The Bridge and the Battery
The Golden Gate Bridge as seen from within the remains of a Battery Spencer military structure.
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Content Warning: This post contains discussion of suicide.
If you’re thinking about suicide, are worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, the Lifeline network is available 24/7 across the United States. The Lifeline is available for everyone, is free, and confidential.
Dial/text 988 or visit this link for additional resources.
To the west: the commotion and roiling waves of the vast Pacific Ocean coalesced into one single plane of tranquility. To the east: the coasts of The Bay and the cities that lined it seemed not like an area we’d just come from, but as some different world entirely. Bisecting both sights in a seemingly perfect line was the bridge. A structure that dwarfed the activity playing out upon it, making everything and everyone seem so small and insignificant. Never before had I been in such awe of a manmade structure.
When I first glimpsed the Golden Gate Bridge, I felt as if no visuals had ever done it justice. Immediately, I knew that the photographs I was about to make would pale in comparison to what I was witnessing. Both the structure’s immense scope and its smallest details inspired amazement. This thing had been built nearly a century ago by laborers who’d not only found a way to span a great distance, but had worked tirelessly to place millions of rivets and raise two great towers in the middle of an unrelenting sea.
Before my friends and I departed San Francisco for a trip down the coast, we decided it was time to visit the symbol of the city. What followed was a tumult of emotions and situations. A rapid shift of perspective and feeling that, like the bridge itself, was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.
This is that story.
Public transportation to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area was spotty at best, so we opted to hail a ride. The trip would be relatively short, but I was still uneasy, even if I wasn’t going to get the worst of the Ford Fiesta that picked us up from a Chinatown street corner. My three friends were kind enough to squeeze into the back of the small car while I commandeered the front. Although I had the premium seat, I braced for the inevitable symptoms.
Ever since I was a kid, car sickness has bothered me, and as an adult: it seems to have only gotten worse. If I’m driving my own car, or riding shotgun on the interstate, it’s usually fine. Stop-and-go traffic, though? Pure torture. The front seat at least helps mitigate it. I can look forward, concentrate, and anticipate movement. Still, it’s not a guarantee. If I look down at my phone or get too caught up enjoying the view: it’s over. The color drops from my face, a chill comes over my body, I become morose, and I sweat profusely. My brain then begins a debate: “can I tough this out for a bit longer, or, do I need to stick my head out the window?”
As our driver ferried us along the crowded coast towards the bridge, the estimated arrival time kept ticking upwards while my tolerance dropped. We crawled in traffic as I silently repeated the mantra of “just a few more miles.”
Eventually, we started moving at a good speed, but then came the hills of the Presidio. The world outside became a blur and my head started to spin. Up, down, left, right—each shift along the roads of the park felt like the end of my 21st birthday. As if 13 years later I was once again throwing back shots with abandon while my body tried to send them back up.
I could barely wait for the car to stop crunching gravel before I flung the door open. Stumbling out, I stared up at the trees and breathed in the fresh air. A sense of ease began to return, even if I was annoyed that I couldn’t seem to handle a simple car ride.
The parking lot was lined with numerous signs that cautioned folks to not leave any valuables behind. Watching our departing driver navigate around piles of broken glass indicated that some visitors hadn’t heeded such advice. Our group wasn’t really concerned about petty theft, but the repeated warnings gave the place a slightly unsettling vibe.
Look, I don’t want to sound as if I’m clutching pearls, here. I live in a city, and I’ve been in far more interesting situations in my career, but something about this place just felt off. The Presidio had a distinct contrast from the city we’d just come from, not just in terms of natural surroundings, but feeling as well. I couldn’t really understand where any car vandal criminals would be hiding or coming from. As if there was a gang of Mad Max-style marauders hiding in the woods, or, amongst the numerous, abandoned military structures.
The area’s military history ranged from Spanish colonialism all the way through to the Cold War. Finding an overlook, we glanced down at derelict combat fortifications that clashed with the natural beauty of the ocean and foliage. The centerpiece of it all, though, was the bridge.
The bridge as seen from the south.
With the wind whipping in off the coast and clearing away the sweat of carsickness, I became awestruck by the sight of the Golden Gate—a feat of engineering who’s construction and presence seemed to defy logic. As we made our photographs, the sparse weeknight crowd thinned out until it was just the four of us and two women sitting on a nearby bench.
