Whatever Happened To ... Can of Worms?

The Can of Worms was a troublesome highway interchange on Rochester's east side that was flawed from the onset and notorious enough to have its own nickname.

Interstates 490 and 590 converged at the Can in a crisscross pattern. Motorists had to weave through traffic from the other route just to keep going in the same direction, resulting in enormous traffic jams, accidents and lots of frustrated drivers.

State Department of Transportation crews finally unsnarled the mess during a three-year, $100 million project. The massive undertaking was probably the biggest and most publicized in regional DOT history, promoted with the slogan "Together We Can" and creating a media darling of the oft-quoted DOT spokesman who provided updates to frazzled commuters.

The Can of Worms opened in 1964 near the Rochester-Brighton line at a cost of $6 million. Legend holds that the nickname came from a reporter who saw the complicated design plans. DOT officials hated the tag and officially called it "The Eastern Crossway."

Locals stuck with the catchier and more accurate moniker. Traffic regularly slowed to a crawl at the Can during rush hours and the accident rate was twice that of similar expressways statewide.

So how did this problematic passageway get built in the first place?

"It was the best solution we had at the time," an engineer who was involved with the initial construction told Michael Zeigler in a 1986 Democrat and Chronicle article. "You have to remember that urban highway design was a new thing. Nobody had much experience with it. We'd all been working on the Thruway, which was a fairly simple situation compared to this."

A cloverleaf traffic pattern was more ideal but cost-prohibitive. The "weaving" design was common in the 1950s when the Can was designed, and the Can was modeled on such patterns in San Francisco and Washington, D.C.

Some heralded the new interchange as an "engineering marvel" when it opened here. Right off the bat, though, local DOT officials were worried. The regional director, when asked if he planned an opening ceremony in 1964, reportedly said, "No, I'm just going to open it and hide."

Rush-hour tie-ups were regular within two years. A population explosion in Monroe County's eastern suburbs further complicated matters. The traffic flow through the Can was more than twice what the plans had intended.

Motorists labeled it the worst intersection in the area and engineers early on talked about eliminating the crisscross. Federal officials finally approved funding in 1980, and traction picked up for canning the Can.

Unraveling such a mess would not come quickly or inexpensively. DOT officials came up with five plans that were presented to the public in 1984. Not surprisingly, they all had pitfalls that someone opposed. City officials, concerned about impacts to residents and businesses, urged the DOT to keep the Can as is but repair the roads.

The DOT settled on what was considered the least-disruptive proposal. Federal highway officials, who had agreed to pay for 90 percent of the project, approved the plans in 1985.

Everyone knew the Can reconstruction was going to be a traffic nightmare. The Can was never shut down during the project, and preparations took years. The state hired a consultant to study the best ways to manage traffic. Car-pooling was promoted and Park & Ride bus services were added. The DOT undertook an "unprecedented" public relations campaign.

By 1988, things were ready to go, but anxiety was high. A February Democrat and Chronicle story that year was headlined "D-Day for the Can." A Times-Union story from the same month by Henry Bellows warned that "The beginning of the end of the Can is at hand." Groundbreaking occurred in March 1988.

The DOT named Ken McClenathan as public information officer for the project. McClenathan was entrenched in the project, seen regularly on TV news shows, heard regularly on radio and referenced regularly in newspaper articles. Some people took to facetiously calling him "Ken of Worms."

McClenathan was quoted saying that fears of a "total disaster" were unfounded and that traffic delays were modest. That assessment didn't fly with many east-side travelers, as Tony Robinson reported in an August 1988 Democrat and Chronicle story.

"Winton Road has been squeezed," Robinson wrote. "Penfield Road has been severed. East Avenue is shut down and University Avenue has been truncated … Detours and closures have caused nothing but heartache since the Can reconstruction project began."

The work trudged on until the project was finished in 1991. I-490 now crosses over I-590 on a bridge, and the crisscross nightmare is long gone.

Old habits die hard, though. Lori Maher, spokeswoman for the regional DOT offices, said the Can nickname has stuck even though its eponymous origins have ceased.

"Everyone around here still calls it that," she said.

The "new" look of the interchange — "bridge over bridge over bridge," as Maher described it — almost had an appearance in an Angelina Jolie movie a few years back, she said. Producers of the 2010 film Salt strongly considered using the area for a photo shoot but ultimately selected a different locale, Maher said.

Morrell is a Rochester-based freelance writer.

About this feature

"Whatever Happened To? ..." is a feature that explores favorite haunts of the past and revisits the headlines of yesteryear. It's a partnership between RocRoots.com and "Hometown Rochester" on Facebook.

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