Peregrine falcons: making a living in New Jersey

January is always a great time for birders, despite the prevailing cold weather in New Jersey. Those of us who keep lists of species we see during the year start from a clean slate, and a sighting of a common House Sparrow or Rock Pigeon on New Year's Day is just as exciting as finding the rarest of the rare at any other time.

Funny thing is, this year started with an unusually large number of birds not always commonly found. Sure, we'd probably see them at some point in the spring, or maybe even February if we were lucky, but our January 1 jaunt around Morris County and Wallkill National Wildlife Refuge yielded some beautiful early views. For example, we spotted individuals from three different owl species, already more than I'd seen all of last year. Two days later, I got my first-ever look at an Orange-crowned Warbler, an infrequent visitor to the state at this time of year.

This Peregrine Falcon regularly perches
on the Statue of Liberty's Crown
in New York Harbor and visits Ellis Island, too.

The ones that truly got me, however, were the Peregrine Falcons we spotted first at DeKorte Environmental Center in Lyndhurst, and then at Laurel Hill Park in Secaucus. It was the first time I could remember seeing Peregrines at two different locations on the same day.

Some folks may rave over Bald Eagles (and rightly so), but there's a special place in my heart for Peregrines. The world's fastest bird when it goes into a dive to snatch prey, this impressive falcon made its home on the cliffs of the Palisades before falling victim to hunters, egg collectors and the pesticide DDT. Once common, the species was virtually eliminated from the Eastern United States by the 1960s. As with the Bald Eagle and Osprey, biologists worked to reintroduce the species after DDT was banned, aiming to raise the population to eight to ten pairs statewide.

My own interest in Peregrines was piqued about 20 years ago, when a coworker mentioned he'd helped a team from the Department of Environmental Protection Division of Fish and Wildlife band some chicks at a nest in Kearny. An adult pair had chosen to raise their young high up on a wall of an electric generating station, and my friend had a video of the process where biologists fit the young with avian ID bracelets for future study. I was transfixed watching the little ones, both fuzzy-cute and fierce, as well as the mother, whose protests were silenced merely by draping an old towel over her head. The leg banding struck me as a ritual that demonstrates the careful balance between humans and the creatures we share the world with. They trust the banders to do no harm; banders respond with care and continued stewardship.

From there, I started noticing more and more references to Peregrines popping up. While some have returned to nest on the Palisades, others have found manmade cliffs -- skyscrapers and bridges -- equally as suitable for bringing up their young. Jersey City's 101 Hudson Street building has hosted a nestbox and nest cam for several years, allowing fans to follow the progress from egg laying to fledging young from a safe distance. Another acquaintance reported being startled by a rapidly diving bird picking off a pigeon not 10 feet away as he was eating his own lunch outside an office building in Newark.

Peregrines are still on New Jersey's Endangered Species List, but their numbers continue to grow. While we were gazing at the individual perched atop a railroad bridge crossing the Hackensack River near Laurel Hill, I wondered whether it was related to the one we'd just seen on a high-voltage tower a few miles away at DeKorte. Had they hatched in Jersey City, or maybe upriver in a box below the Route 3 bridge? Were they related to the Kearny Generating Station chicks in my friend's video? Or maybe they'd come all the way from the Palisades, their eggs laid in nests built where so many generations had started life for eons?

We could have found out, if we'd been able to read the birds' bands for their distinctive ID numbers, but it's just as well we didn't. It's the possibilities that make me truly happy for the Peregrines' viability in New Jersey. In a marshland that is, itself, in recovery, these amazing creatures are making their way.

Walking the boards, somewhere in the swamps of Jersey

Living in New Jersey sometimes means loving things that other people just don't get. Like why, when the Manhattan skyline hovers temptingly on the horizon, someone would prefer to spend the day in a swamp. Especially when it's July, the traditional mosquito season.

Thing is, if you happen to be poking around the edges of Secaucus, you'll find some pretty amazing scenery that's remarkably free of the flying, stinging pests. Who knew?

