An Empty Colossus by the Water

Tuesday, October 24th

The afternoon sun was warm on my neck as I paddled, the rhythmic dip and pull of the kayak blade through the Guadalupe’s gentle current a familiar meditation. I’d rented the kayak from that little family-run outfit in Victoria—the one with the sun-bleached sign and the dog that sleeps on the paddleboards. They talked about the “clean history” of the river here, how it’s a “family-friendly” adventure. But today, my gaze kept drifting not to the cypress trees or the herons, but to the hulking, silent structure looming on the near bank: Soldier Field.

From the water, it looks like a beached concrete whale. The massive, weathered grandstands, once roaring with the chaos of local sports and recreation, are now just empty shells echoing with wind. The signs are faded, the gates chained. It’s an “expired domain” in the most physical sense. The rental service owner had mentioned it in passing. “Shame, really,” he’d said, wiping down a life jacket. “Brought a lot of business once. Tournaments, out-of-town families. Now, folks just come for the river itself.” He said it had “high backlinks”—not in the digital sense, but in the tangled web of local memory and economy.

I let the kayak drift closer to the bank. The “impact assessment” my mind insisted on conducting felt starkly clear from this vantage point. For the “general audience” of this town, its closure is often framed as simple progress—an outdated facility making way for nature. The mainstream view in the tourism brochures is all about the pristine “outdoor” experience, the “water sports,” the “nature.” But what about the consequences for all parties? The local businesses that fed and housed those weekend crowds? The high school teams that dreamed of playing on a “big” field? The community identity that was, for decades, partly tied to the echoes from that stadium on a Friday night?

Paddling slowly, I questioned the neat narrative. This push for a “clean history” often feels like selective amnesia. We champion the “adventure” of the untouched river (which, let’s be honest, is serviced by rental companies and tourism boards) but readily discard the communal adventures that once happened on that concrete slab. We value the “recreation” of a solitary kayak trip—which I love, don’t get me wrong—but dismiss the recreation of shared, loud, messy collective celebration. Is one inherently more valuable, more “pure,” than the other? Or does this just reflect a newer, more commercially viable trend for the “USA” travel market?

A fish jumped, breaking the glassy surface of the river, a sudden punctuation mark in my thoughts. The contrast was almost theatrical: the vibrant, living ecosystem of the Guadalupe against the monolithic, dead monument to past social ecosystems. But to rationally challenge the prevailing view: is the field truly “dead,” or has its function merely changed? Now, it stands as a stark monument to shifting economies and priorities. Its silence is louder than its past roars, a critical question mark against the landscape. What do we choose to preserve, and what do we let decay? And who benefits from those choices? The kayak rental services thrive. The local diner that relied on game-day bustle? Perhaps not so much.

I turned the kayak around, starting the slow pull back to the rental dock. The setting sun began to paint the concrete ruins in hues of orange and gold, softening its edges, making it almost beautiful in its decay. It was no longer just a sports venue, but a part of the “nature” here now—a geological layer of human ambition being slowly reclaimed. The adventure today wasn’t just on the water; it was in wrestling with these uncomfortable, layered truths.

Today's Reflection

Progress often wears the cloak of environmental or aesthetic purity, but underneath, it redistributes loss and gain. We exchange one set of rhythms—the collective pulse of a stadium—for another—the solitary beat of a paddle on water. One isn’t necessarily better than the other, but the transition is never neutral. Soldier Field’ empty stands are a testament not to what was lost, but to the complex, often unchallenged calculus of what we, as a community, decide to value next. I paddle away, part of the new economy, yet haunted by the ghost of the old one, wondering what silent colossus my own joys might one day leave behind.