“Are you guys from Ohio?” one of them called out.
“Yeah. You?” I replied.
“Yep. Cincinnati.”
The pair were a friendly mother-daughter duo on a cross-country trip to celebrate the former’s recent college graduation. We discussed mutual acquaintances, hometown stories, and shared a laugh at the coincidence of our groups crossing paths. Here at one edge of the country—it was fitting that the only folks we’d run into would be fellow citizens of the Queen City.
After saying goodbye to our neighbors, I grabbed my cameras and prepared to go climbing all over an abandoned military bunker nearby. The graffiti covered, concrete pits were the remains of Battery Boutelle, a gun emplacement that’d been constructed in 1900 to defend the coast. By 1917, the artillery had been removed and shipped overseas to support American efforts in World War One. Before I could get all the way down to this piece of history, though, something hit me.
The bridge with the remains Battery Boutelle in the foreground.
It wasn’t the familiar, slow building queasiness of motion sickness. No, this was worse. Like being punched in the gut repeatedly from the inside. A sharp pain that came in such intense waves, I’d have to stop walking and just wait for it to pass.
It’s not my intention to be crude here, rather, I’m just trying to recount one detail of the strange story that was this particular evening. I wasn’t suffering from a case of “I ate something bad,” it was more akin to a comical tragedy where the plot was: “I have no idea what’s caused this, but I need to not be here.”
I didn’t even have time to pack up my gear or tell my friends where I was going. I simply ran, cameras in hand as fast as I could in search of sanctuary—my backpack bobbing up and down behind me, alternating between smacking my spine and my neck.
The nearby buildings were of a military vintage more modern than the former gun batteries I’d just been wandering around. Despite no longer being used for matters of national security, though, they were still sealed off to the outside world. Each one I ran past featured a sign stating something to the effect of “no restrooms here, go to the visitor’s center.” The inhospitable placards, however, didn’t indicate which direction the visitor’s center was. So, I just kept running towards the bridge since that seemed like a better option than the woods. And hell, even in the throes of illness, the bridge was still a incredible sight to behold.
Eventually, I found the pedestrian tunnel that ran beneath it. My pace slowed to an impatient walk as I packed in with other tourists and did my best to focus on something else while trying to reach the end.
“I’m ‘under the bridge.’ Like the Chili Peppers song.”
I didn’t want to be rude, but I needed to get past all these dawdling people, so I began to force my way to the other side.
“Other. Side. Another Chili Peppers song.”
Judging by the crowd, this had to mean I was getting close to the visitor’s center.
“I’m in California and I love the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but everyone gives me shi…uh…what’s a better word in this moment? Grief? Everyone gives me grief because they ‘only sing about California.’”
Nearly there, I could see the small sign for a restroom up ahead.
“When I write about this trip, I don’t want to incorporate any Chili Peppers lyrics, but what about the theme song to Full House?”
After making it through, I had no choice but to accept the damp, foul smelling confines of a cinder block building. One that seemed more like a prison cell than a public restroom.
Even though I eventually felt better, I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve such a loathsome fate in an otherwise beautiful place. All I wanted now was a shower. A long shower. One where I could cover myself in soap for several hours after burning every article of clothing that I had been forced to wear into that decrepit corner of hell. But still, there was more of the bridge that I needed to see.
I emerged to find my friends standing in the visitor’s center plaza where I described what had just happened in language far more graphic than what I’ve used here. They took pity and sympathetically laughed as we debated our next move.
A few days before, a friend of mine had recommended the overlook on the bridge’s north side, but getting there would to be tricky. We’d apparently just missed the public transit option and although two of us were game for walking the bridge, the other two weren’t as keen on that idea. Especially with the temperatures dropping.
We’d spent the day in light clothing, but were now unpacking jackets from our bags. Except Justin. He didn’t have any others layers to don, just the t-shirt and shorts he’d been wearing all day. Realizing that wasn’t going to work, he decided to head into the gift shop and grab something to cover his bare arms.
The shop was closing in five minutes, however, and although the employees let him in—they weren’t exactly accommodating to a guy who just wanted to get warm. Their prices weren’t friendly either.