We've waxed poetic about the Hackensack River before. We even reported on an amazing ecocruise with the Hackensack Riverkeeper, where we saw everything from Bald eagles and Peregrine falcons to Forster's terns and Yellow-crowned night herons. A couple of years ago we reported on the Mill Creek Marsh, a wonder of nature hard against the New Jersey Turnpike and the Mill Creek Mall at Harmon Meadow (incidentally, probably the only development in the state that took the name of a natural site without totally obliterating its namesake).

One place we hadn't yet checked out was just a short gull's flight away. Mill Creek Point Park. It's maybe a ten minute drive from Mill Creek Marsh for us humans, threading through tightly-packed neighborhoods, past the Secaucus town pool and along a phragmites-lined drive to a quiet, well-tended brick pathway along the waterside. Decorative fences are festooned with silhouettes of birds common to the surrounding area, and an active recreation area features plenty of nature-themed features for kids to climb on, along with educational signs describing various animals, bugs and plants.

True to its name, Mill Creek Point was once home to an active tidal sawmill, one of several that dotted the Hackensack River in the 1800s. Each had a dam and sluice system that would trap water at high tide and then release it at low tide to power the mill. In the 20th century, the park site was home to a restaurant that eventually closed in 1986, perhaps the origin of the remnants of concrete still evident by the old pilings near the water's edge. Cormorants and terns perched on wooden pole tops as we tried to reason it out, perhaps keeping an eye out for the bass and other fish frequenting the river and creek.

Past the brick and playground equipment is where the really beautiful part starts. A well-maintained boardwalk leads strollers onto the Secaucus Greenway, where you almost feel as if you're being transported over a carpet of marsh grasses. As we walked along, enjoying a bug-free July afternoon, we heard more than our share of Marsh wrens calling loudly not far from the path. Even better, a few graced us with some extremely good views, a real treat considering how painfully elusive I've found them to be in my birding.

Take a look around as you walk the boards, and you'll see just how close you are to civilization, yet still far away in some respects. The Meadowlands Sports Complex looms to the west and across the river, while the view to the east includes the building-filled rise of North Bergen and, peeking through in places, New York skyscrapers. Somehow it makes this expansive patch of nature all the more valuable, and prized.

As we were strolling along, drinking it in, a pair of bicyclists stopped to ask whether we'd seen any interesting birds, always a conversation starter when you walk around with binoculars. Feeling rather responsible for promoting the Meadowlands, we rattled off the roster of familiar birds we'd sighted in Secaucus on this trip and others, though a lot of them had been absent that day. I don't think I'll ever get over the looks of surprise and pleasure that register on people's faces when they learn how varied and abundant life is in a corner of the world they'd never considered to be all that remarkable. Hidden New Jersey: Wild Kingdom. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Contact! and Ahoy! Aviation on the Hackensack River

Substantially industrialized rivers can hold a lot of secrets. Sometimes they're regrettable, in the form of pollution and blight that take decades and millions of dollars to remove. Other times, they reveal a more romantic past, with activities you can barely imagine the area could support today.

We recently got a lead on one of these stories from reader Greg Parson, who commented on our story about New Jersey Aviation Hall of Famer Ed Gorski and the Lincoln Park Airport. Among his reminiscences about Gorski and the field, he mentioned that his uncle, George Lambros, had operated a seaplane base in Little Ferry.

A seaplane base? On the Hackensack River? With our friends from Hackensack Riverkeeper, we'd cruised up the river in August, enjoying the rebirth of the Meadowlands punctuated with occasional stories of past and present commerce on the river, but I couldn't recall hearing anything about aircraft. Had I missed something?

Indeed, when I mentioned it to friends on Facebook, several confirmed that two bases were operational at the location at some point in the past 40 years. One friend even noted that she used to watch the takeoffs when she was growing up in Ridgefield.

Greg kindly got back to me with some additional information, including an address and the observation that the current Little Ferry Seaplane Base is actually across the river from the original Lambros property, which was in Ridgefield Park. The Little Ferry location had once been the home to a famed restaurant called Tracey's Nine Mile House, which apparently served an amazing sliced steak sandwich.

Depending on your perspective, this is either the Hackensack River
or Runway 01-19 of Little Ferry Seaplane Base.

