The Ambassador Bridge appears like a mirage as you round the final bend toward Detroit, rising out of the industrial grit and traffic tangles like some rusted crown of commerce. It is not beautiful in the usual sense. No golden cables or sleek modern lines. It’s a steel lattice of utility and dominance, spanning the Detroit River with the confident stoicism of something that knows its importance. And it should. For nearly a century, it has been the busiest international border crossing in North America, a private gatekeeper between the American Midwest and Canada’s Ontario.
Built in 1929, a year that would soon become synonymous with collapse, the bridge instead became a symbol of daring enterprise. At the time, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world, and it connected not just two cities—Detroit and Windsor—but two nations in the age of roaring industry and automotive dreams. Trucks, trains, and cars passed over it in an endless mechanical procession, steel feeding steel, commerce feeding empire. Henry Ford’s empire on one side. The British Crown’s loyal dominion on the other.
Crossing it now, you still feel the hum of all that history beneath the tires. The clatter of expansion joints. The tremble of the steel as semis groan their way across. I didn’t cross it, not this time, but I stood beneath its massive feet and looked up at the green-painted trusses. It’s privately owned, which feels strange for such an essential piece of international infrastructure. Owned for decades by the Moroun family, who guarded it like Gollum with a deed instead of a ring. A new bridge, the Gordie Howe, is rising just downriver—public, multinational, and promising to relieve the burden. But the Ambassador remains, proud and possessive.
A border crossing is more than lines on a map or customs declarations. It’s a moment of choice and change. You are leaving one reality and entering another. I find that idea compelling, even when I’m not the one making the crossing. There’s something theatrical about it. A passage from Act I to Act II. From American roadtrip to Canadian adventure. Or vice versa.
The air beneath the bridge smells of diesel and river water. Nearby warehouses buzz with forklifts, and the occasional train moans along unseen tracks. There’s no romance here. But there is gravity. The kind that comes from purpose.