“Fuck that,” Justin said with a confident smile as he emerged empty-handed and still cold, scoffing at the thought of a $70 generic sweatshirt.
While continuing to debate our next course of action, we attempted to seek refuge in the nearby coffee shop, but it too was closed. At one of the nation’s most iconic and historic tourist attractions, the views and sights were second-to-none, but the surrounding experience was something else. The unaccommodating area along with the prison restroom and earlier warnings of car break-ins seemed to say: “welcome to the Golden Gate Bridge, now please go fuck yourself.” We already had our photographs and could’ve just headed back to the city for dinner and strong drinks to close out the day, but as the sun started angling just right, I was determined to get to the north side overlook.
Nate’s photograph of Battery Spencer which compelled me to visit.
My pal Nate knows me as a person and photographer better than most. We go way back and had coincidentally wound up in San Francisco at the same time. While chatting at a bar a few nights before, he’d been the one to recommend visiting Battery Spencer. Both that night in our drunken state and the next day in my sober one, the place sounded enthralling. Now I was trying to sell my friends, traveling companions, and fellow photographers on the idea.
“This’ll be worth it,” I enthusiastically promised them as I attempted to hail a ride.
With Justin already starting to shiver, I watched as our Lyft approached. And then I watched as the driver immediately made an illegal u-turn and headed off in the other direction. I received a notification that he had cancelled, unsure as to why. Still, I tried again.
And again.
And Again.
And again, ignoring what might’ve been a cosmic sign until someone finally agreed to pick us up.
After I finally confirmed a ride, a cacophony of sirens emerged from a nearby garage while a parade of vehicles streamed out. Police cars and work trucks with detour signs flew by in a fury. I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I knew deep down what the commotion was probably for.
When our driver arrived, my friends were once again considerate enough to cram into the back seats of a comically small car. This ride was going to be fairly simple, though, so no one needed to suffer for long. I figured that even I could pull off making some photographs before any motion sickness set in. I propped up my camera on the dash board and stared up at the captivating bridge.
About halfway across, we came to an abrupt stop before our driver found herself riding the brake in excruciatingly slow traffic. My carsickness returned with an immediate vengeance. The sweating, the chills, the desire to vomit—it all came rushing back. Looking out the window to appreciate the view in hopes of distracting myself from the symptoms, I saw the police and traffic vehicles that’d rushed by earlier. They were parked along the right lane with their occupants over on the pedestrian path, a group of officers and EMTs led by a cop who was laying on the ground. His shoulders and head were under the railing, arms draped over the side with mouth and eyes directed downwards. One man trying to resolve a tragic situation amongst the otherwise serene vista of The Bay.
Although the Golden Gate Bridge is an architectural icon, it’s also known as a common location sought out by those wishing to take their own lives. An official count ended in 1995 even though the frequency of attempts has persisted. For years, there has been debate over how to prevent suicides at the bridge. Staff regularly patrol pedestrian walkways lined with crisis telephones, but the act has become so frequent that it was the subject of a 2006 documentary. Advocates of stronger prevention methods range from survivors, to families of the deceased, to concerned citizens, and even those who have been talked out of the act. In 2018, installation of nets on both sides of the bridge began, but due to delays: construction of the entire feature is still behind schedule as of this writing.
What ultimately happened to the unseen individual in the situation we passed, I’ll never know, but I’ll also never forget the face of that officer who was looking down. Despite the commotion of traffic and the seriousness of the scene playing out, he presented an empathy that I could recognize even from feet away within a passing car.
As those flashing lights faded behind us and traffic picked back up, my heart sank. Here I was with good friends at a decent point in life amongst this marvelous place, but we had just witnessed intense suffering. I say that not with judgement for the person affected, but with empathy derived from my own experience. I’d never been here before, but part of me has been there before.
Finally across the bridge, the sun was casting golden rays of light that cut dramatically through the clouds, onto the natural landscape and waves before us.
“This is incredible,” Phil quipped from the back seat. “This is how the area must’ve looked before everything was developed.”