With that information in hand, I took to the web for additional background. While there's not a lot of data out there on George Lambros or his operation, I did discover that the base opened in August, 1947 as an adjunct of sorts to nearby Teterboro Airport. Lambros operated an instructional school and seaplane rental out of the base, using craft like the Grumman Wigeon to certify pilots for water takeoffs and landings. Among those giving the lessons was Springfield resident Kathleen Hilbrandt, who'd received her flight instructor rating after serving in the Women Airforce Service Pilots during World War II.

Lambros didn't have a monopoly on that stretch of the Hackensack, with Mellor-Howard Seaplane Base operating nearby. The Hackensack Riverkeeper himself, Bill Sheehan, also informed us that another seaplane port operated farther upriver, at Carlstadt. Now the site of River Barge Park and Marina, the former Sky Harbor was also a training location for water-heading pilots during World War II.

Look for more recent information about the Little Ferry operation, and you're up for a difficult search, especially if you attempt to find the seaplane base itself. At least two owners have operated the base since Lambros, but I couldn't find the date when it moved across the river from Ridgefield Park to Little Ferry. Several sources, including the Federal Aviation Administration website, list it as an active base, with two operations reported in 2012 (I'm assuming that's one landing and one takeoff, but I could be wrong). However, when Ivan and I visited the site recently, all we could find was a closed restaurant (perhaps the successor to Tracey's), a dock that appears to have seen better days, and no evidence of aircraft whatsoever. To be fair, the area was hit hard by Hurricane Sandy. Across the river, the former site of the Lambros base is occupied by a large industrial building.

Needless to say, we'll be doing a bit more research on this fascinating aspect of the Hackensack River. Meanwhile, if you're in the area and see an amphibious airplane coming in for a landing, let us know!

Ambush at River Vale: the Baylor massacre

After an impromptu trip to Lake Tappan, Ivan and I found ourselves wandering just north of the state border in New York, looking for the site where British intelligence officer Major John Andre was hanged during the Revolutionary War. The town of Tappan has done a lovely job of retaining a historical air, and we couldn't help but do some light exploring around the yard of the Reformed Church. Among the aged and faded Colonial-era markers, we found something a bit more modern, with a New Jersey connection.

This was one I hadn't heard about, so I took a quick photo and made a note to look it up once we returned to Hidden New Jersey HQ. Might this ambush be something like the Hancock's Bridge massacre that had taken place in Salem County in March 1778? With so little data, all we could do was conjecture as we headed back home through the back roads of upper Bergen County.

The Baylor Massacre memorial and grave site.

As the Hidden New Jersey fates seem to determine sometimes, it wasn't long before we found ourselves passing a sign saying "Baylor Massacre burial site" and pointing to a park in River Vale. This coincidence was too, well, coincidental for us not to stop and investigate. What we found was a wooded park with memorials and a series of interpretive signs that tell the story of the area in Colonial times, the personalities involved, the massacre itself, and the archaeological work that's been done on site. We quickly found ourselves engrossed in an event which, while small in the overall scope of the Revolution, brings the horror of war home, to suburbia.

The Third Continental Light Dragoons hailed from Virginia and were led by 26 year-old Colonel George Baylor, a former aide-de-camp of General George Washington. They had little if any battle experience, being used primarily for reconnaissance and escort. In fact, Baylor's regiment was known as Lady Washington's guards in recognition to their service to the future first lady. As such, they were also lightly armed with sabers and a few pistols.

During the summer of 1778, the Third Dragoons were stationed in Paramus while Baylor's second in command, Major Alexander Clough, worked the area for intelligence and to recruit spies. When the British began to forage the area for food and supplies in late September, Washington ordered Continental troops to protect the area in an arc reaching from Newark into New York State. Baylor took quarter in a home on the main road through what's now River Vale, and his men took shelter in barns and other structures nearby.

