RON HENGGELER

March 20, 2008
Western Terminus of the Lincoln Highway

Lincoln Park is the western terminus of the Lincoln Highway, the first road across the United States of America. Lincoln Park in San Francisco, was dedicated to President Abraham Lincoln in 1909 and includes about 100 acres of the northwestern corner of the San Francisco Peninsula.

There is a MUNI bus stop (for the 36 and the 43) at the edge of the parking lot in front of the Legion of Honor Museum in Lincoln Park. To the side of the the bus stop one finds a marker and a plaque designating the Western Terminus of the Lincoln Highway.
The plaque reads:
You are standing at the western terminus of the Lincoln Highway, the first direct coast-to-coast highway from Times Square in New York City to Lincoln Park in San Francisco. It was conceived in 1912 by Carl Fisher(founder of the Indianapolis Speedway and pioneer developer of Miami Beach) who encouraged manufacturers of autos, tires, and cement to contribute funds to establish a direct motor-vehicle route, traversing some 3300 miles through twelve states, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean. Thus, the Lincoln Highway Association was founded in 1913 with headquarters in Detroit, Michigan. It’s first president was Henry Joy, president of the Packard Motor Company. In July-September 1919, a two-mile long U.S.Army Transcontinental Convoy of 56 military vehicles and 209 men “conquered” the Lincoln Highway after a journey of 62 days. Accompanying the convoy was then Lt. Col. Dwight D. Eisenhower who perceived the need for improved highways for both military and commercial purposes. Thirty-seven years later, President Eisenhower signed the Interstate Highway act of 1956, giving birth to the Interstate Highway system which serves our nation so well today. Interstate 80 follows much of the old Lincoln Highway.

At the MUNI Bus stop in Lincoln Park

The Lincoln Highway, with its western terminus at Lincoln Park, was conceived and mapped in 1913 as the first coast-to-coast road across America, traversing 14 states. The original western terminus marker of the highway was located at the north end of the plaza and fountain in front of the Legion of Honor. Today, a replica of the western terminus marker and an interpretive plaque are located at the southwest corner of the plaza, next to the bus stop. The replica marker was placed in 2002 during the revitalized Lincoln Highway Association's 10th Annual National Convention by the Association's California Chapter.

 

A curious personal footnote to this Western Terminus location:
In October 2006, I was acting as tour guide for my friend Sandro Kutubidze. He is a surgeon from the Republic of Georgia, and at the time, he was in San Francisco for a convention at the Moscone Center. He had never been to San Francisco before and a dream of his since childhood was to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Because he had meetings and workshops during the day, and I was working at night, the only times we were able to get together was late at night after I’d finished my shift. Despite these restrictions with our schedules, we were still able to meet after I finished work. The first night we got together (at close to midnight), I drove him straight away to the Marin Headlands so that he could stand on a high hill, in the black night, with a cold wet wind bringing in the fog, and finally face his childhood dream. For the next three days, with me driving, he saw all the iconic views of San Francisco. . . very late at night.
On our last night together, before he was to leave the next day, our nocturnal tour took us out to Lincoln Park and the Palace of the Legion of Honor which he had not seen yet. It was nearly midnight and the fog was as thick as it gets. Visibility, zero. Driving in, I thought, we’re not going to see anything in this fog. But, as we approached nearer the museum grounds on top the hill, the fog thinned with the elevation change. The flood-lit Legion of Honor appeared in the distance through the trees like a sacred temple from a thousand years ago. Reaching the top of the hill and leaving the the fog in our wake, we were shocked to see what can only be described as a classic ‘Only in San Francisco’ scene.
Surrounded by fog, in the completely empty parking lot, was a old red car parked at the curb’s edge, near the bus stop and the Lincoln Highway marker. The two front doors of the beat-up old car were wide open, and an elderly man stood next to the vehicle. He was feeding raccoons. . . twenty or thirty, maybe more, raccoons. Immediately upon seeing this very unusual scene, I put my van in neutral, turned off the engine, and we quietly coasted into the parking lot hoping to not disturb. We soon stopped just a short ways from where all this activity was taking place. In the dead silence of the cold night, with our windows down, Sandro and I quietly watched this amazing and amusing drama being played out. Like some crazy cartoon, raccoons were coming and going from everywhere. A family of raccoons with youngsters came marching across the museum’s front lawn. Raccoons were washing in the large round fountain and several were grooming themselves on the fountain’s low edge, apparently having just finished their picnic with their old friend. More new arrivals were appearing from out of the dark, while others disappeared back into the black night. Playful raccoons were chasing one another. New faces would suddenly appear, peeking over and sniffing, before scaling the retaining wall bordering the golf course.
The old man had a dozen or more of these wild animals at his feet. As he was feeding them he gently spoke to them, and now and then, one or two would sit up on their hinds and take food from his hands. For all we knew, he probably had names for every one of them.
Just as I was preparing to start up my engine and leave, a large silver-backed coyote trotted in from out of the inky night and fog. As though on some unknown mysterious cue, he walked up to our van and stopped. I had some bread with me. We threw it to him and he ate it. After realizing that I had no more bread to offer him, he sauntered over to near the old man with the feast going on, and patiently waited to be thrown his nightly portion of scraps. It was clear to us that the coyote was a regular part of this nocturnal ritual. The raccoons paid him no special attention. He too of course was a friendly ‘familiar’ of the night for this kindly old man.
Sandro Kutubidize

 

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