Flickr set.