The story
Take a look at the ground beneath your feet here at the corner of Lake and Dearborn. It feels solid, doesn’t it? The pavement is firm, the skyscrapers are anchored deep into the earth, and the city hums with a permanent, grounded energy.
But if we were standing in this exact spot in the middle of the 1850s, you’d be ankle-deep—or maybe even waist-deep—in a thick, black, foul-smelling prairie muck. Back then, Chicago was a city built on a swamp, and it was quite literally sinking into the mud. In those early days, the mud was so treacherous that horse-drawn wagons would get stuck up to their axles.
Legends say people used to place signs in the middle of the street that read, "No bottom here" or "Shortest route to China." But the problem wasn't just messy boots; it was deadly. Because the city was level with the lake, there was no way to install a sewage system.
Waste pooled in the streets, and diseases like cholera were ravaging the population. The city was dying of its own filth. Most cities would have moved, but Chicago decided to do something impossible.
They decided to raise the entire downtown—every brick building, every wooden sidewalk, and every street—by as much as fourteen feet. Standing here on Lake Street, you are at the site of one of the greatest engineering miracles of the 19th century. In 1860, right near this intersection, a massive masonry block spanning half an acre and weighing an estimated 25,000 tons was lifted.
These weren't flimsy shacks; they were heavy, four-story brick businesses. To accomplish this, engineers used thousands of jackscrews. An army of men, sometimes six hundred or more, would crawl into the dark, wet mud beneath the foundations.
At the blow of a whistle, every man would give his assigned screw a synchronized quarter-turn. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the city rose. The most incredible part of the story is that Chicago never closed for business.
While the buildings were being jacked up, the shops stayed open. People walked in and out of the doors on temporary gangplanks. Imagine sitting down for a meal in a hotel dining room and finishing your coffee a few inches higher than when you started your appetizer.
One of the most famous projects was the Tremont House, just a block away. It was raised while its guests were still sleeping in their beds, completely unaware that their luxury suite was ascending toward the clouds. This massive undertaking was orchestrated in part by a young engineer named George Pullman, who would later become a titan of the railroad industry.
But here, on the mudflats of Lake Street, he and his colleagues proved that Chicago was a place where the laws of nature were merely suggestions. So, as you continue your walk through the Loop, remember that you aren’t just walking on a street. You are walking on a layer of history built atop a swamp.
Beneath the modern asphalt lies the original ground where Chicagoans refused to sink, choosing instead to pick up their entire world and lift it toward the sky.