I could appreciate the beauty of the world playing out before us, but now the carsickness was becoming the worst it ever had. The winding, one-lane road was taking us on a meandering journey throughout the Golden Gate National Recreation Area’s northern district. At one point, we thought we saw the entrance to the overlook, but our driver was quietly and attentively following the directions of Google Maps. I’d selected our destination on the app, so this had to be the way. Then at a small, makeshift parking lot at the bottom of the hills and near the northwest coast where we couldn’t even see the bridge, our driver announced: “here.”
This wasn’t the right place, far from it, and the language barrier between the driver and myself made conveying the situation difficult. She was cordial, but timid, and I wasn’t upset at all—but I was feeling (and probably looking) awful. While showing her on the map where we actually needed to be, I tried to haggle with cash, but she resisted. After some uncomfortable back and forth over how much I’d tip her on the app, we got underway again and repeated the same, terrible, curving and hilly drive once more. Finally, we made it to our proper destination. Before running from the car to a nearby patch of grass, I did my best to express my appreciation to our driver for what had now become the most expensive Lyft ride I’d ever chartered.
Vomiting would’ve been a welcome relief at this point, but my body only allowed me to repeatedly dry heave. After kneeling on the ground for what felt like an eternity, I looked up to see the top of one of the bridge’s towers reflecting its bright red paint in the evening light. Maybe this was going to be worth it after all.
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The guns of Battery Spencer had been erected in the late 1800’s. They continued guarding the coast during the bridge’s construction and opening, but were shut down in 1942. Like many of the area’s former military installations, the remaining structures eventually fell into disuse once the Golden Gate National Recreation Area was created in 1972. Much like the bunkers of Hawaii, these former military encampments now serve as tourist stops that offer stunning views of the surrounding area. In Battery Spencer’s case, this became abundantly clear as we made our way up the dirt path.
The remains of Battery Spencer.
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At first glance, the bridge’s towers appeared as if they were just beyond the trail. A perspective that made it seem like we could throw a baseball and easily hit the one closest to us. But as the path opened up, so did the view: a sweeping panorama of the bridge, The Bay, Alcatraz Island, and the skyline of San Francisco to one side with the endless horizon of the Pacific Ocean on the other. As I took it all in, a sailboat bobbed in the water below before it was quickly dwarfed by a massive container ship heading out to sea. The ship itself was then dwarfed beneath the awesome scale of the bridge’s superstructure.
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Down on the bridge itself, I could see the ongoing construction of the suicide prevention nets. The lights and sirens of the earlier situation were now gone in what I’d hoped had been a positive resolution. Vehicles were now rolling across with ease as the famed “road zipper” made its way across to alter the flow of traffic. Whatever noises were coming from the cars below was drowned out by the roar of a wind that was forcing a brutal chill upon everyone in the setting sun.
Once again, I was absolutely captivated by the bridge. The stress of getting there, the sickness of car rides, and the sadness of the situation we’d passed—it all diminished for a bit behind a renewed sense of awe. My spirit rose as I did my best to be present. Despite everything, there was nowhere on earth I would’ve rather been in that moment than experiencing the bridge and that view.
“Love locks” weighing down a dilapidated fence at Battery Spencer.
Given that my career in photography and writing began with urban exploration, it was only fitting that this viewpoint came with the added bonus of several abandoned structures to see. The former buildings for military staff, ammunition, and armaments were now covered in graffiti, and anything of value had long been removed. Most of the other tourists simply ignored these structures, but we decided to have a look through them. For Justin, they provided shelter. We eventually found him shaking inside the remains of a small shack. Although the view was incredible, the last of the day’s warmth had now completely evaporated—the frigid air even getting to those of us who had jackets.
We packed up and made our way to the road. One by one, we attempted to hail a ride on every app available, but seemingly no one would accept. On the rare occasion that a driver did—they’d cancel upon realizing our desired pickup location. It became clear that the only way we were going to get a ride out of there was if we were further down by the bridge.
Looking north from Battery Spencer into the hills.
We finally got a confirmation and it came with the added bonus of an appropriately sized vehicle. However, reaching the pickup area required walking downhill alongside an unlit road in the quickly approaching night. Then, we apparently needed to cut onto a trail. The pathway seemed makeshift at best, but Google Maps claimed it was real. And we needed to hurry: our driver had already used the app to say he’d arrived and the countdown of the courtesy waiting time had begun. The last thing we wanted was to get stranded, so off into the grass we went. Directly past signs warning of rattlesnakes.