From all appearances, they had no knowledge that British General Lord Cornwallis was planning to lure Washington and his troops into a battle. On the evening of September 28, 1778, Baylor's 104 enlisted men were fast asleep in several barns when they were ambushed by troops led by Major General Charles Grey. The attackers struck by surprise, and few if any dragoons in one barn could hear disturbances from another under siege, since Grey had instructed his troops to use bayonets rather than firing their flint-lock muskets.

The British acted with malicious savagery, spurred on by their commander's reputation for cruelty. Many dragoons were said to have been bayoneted repeatedly despite their cries of surrender, and Congressional investigation later determined that 11 were killed on the spot while 37 others managed to escape. The officers met a similar fate. Discovered in the house where they were staying, one was slashed to death while Baylor himself sustained injuries that continued to manifest until his death at the age of 32, six years later. Those troops who survived the night were brought to a makeshift hospital and prison within the church at Tappan, the site where Ivan and I originally discovered the story.

Originally the site of a tannery, the property apparently had eventually lain fallow for nearly 200 years, its history forgotten once a commemorative marker and the mill stone were removed. The remains of some of the murdered dragoons were said to have been entombed in tanning vats on the property, but their exact location was unknown. It was an unfortunate end for patriots who'd given their lives for our young country, but at least their final resting place was a placid one, near the meandering Hackensack River.

Their peace was threatened in the late 1960s, when a builder made plans to subdivide the tract for a housing development. Local citizens raised the alarm, and the county hired three college students to research the claims, interview older residents who remembered accounts of the massacre, and dig within the site for any evidence that would support the assertion that soldiers were buried there. The team ultimately found six skeletons, a belt buckle and other artifacts, confirming the importance of the site.

While the names of the found six dragoons are lost to history, their resting spot and story thankfully are not. The local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution placed a commemorative marker to mark the spot where the soldiers' remains were reinterred, and the original tannery mill wheel was returned to the location, as well. And, of course, the acreage remains wooded and quiet, destined to never be marred by a developer's backhoe.

Exploring the Everglades of the North: ecocruising with the Hackensack Riverkeeper

On our birding ventures, both Ivan and I generally keep lists of the species we see. Invariably, the "day list" begins with the classics: house sparrow, Canada goose and American crow, with the European starling added for good measure. They're pretty much everywhere and very easily identifiable. If we were doing a count of how many of each species we saw in a given day, these few would probably be among the greatest in volume.

The other evening, in the heart of Secaucus, our first few included Forster's tern, peregrine falcon and bald eagle. Yeah, that's right: as you're riding over the Hackensack River on Route 3, you're sharing space with an astounding array of bird species, some even endangered and protected, but all there to live and eat. And they've got a bounty of food because the river is cleaner than it has been in decades. Native fish, crabs and the creatures that eat them have made their home in the Meadowlands again.

The improved condition of the river, its tributaries and the surrounding watershed is due in no small part to the work of Hackensack Riverkeeper Bill Sheehan and the not-for-profit organization he leads. Through advocacy, cleanups and their fair share of lawsuits, Captain Bill and crew have led the charge in improving the river both as a source of drinking water for one of the most densely-populated areas of the country, and as a place for people to enjoy. (In the interest of full disclosure, Ivan serves on the organization's board and I've done some volunteer work for them.)

You can't see 'em, but there are two eagles in this tree.

One of Riverkeeper's top priorities is to get people out on the river, and we did just that the other day, on one of the organization's two pontoon boats. Leaving from a dock behind the Red Roof Inn on Meadowlands Parkway, we were soon motoring beneath the bridges that carry Route 3 over the Hackensack. As we passed one of the pilings supporting the westbound traffic, we saw a peregrine falcon perched in a nesting box that had been placed there by the state Department of Transportation. This endangered species appeared fully comfortable with his manmade home, yet another example of nature adapting.

When you're actually IN the Meadowlands, on the water and among the marsh grass, you're taken by how peaceful it is, as opposed to the stress of driving on the roads. Gulls and terns flew noisily overhead, putting one in the mind of boating through the back channels of the marshes down the shore. As we headed farther upriver, past the sports complex, we could see the Turnpike at ground level, the Vince Lombardi Service Area appearing like some bizarre rest stop in the middle of the Everglades.

