DCN Correspondent
Behind the hoisting of Duluth's Aerial Lift Bridge is, oddly enough, a man in a La-Z-Boy pushing a big green button labeled: “RAISE.”
Centered in all of the action is the Aerial Lift Bridge pilot house, in which Beamer and other bridge workers spend their time. Photo Credit: Jim Fraizer.
This morning, Ryan Beamer is that man.
Beamer, the bridge supervisor, is sprawled out on the battered green recliner, a purchase to which he personally contributed. He is dressed in an equally-worn red and green striped polo, black jeans, and black shoes.
The pilothouse in which Beamer and the other operators spend their eight-hour shifts is a single room. It’s lined with walls the dull-blue color of Lake Superior in the rain with vast windows spanning each side. The floor is gray and uncarpeted, and a small table holds a coffee pot, a tub of Folgers 100% Colombian, and a Ziploc bag of chocolate chip cookies.
"My mother-in-law made them," Beamer says. "They're pretty good."
The purpose of the bridge operator is clear: "To ensure safe passage of ships, pedestrians, and motorists by operating and maintaining lift bridges, foghorn, and related equipment," declares the City of Duluth's Job Description Database.
But it can be so much more than that.
Beamer says that the operators do whatever needs to be done, including the cleaning, maintenance, and electrical work. Two operators can be found in the pilothouse at a time. The first operator runs the bridge, and the second operator answers phones, writes in the log, and visually checks the sidewalks.
The bridge has been run manually since its construction in 1905, according to former Aerial Bridge supervisor Steve Douville.
“There’s too many variables just to have a garage door opener,” Douville says. “It doesn’t work that way.”
With its huge round buttons in shades of bright blue, orange, and green, the bridge’s control board looks as if it came straight out of a movie. Even the emergency stop button is fire engine red and conveniently larger than the rest.
Arguably the most used, the raise button is pushed when the ship is half a mile from the bridge. There are two identical control panels: an east control and a west control. Only one is used to raise the bridge, but if it fails, the operator can use the other.
"If both sides break, then we grab the radio and yell," Beamer says.
"You can't just go to school to learn how to operate a bridge," Beamer says. Beamer was an electronics technician on submarines in the Navy for nine years before his 10 years on the bridge. "As far as bachelor's degrees, nobody down here has one. It's really a jack-of-all-trades draw."
One such “jack” is Dick Shaul.
Shaul has operated every movable bridge in the Twin Ports area, save one, says Beamer.
"How do you not hire a guy that's a bridge operator, you know?" says Beamer.
Shaul accepts the sentiment silently from his black swivel chair in the corner. With his salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes, Harley Davidson t-shirt, and well-used tennis shoes, Shaul seems at ease here.
Shaul has been working since 11 p.m. last night, but with one of the operators out sick, he will stay at the pilothouse until 3 p.m. today. It may be a long day, but Shaul doesn’t mind.
"It's a good job,” Shaul says. “It’s decent pay, decent benefits. Pretty much a dependable job; not apt to get laid off."
Sometimes it’s hard to leave the bridge behind.
"I've had weird dreams where the bridge is stuck at a 60 degree angle, and I've got my hands in the grating, trying to climb up to the pilothouse to try to level it," says Beamer. "The bridge goes up and turns into a giant swing and I'm on it."
For Beamer’s piece of mind - in case his dream actually comes true - a phone labeled "emergency line" is attached to the wall across from the control board.
"Fortunately we've got the bat phone," Beamer says. "It's a secret number that only the police, fire, Gold Cross, and the Coast Guard have."
For the bridge operators these eight hours spent in the pilothouse can be boring. Beamer says that in February, with the Sioux Locks closed, no shipping is going through right now. At this time, only one person is needed in the pilothouse for the fire and security watch, and their nights may get long.
"Crossword puzzle, book, Sudoku," says Beamer, listing the possibilities. "You can watch TV if you need to."
Most of the operators have worked together long enough that Beamer says even the jokes get old after a while. After a moment's thought, he seems to reconsider.
"Well, Dave is pretty good," Beamer says. "He must have a book at home, like, 'what am I going to say today to crack them up?' He's always coming up with something."
Other evidence in the battle against boredom is scattered throughout the room. Beamer motions to a miniature stuffed monkey labeled "Otto."
Otto hanging by his neck above the control board.
"Otto-matic," Beamer says mischievously. "because any monkey can operate the bridge!"
He and Shaul burst out laughing.