Both Justin and myself harbored a massive fear of snakes, and I worried that encountering one would be yet another thing to add to the list of strange and slightly terrible things that had played out this evening. I turned around to warn him, but I couldn’t find him. Quickly looking up the hill, though, I saw the man still shivering. Except this time he was resisting the cold to make a photograph of the bridge, the cliffs, and the city in the distance:
Justin’s photograph made while the rest of us were preparing to enter the rattlesnake canyon.
Photograph by Justin Kohl
The trail ended up working out even if Phil’s shortcut didn’t. After turning a near fall into a graceful jog downwards through some wildflowers on a bad knee, he simply yelled: “Nope. Don’t go that way.”
Three of us managed to catch the driver before our time expired. We waited at the SUV for Justin to emerge from the woods. Thankfully, he arrived unscathed. Freezing, but also free of snake venom.
The last glimmers of the evening sat on the ocean as we made our way back across the bridge and returned to San Francisco. In each neighborhood we passed, the streetlights were now taking over, pushing away the last vestiges of blue light up into the dark sky. The place seemed peaceful, no matter how crowded the traffic was or how many people lined the streets. As I rested my head against the cool glass of the passenger side window, the carsickness seemed to be holding off for once. Watching the city play out through the windshield, I was exhausted. Both physically and mentally.
When we settled in at our accommodations, I apologized to my friends and hoped that they hadn’t been too put off by the adventure I’d foisted upon us. We were now someplace warm, I’d taken my shower, and we were cracking open cold beer. Falling asleep on the couch that night, I could still feel the wind from Battery Spencer in the same way one still feels the ocean after a day at the beach.
I rotated through the evening’s photographs on the back of my camera, still amazed at the bridge and grateful for the experience—attempting to remember everything seen and unseen in the images. As I drifted off to sleep, though, my mind always came back to one thing: the face of that police officer as he looked down over the edge.
Battery Spencer from the perspective of my friends and traveling companions:
Photograph by Phil Armstrong.
“While a detriment to Ronny’s nausea, the compassless Uber ride put us at Battery Spencer at the exact moment we should’ve been there: the chilliest and windiest but most serene time for a sunset overlooking GG Bridge and the city beyond. And though it was uncrowded when we were there, personal artifacts affixed to a safety fence on the side of the overlook affirmed its popularity.”
Photograph by Justin Kohl.
“The day began with the sun casting a faint glow over the iconic Golden Gate Bridge as I embarked on my visit to Battery Spencer, a historic military site with breathtaking panoramic views of San Francisco. Filled with excitement and eagerness to explore, I underestimated the impact of the weather. Naively assuming that California's coastal climate would remain mild, I dressed lightly, not anticipating the chilling breeze that would soon wrap around me.
As I ascended the hill to reach the Battery, the frigid air enveloped me, causing an immediate shiver. My teeth chattered, and I could feel goosebumps forming on my skin. Despite the biting cold, my spirit remained undeterred; the sight of the iconic bridge emerging from the mist was worth every shiver.
ChatGPT really dramatized my close encounter with hypothermia well.”
Photograph by Travis Estell.
“While we had no trouble getting around San Francisco for several days on foot and by public transit, the journey to Battery Spencer revealed the difficulties of getting around the Bay Area without a car. I had been to a few places in Marin County on previous trips but had never been to Battery Spencer to see the northern view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I suspected that getting there by bus or Uber would be difficult, but since the group was excited to get this shot at golden hour, so I agreed it would be a fun adventure. My biggest concern is that I was already starting to get cold wearing a reasonably thick hoodie, and Justin was freezing in shorts and a t-shirt. When we arrived, I tried to find some unique angles that showed the bridge, the San Francisco skyline, and the graffiti-covered remains of the former military facility … and then quickly find a corner where I would be shielded from the frigid high winds.”
If you’re thinking about suicide, are worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, the Lifeline network is available 24/7 across the United States. The Lifeline is available for everyone, is free, and confidential.
Dial/text 988 or visit this link for additional resources.
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