At points, the trip even seemed to be turning into some sort of Disney World ride, with marquee birds making their appearances at strategic moments. An approaching riverside tree yielded two mature bald eagles, perched within full view as if they were waiting for us. Several osprey, still on the state's threatened species list, were perched on railroad and Turnpike bridges overhead. When we made a side trip into Mill Creek, a host of yellow- and black-crowned night herons accommodated us by taking wing and alighting onto convenient branches. Yellow-crowneds have proved particularly difficult for me to spot in my birding adventures, but I easily counted five of them foraging through the river's marshy banks and spartina grass as dusk darkened. That's a pretty big deal, and I was especially tickled to note that I saw them well before we spotted our first Canada geese for the evening. It's not surprising, actually, as the night herons have developed a rookery (nursery) near Harmon Cove in recent years.

Sunset on the Hackensack. Who'da thunk?

We weren't the only humans on the river, either. A jet skier zipped past us early in the trip, and we met up with a friendly kayaker just after we saw all the night herons. On the banks of the river at Laurel Hill Park, a father and his toddler son were enjoying the peaceful view of the sunset over the marsh. Another boat larger than ours waited patiently for a New Jersey Transit train to pass before the drawbridge could be lifted to allow both of us to motor back upriver. I couldn't help but be reminded of the long-ago days when the Hackensack was a major thoroughfare for schooners transporting raw materials and finished goods to dockside factories and merchants.

While the river has made remarkable progress in the past two decades, it's far from pristine. Crabbing is prohibited due to hazardous pollutants in the river sediment, and despite clean water regulations, outdated municipal sewerage systems continue to drain untreated wastewater (yes, that stuff) into the river after storms when their treatment facilities are overwhelmed. You're not going to get sick from boating or canoeing on the Hackensack, but it'll be some time before you can swim there on a daily basis. The Riverkeeper's work is far from done.

That, however, shouldn't keep you from checking it out for yourself. Hackensack Riverkeeper runs a full range of offerings to get you out onto the river, including canoe rentals at Laurel Hill Park and Overpeck Creek. You can even book passage to take the same sunset cruise we did. It's your river -- check it out. I guarantee you'll be pleasantly surprised by what you see.

From enslavement to business mogul: Elizabeth Sutliff Dulfer

I love it when a Hidden New Jersey story reveals another, equally as obscure story about an accomplished individual who's somehow evaded widespread notice. Such is the case with accomplished 19th century businesswoman Elizabeth Dickerson Sutliff Dulfer.

You might remember her name from our story about the clay trade that once prospered along the Hackensack River. She was the first person to capitalize on the wide-scale commercial value of the local clay, purchasing 87 acres of land in Little Ferry for the purpose of mining and selling the substance. It's remarkable for a woman of that time to have the resources and ability to acquire land without a man's help, but it's an even more fascinating story when you consider her origins.

Elizabeth Dickerson was born into slavery in 1790, in New Barbadoes, current-day Hackensack. She worked in servitude for William and Polly Campbell at their home along the banks of the Hackensack River until achieving manumission in 1822. It's not known whether she paid for her freedom or whether it was granted for past service, but either way, she was free to enjoy the same rights as any woman who'd never been enslaved.

Census records indicate that following her release, she may have lived and worked as a seamstress in New York City, marrying a Jamaican immigrant named Alexander Sutler. Regardless of her profession, she must have managed her income wisely, for she started acquiring land on her return to New Jersey in 1847. She spent more than $1300 to purchase the Little Ferry property not far from her childhood home, aggregating tracts from several sellers. You've got to believe she had a goal in mind, as it took time, serious persistence and a strategy to negotiate the number of transactions she had to make to acquire the land.

Once she had the property together, the real work began. Mining clay was a tough, labor-intensive business in the mid 1800s, and she hired several employees to help her. As we saw in the case of the Mehrhofs, Dulfer counted on ships to transport her product to customers in the larger cities of New Jersey and beyond. Some accounts say that her business was one of the largest clay providers in the country; she was likely among the wealthiest landowners in Bergen County, too. That said, she still had to deal with the prevailing attitudes of the time: the 1850 census listed her husband as owner and farmer of the property, even though she herself held legal title to the land.

