Seattle: A Natural Beauty or a Made-Up Madame?
I think Seattle is one of the most beautiful cities in the world—especially from April through October, when the days stretch long and the light seems reluctant to leave. The city sits on a narrow strip of land, with mountains standing watch to the west and east. It’s one of those places where the sunset feels almost ceremonial, sinking down behind Mount Olympus like it knows people are watching.
But Seattle didn’t always work the way it does now.
More than a hundred years ago, the city had promise but plenty of problems. Getting people and goods around was hard. Hills were steep, streets were muddy, and the waterways didn’t line up in any sensible way. So the city fathers—at least the ones with engineering on their minds—rolled up their sleeves and went to work.
Seattle’s first big industry was Yesler’s Mill, a sawmill down in what we now call Pioneer Square. Timber covered the hills back then, and those hills were steep—no gentle slopes to speak of. Logs were dragged down toward the mill along roads made of greased logs. Folks called them skid roads, and that name stuck. It eventually gave the country the term Skid Row.
One of those hills was First Hill, where the courthouse once stood. Getting there took real effort, and people didn’t hold back their opinions on the climb. It earned the nickname Profanity Hill, and you can imagine why. After the Great Fire tore through Seattle, the city rebuilt—but this time with a plan. They cut down hills. Leveled land. In some places, they flattened the city entirely. The natural beach was replaced with a seawall, and piers were pushed out into the Sound. Luckily, Seattle had deep water right where it needed it, making the harbor ideal for shipping.
Water was everywhere, and none of it was left alone. The Duwamish River was dredged and straightened so ships could head inland. Puget Sound and the lakes weren’t connected, so Seattle dug a channel and built the Hiram Chittenden Locks. Boats could now be lifted up or lowered down, moving between saltwater and freshwater. Today, those locks are some of the busiest anywhere north of the Panama Canal.
The lakes themselves are deeper now, fully navigable. You can travel from the ocean straight into Lake Washington, something that once would’ve seemed impossible.
Before all that, boats buzzed back and forth across the water, hauling people and goods wherever they could. They called it the mosquito fleet, and the name fit. That tradition lives on today in Washington State Ferries—the largest ferry system in the country.
Seattle also floats in places you wouldn’t expect. The city has three of the longest floating bridges in the world. Two cross Lake Washington. The Evergreen Point Floating Bridge stretches nearly two miles, the longest of its kind anywhere. Another carries Interstate 90 all the way from Seattle toward Boston—and, somehow, supports the only train in the world that runs across a floating bridge.
Then there’s Harbor Island. Dirt dredged from the Duwamish River was dumped there, along with ballast from ships loading up for long voyages. Over time, it grew into the largest man-made island in the United States.
Even the land under our feet isn’t always what it seems. Much of the SODO district—where the ballpark stands today—used to be underwater at high tide just 120 years ago. In some parts of Seattle, the city was raised anywhere from eight to thirty-two feet above its original level. By the way we just won the Super Bowl!
You can still see all of this today. Underground tours take you beneath the streets to the old city below and tell stories about fires, floods, and how indoor plumbing helped save Seattle from itself. Argosy Cruises will carry you past Harbor Island and through the Locks. Nearly everyone who visits takes a ferry ride—it’s inexpensive and unforgettable. And if you want a real Seattle experience, ride the light rail across one of those floating bridges and think about what’s holding you up.
Chief Seattle wouldn’t recognize the city that now carries his name. But I think he’d still understand the light on the water, the pull of the mountains, and the quiet power of this place. And I’m sure he’d still admire every sparkle on the sea and every needle on every tree.