"We'll be here all week," Shaul says with a grin.
Beamer, the bridge supervisor, is sprawled out on the battered green recliner, a purchase to which he personally contributed. He is dressed in an equally-worn red and green striped polo, black jeans, and black shoes.
The pilothouse in which Beamer and the other operators spend their eight-hour shifts is a single room. It’s lined with walls the dull-blue color of Lake Superior in the rain with vast windows spanning each side. The floor is gray and uncarpeted, and a small table holds a coffee pot, a tub of Folgers 100% Colombian, and a Ziploc bag of chocolate chip cookies.
"My mother-in-law made them," Beamer says. "They're pretty good."
The purpose of the bridge operator is clear: "To ensure safe passage of ships, pedestrians, and motorists by operating and maintaining lift bridges, foghorn, and related equipment," declares the City of Duluth's Job Description Database.
But it can be so much more than that.
Beamer says that the operators do whatever needs to be done, including the cleaning, maintenance, and electrical work. Two operators can be found in the pilothouse at a time. The first operator runs the bridge, and the second operator answers phones, writes in the log, and visually checks the sidewalks.
The bridge has been run manually since its construction in 1905, according to former Aerial Bridge supervisor Steve Douville.
“There’s too many variables just to have a garage door opener,” Douville says. “It doesn’t work that way.”
With its huge round buttons in shades of bright blue, orange, and green, the bridge’s control board looks as if it came straight out of a movie. Even the emergency stop button is fire engine red and conveniently larger than the rest.
Arguably the most used, the raise button is pushed when the ship is half a mile from the bridge. There are two identical control panels: an east control and a west control. Only one is used to raise the bridge, but if it fails, the operator can use the other.
"If both sides break, then we grab the radio and yell," Beamer says.
"You can't just go to school to learn how to operate a bridge," Beamer says. Beamer was an electronics technician on submarines in the Navy for nine years before his 10 years on the bridge. "As far as bachelor's degrees, nobody down here has one. It's really a jack-of-all-trades draw."
One such “jack” is Dick Shaul.
Shaul has operated every movable bridge in the Twin Ports area, save one, says Beamer.
"How do you not hire a guy that's a bridge operator, you know?" says Beamer.
Shaul accepts the sentiment silently from his black swivel chair in the corner. With his salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes, Harley Davidson t-shirt, and well-used tennis shoes, Shaul seems at ease here.
Shaul has been working since 11 p.m. last night, but with one of the operators out sick, he will stay at the pilothouse until 3 p.m. today. It may be a long day, but Shaul doesn’t mind.
"It's a good job,” Shaul says. “It’s decent pay, decent benefits. Pretty much a dependable job; not apt to get laid off."
Sometimes it’s hard to leave the bridge behind.
"I've had weird dreams where the bridge is stuck at a 60 degree angle, and I've got my hands in the grating, trying to climb up to the pilothouse to try to level it," says Beamer. "The bridge goes up and turns into a giant swing and I'm on it."
For Beamer’s piece of mind - in case his dream actually comes true - a phone labeled "emergency line" is attached to the wall across from the control board.
"Fortunately we've got the bat phone," Beamer says. "It's a secret number that only the police, fire, Gold Cross, and the Coast Guard have."
For the bridge operators these eight hours spent in the pilothouse can be boring. Beamer says that in February, with the Sioux Locks closed, no shipping is going through right now. At this time, only one person is needed in the pilothouse for the fire and security watch, and their nights may get long.
"Crossword puzzle, book, Sudoku," says Beamer, listing the possibilities. "You can watch TV if you need to."
Most of the operators have worked together long enough that Beamer says even the jokes get old after a while. After a moment's thought, he seems to reconsider.
"Well, Dave is pretty good," Beamer says. "He must have a book at home, like, 'what am I going to say today to crack them up?' He's always coming up with something."
Other evidence in the battle against boredom is scattered throughout the room. Beamer motions to a miniature stuffed monkey labeled "Otto."
Otto hanging by his neck above the control board.
"Otto-matic," Beamer says mischievously. "because any monkey can operate the bridge!"
He and Shaul burst out laughing.
"We'll be here all week," Shaul says with a grin.
Related Content:
History of The Aerial Lift Bridge by Curtis Carper, Associated Content
View more Lift Bridge photos by Jim Fraizer
The Aerial Lift Bridge in Action
Other DCN Stories:
A new take on holiday cheer
Gardening heals the heart
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