Following Alexander's death in 1855, Elizabeth remarried, this time to a Dutch immigrant 33 years her junior. John Dulfer joined his wife's business, and together they also tended the 50 acres designated to agriculture. Records show that the farm was successful as well, yielding potatoes, hay, butter and produce that Elizabeth sold at market in Hoboken and elsewhere.

Elizabeth's business and financial acumen served her well in her advancing age, when she capitalized on the potential of her considerable holdings. Selling the clay beds in 1867 for more than ten times what she'd paid for them 20 years earlier, she became a financier. Between 1864 and 1870, she invested more than $16,000 in Bergen County real estate and high-interest bearing mortgages.

Elizabeth died in 1880 at the age of 90. Buried in what's now known as Gethsemane Cemetery in Little Ferry, she seems to have fallen largely into obscurity, much like the clay industry in which she excelled. It's truly a shame: in her time, she defied the odds against women and African Americans to become one of the most successful entrepreneurs in New Jersey.

Quoth the Raven: Secaucus' Laurel Hill?

If you want to find a raven in Northern New Jersey, Laurel Hill is the place to go. I wasn't aware of this until Ivan suggested we head over to try our luck after our successful white pelican venture a few weeks ago. We hadn't yet seen one of these large corvids this year, and while they're not as rare here as they once were, it's not as if they're hanging out with the sparrows in your average city park.

You might know Laurel Hill by another name: Snake Hill. It's that big craggy rock that juts out of the Meadowlands adjacent to the western spur of the New Jersey Turnpike, and it looks imposing enough to be home to the somewhat sinister-looking raven. Formed from a volcanic eruption hundreds of thousands of years ago, it now bears the scars of human habitation and abuse. From 1855 until 1962, it was the site of Hudson County's jail, almshouse and institutions for the physically and mentally ill, evidenced now only by a crumbling brick smokestack. Quarrying also took place at the site, from the late 1800s until the mid-20th century, with an asphalt factory operating there for about 20 years. Interestingly, the county had reportedly contracted with a company to level the hill altogether, erasing one of the region's most intriguing landmarks. As it is, it's estimated that the hill we know today is only about 20 percent of the size it was before human disturbance.

Turnpike travelers will also recognize Laurel Hill as Fraternity Rock, for the decades-long tradition of pledges spray-painting their Greek organization's letters on the sheer stone walls. I always wondered how the guys got up there to make their marks. No way could they have pulled their cars over on the shoulder of the Turnpike and climbed over the side barrier; the chances of getting nailed by State Troopers are just too good.

That brings up the logical question about the ravens: how could we get a good view without pulling over on the western spur? Fortunately we've got an advantage that decades of frat boys didn't: Laurel Hill Park. While quarrying regrettably obliterated a significant amount of the hill over the years, it left behind a level area along the Hackensack River, perfect for a playground in the Meadowlands. Ball fields and a well-equipped playground have been laid out in the shadow of the rock, and there's also a dock and canoe livery for the Hackensack Riverkeeper Paddling Center. Protective fences circle much of the hill itself, given the somewhat unstable nature of the remaining rock, but the shrubs and small trees growing on it are still well visible from a safe distance.

The Laurel Hill ravens -- nest at left, bird at right. (Thanks
to Lisa Ann Malandrino for the photo!) 

Ravens like to nest in the cavities of craggy cliffs, and it seems that they've gotten so accustomed to Laurel Hill that some have made it their year-round home. You can imagine that even when the rock was bustling with the activity of the county institutions, these somewhat spooky corvids would prefer living there.

We visited on a distinctly sunny, non-spooky day, but there's always something about looking at that rock that brings a little chill to my spine. I always seem to show up when no-one else is there, and even with Ivan along, the place felt oddly isolated, even though we could hear the rush of Turnpike traffic in the near distance, just on the other side of the hill. The mood was perfect for finding the bird that Poe used to such mysterious effect.

