Vikings stadium crane operators swing carefully from 300 feet in air

Tim Koebnick used to look longingly at the Metrodome and think about how much fun it would be to work on such a big project. Now, the 55-year-old construction worker from Chaska is getting his chance.

Koebnick is working on an even bigger project as one of five tower crane operators on the construction site of the new $1 billion Minnesota Vikings stadium rising from the Metrodome's rubble. When it's done, the stadium will be almost double the size of its predecessor.

The highest point of the structure — the west prow, which is now in place — soars to 270 feet. The cranes Koebnick and his colleagues run go even higher than that, reaching 300 feet and providing a panoramic view of car crashes, police chases and the incoming weather system at the farthest reaches of the horizon.

The crane operators make the long climb to the top each morning and don't return to earth until quitting time, often 12 to 14 hours later. Their lunches go up with them, and they tend to nibble all day rather than take a break or relax over a sandwich. For the call of nature, they each have a 5-gallon bucket.

While the operators sit alone in their cabs, they're not left alone. The squawk of the radio is steady.

"We're one person, one hook," operator Steve Hviding of Princeton said. "You get busy. … We tend to stay until everyone's done."

From the minute they take their seat in the 6-by-6-foot cabs, the operators respond to requests from crews on the ground to move rebar, columns, steel and equipment. The aim is to make sure everybody on the ground can keep working.

Operators are equipped with binoculars, but also rely on their experience to help them determine if something doesn't look right or someone isn't properly handling a load.

"It's amazing what we can see from 300 feet away that they can't see up close" Hviding said.

Some of the more unusual things they've seen aren't on the construction sites.

When he was sitting in a crane high above Abbott Northwestern Hospital, Koeb­nick spotted a purse snatcher fleeing on the street below and successfully guided police to him.

Hviding once saw a plane crash into a suburban swamp.

Another benefit — they can see changes in the weather miles away. Sometimes that means scrambling to the ground before bad weather hits.

Koebnick has been struck by lightning three times while in the cab. The cranes are grounded, so the operators don't get jolted.

"It's very loud and a big flash," he said.

At times, the cabs can get cold or toasty.

Even though they have heating and cooling, conditions are intensified "like a greenhouse," Koebnick said.

"It pushes quite a bit," Hviding said of the wind.

Koebnick and Hviding said that mastering depth perception and managing the amount of swing to a load were the hardest parts of learning the job. "The first few times you make picks, you're like: Really?" Koebnick said.

As for the climb to work every morning, it takes 15 heart-thumping minutes.

The operators can go straight up or take breaks on platforms along the way. Both Koebnick and Hviding shrugged at the task.

"It's just a lot of ladder," Koebnick said.

"I belly-crawled," Koebnick said. (Safety standards are tighter now.)

Unlike Koebnick, Hviding, 43, started his career on the ground, but decided pushing levers in a crane would be easier on his body.

"I realized I didn't want to be pouring concrete my whole life," he said.

Both men have run cranes on other big projects around town, working on everything from hotels and office towers to parking ramps and hospitals. Stadiums are more exciting. There's also a satisfaction in seeing the general public get to use something such as Target Field, where Koebnick once worked.

"When you're done with that, you feel a little bit of accomplishment," he said.

@rochelleolson