Field Notes from Forty Floors Up

4 Minute Read

When you walk into a high rise in downtown San Francisco, there’s this moment where the city just… hushes. Down on the bustling streets, it’s honking and rumbling and alive. But the second you step through the glass doors, it smells like sandalwood. The lights are low, the walls cool and smooth. You can hear your own footsteps again.

Then the elevator doors close. They move fast; you feel it in your ears, and suddenly you’re forty something floors up, looking out at the Bay Bridge cutting through the window like a painting. The whole city moves beneath you, traffic rippling across the bridge in thin white lines that fade into water. It’s hard not to stop for a second and just breathe.

That’s the thing I’ve found about high-rise work; it’s quiet, precise and contained… unlike traditional construction. You’re not expanding a footprint or carving out a new addition. You’re shaping what’s already there, inside this perfect glass box suspended in the sky.

Working Within the Existing Concrete Frame

Unlike single-family homes, high-rises come with boundaries that can’t be pushed. Plumbing, venting, and drainage are all tied into systems shared with neighboring units. You can’t just move a wall or reroute a drain without affecting an entire column of homes above and below.

That means you work within the framework that already exists. The structure is solid; thick concrete floors and ceilings that give stability, but it also sets the limits. Most walls are framed in steel, not wood, which makes every adjustment more like precision assembly than demolition and rebuild. It’s deliberate work where every fastener, every piece of framing, and every screw placement has to be right.

A Recent Project

Our clients wanted a few changes to make the space better fit their life. They are grandparents and wanted more room to host family visits, a little more comfort, a little more warmth. We’re expanding the primary bedroom, swapping a bathtub for a large walk-in shower, making small but meaningful kitchen adjustments, and adding a built-in electric fireplace to soften the large, glass-lined living space.

The kitchen will stay in its same footprint but gain higher countertops, a stone waterfall peninsula with bar seating, and a few storage tricks tucked behind the design. It’s the kind of project that requires subtlety where you’re not reinventing the wheel, but just tuning it to run perfectly.

Turning a Limitation Into Design

When we opened the wall housing the walk-in closet of the primary suite to expand the room, we hit a snag; a concrete chase running through the ceiling that we couldn’t move. It’s part of the building’s structure. For a minute, it felt like the plan might fall apart, but that’s part of the work.

We decided to frame a soffit around it instead, carry it across the wall above the bed, and use it as an intentional architectural feature. It’ll hold integrated lighting and give the room a sense of depth. That’s the kind of problem-solving that makes this type of building so rewarding; the chance to turn a limitation into something that feels purposeful.

What It Takes Behind the Scenes

What most people don’t see about high-rise work is the coordination behind it. Nothing happens casually. Material deliveries have to be scheduled through the building; every load of tile, every stick of metal. The service elevator and dock parking spots are booked in time slots, and if you miss yours, you wait.

Any time we need to shut off water or power, we have to plan weeks in advance. Sometimes that means knocking on neighbors’ doors, introducing ourselves, and explaining what we’re doing. Cleanliness is non-negotiable; floors are protected, walls wrapped, and every bit of debris leaves the site the same day.

There’s a rhythm to it, but it’s slower and quieter than most job sites. You have to move with intention.

What Keeps Me Drawn to This Work

I’ve built a lot of different types of projects in San Francisco and the greater Bay Area over the years, but high-rises ask for something specific. They ask for restraint. They’re not about size or flash rather about detail and control.

When you’re forty stories up, even a small imperfection stands out. You feel it when you walk into the room; if the tile lines drift, if the light’s not centered, if the miter doesn’t quite meet. The work asks you to slow down and do it right the first time.

We’re still early in this one completing framing, layout checks, rough mechanicals. But you can already sense what it’ll become. The plan is clean. The materials are thoughtful. It’s going to feel calm and grounded when it’s done, the kind of place that holds still while the city moves all around it.

That’s what it takes to build in the sky.