At first, it appeared that we were going to strike out, as the only life on the rock seemed to be a small mixed flock of sparrows and juncos picking through some sparse grass. Then I looked a little farther up, to the branches of a bare, spindly tree. Sitting on one of the branches were two large, dark birds that were unmistakably corvids. The question was whether they were both ravens, or a raven and a crow. Ravens are larger, with shaggier neck feathers and more substantial beaks than crows, so the question was whether the smaller of our pair was perhaps a juvenile.

Fortunately, they both generously accommodated us with brief flights to display their unmistakable fan-shaped tails, and we were confident that we'd found two ravens. Given that it was the day before the Super Bowl, I figured it was a good omen for Rutgers alum and Baltimore running back Ray Rice.

The real George Washington Bridge... at New Bridge Landing

Totally exhausted from a long work week (Ivan) and a persistent head cold (me), we eschewed the usual wandering around this weekend for a more targeted trip. We'd driven through River Edge a few weeks ago, reminding me of New Bridge Landing and the Steuben House. I'd worked nearby for a stretch, and the small park there had been one of my favorite places to eat lunch on nice days. Besides the aforementioned house, a few other colonial-era buildings had been moved to the site on the banks of the Hackensack River, but I'd never been inside any of them. That was reason enough to check it out.

I thought I knew the story here: the house was once owned by loyalists named Zabriskie, and after the war, it was given to Major General Baron von Steuben, Inspector General of the Continental Army. That's all correct, but this is much more than a colonial house site. If you're to believe the signage that's gone up since my lunching visits, New Bridge Landing is the site of the real George Washington Bridge.

Today, the Hackensack barely flows past the Steuben house, having been impounded a few miles upstream to feed the Oradell Reservoir. At the time of the Revolution, though, the old Hacky was deep enough to supply a gristmill on site, supplemented by a nearby pool to make up for the effects of the river's tides. A wooden bridge there was the southernmost point at which the river could be crossed by man-made span, and commercial traffic took full advantage of the opportunity. The land surrounding the river farther downstream was even marshier than it is today, making it nearly impossible to build useful roads. If the muck didn't get you, the mosquitoes would.

This steel swing bridge replaced the "Washington" bridge
in 1888 and is the oldest span of its type in New Jersey.

Knowing the local terrain meant the difference between survival and surrender for Washington's troops during some of the darkest days of the Revolutionary War. Cornwallis' British and Hessian troops crossed the Hudson in the early hours of November 20, 1776, with the goal of capturing Fort Lee (that's the actual fort, not the town we know today) and the nearly 1000 Continental soldiers garrisoned there. If the troops didn't move fast, they'd be trapped on the narrow peninsula between the Hudson and the Hackensack. And if the British got to New Bridge first, they'd not only be able to capture the Continentals, they'd have a strategic path to penetrate New Jersey and move westward into Pennsylvania without hindrance from the patriots.

Washington was already in the town of Hackensack and met his troops as they neared the crossing. Uncontested by the British, the men made it across the river, marched toward Hackensack and eventually made their way to Newark to recoup. It wasn't until the following day that Cornwallis' troops moved to capture the bridge, which they did successfully despite the efforts of the Continentals' rear guard.

Writer Thomas Paine was an eyewitness to the crossing and related the news in his tract The American Crisis, published about a month later. The decisive battles of Trenton and Princeton were yet to occur, and Paine was pretty much an embedded reporter in current day parlance. His opening words, "These are the times that try mens' souls" were written in New Jersey and still stir passion in the hearts of American patriots today.

Things are a lot more peaceful at New Bridge Landing now. Even though Route 4 and busy Hackensack Avenue aren't far away, you can conjure your own little calm by standing on the bridge and looking south. When we were there, the tide was out and Ivan noted that the mudflats would be great for shorebirds. We didn't see too much avian action but heard quite a bit of spring song in the air. A passive recreation park and greenway on the eastern side of the bridge offers even more opportunity to relax and get back to nature, even with houses across the quiet street.

The Bergen County Historical Society manages the Steuben House but hasn't held regular hours there since the property was flooded during a nor'easter in 2007. Their website has an exhaustive history of the property, along with relevant text from Paine's work.