London Calling at the Pole Farm

On any given summer day, an 800-acre expanse of grasslands and forested tract on Lawrence Township’s Cold Soil Road is alive with buzzing insects and chirping birds. Ninety years ago the tract was alive with state-of-the-art radio technology that transmitted telephone calls to Europe, South America and the Caribbean. 

Locals dubbed it the Pole Farm for the ever-increasing number of oversized telephone poles that sprouted up to meet increasing demand for international telecommunications service. Today the poles are gone and the site is part of Mercer Meadows, a unit of the Mercer County Park System.

The Pole Farm’s quaint appellation belies the magnitude of its stature as the American Telephone and Telegraph Company's Long Lines Overseas Telephone Radio Transmitting Station. More than two dozen steel towers, and then hundreds of towering poles were erected between 1929 and the 1960s to support antennae that transmitted telephone calls via shortwave radio to points across the Atlantic.

These days, we take international telephone service for granted; with the advent of web-based services, many of us skip the phone for video anyway. In the early 20^th century, however, telecommunication was limited to places that had been physically wired into the system. Thus, North America could talk to North America, and Europe could talk to Europe, but there was no way for people in the Eastern Hemisphere to talk with those in the Western Hemisphere.

Enter the wonders of radio, which was becoming commercially viable for voice signals in the early 1920s. Bell Labs engineers first devised a way to transmit converted phone signals to London and back via long-wave radio signals, but that was on an expensive single circuit. If AT&T had any hope of selling international telephone service to the public, it had to be both cost effective and available on demand.

The answer came in shortwave radio, which overcame the issues of long-wave but brought its own limitations. (Big science alert here!) To beam powerful signals long distances, specialized radio antennas would have to be located precisely, built under exacting conditions and suspended by large arrays of towers. Bell Labs engineers again got to work, determining what kind of equipment the service would need and where it would need to be located to operate optimally. Their solution also had to address the very real problem that the wavelengths of shortwave vary in how well they work, depending on the time of day. If the service were to be reliable, engineers would have to overcome the limitation with a better antenna.

Beyond the knotty radio transmission challenges, AT&T needed two pieces of land - one to build a transmitter and another to build a receiver - far enough away from each other to assure that the arriving and departing signals didn't interfere with each other. Building them in sparsely populated areas would assure that there wouldn't be much if any other radio traffic to interfere. The transmitting station needed to be relatively close to U.S. Route 1, where the primary East Coast telephone system trunk line was located.

Netcong in hilly, rural western Morris County proved to be a suitable location for the receiving station, narrowing the possibilities for a transmitting station to the south. Lawrence and Hopewell Townships proved to be just the spot, with appropriately level farmland that was largely cleared. AT&T’s land acquisition team quietly began negotiating with 14 farmers in 1928, moving quickly in the hopes that deals would close before local chatter would prompt property owners to raise their prices. Word got out in the local newspaper, and while AT&T initially denied being in the market for farmland, it eventually admitted the transactions and closed the deals.

Following the purchases, AT&T quickly got to work on the infrastructure, both here in New Jersey and the first two international locations, London and Buenos Aires.

The Lawrence Township facility included two radio transmission buildings complete with an innovative water cooling system for the powerful vacuum tubes that generated the necessary shortwaves. To the outside world, the most remarkable feature of the facility was the v-shaped configuration of 180-foot-high steel towers – 26 in all – which supported a series of wire-mesh antennas. Placed about 250 feet apart, the lines of towers extended about a mile in each direction, aimed to beam signals to London and Buenos Aires. Somewhat like shades that could be rolled up and down, the mesh curtain antennas were precisely tuned to accommodate the complexities of shortwave technology at a given time of day or night. Machinery hoisted the various curtains on Roebling cable at the appointed hours to ensure reliable telephone service 24 hours a day.

Work was completed in Lawrence and London in 1929, right on schedule, with Buenos Aires coming online in 1930. Technological advancements soon improved efficiency and capacity, enabling the site to handle more calls on a single radio channel and bringing the cost of a call to $30 for three minutes. Meanwhile, some of the farmers who once owned the land had made deals to lease it back, and continued to raise crops in the shadows of the towers. One could say the property was bearing fruit for everyone.

An example of the layout of a single rhomboid antenna,
illustrated on the Pole Farm's concrete map. 

Just three years after the massive towers were erected, AT&T introduced the rhombic antenna – a five acre-wide diamond-shaped array of eight poles, each 80 feet high, holding up the antenna wire. These smaller, less expensive arrays spelled the end for the giant curtain antennae, which were dismantled in 1939. Further advancements brought the twin rhombic antenna (think one diamond next to another). It’s the proliferation of those, over time, that led locals to dub the tract the Pole Farm. With farming still going on around and amid the antennae, it probably didn’t take much imagination for an onlooker to conclude that the tract’s big crop was oversized telephone poles.

By the mid 1950’s, the site was the largest facility of its type in the world, handling more than a million calls a year. The site’s remaining woodlots and orchards were cleared to erect even more antennas, totaling more than 2000 poles by the 1960s. Old farmhouses, previously converted to housing for AT&T workers, were either moved offsite or demolished to create more space.

In the end, the technological progress that had given birth to the Pole Farm was what ultimately what created its demise. The successful introduction of transatlantic telephone cables and then satellite telecommunication proved to offer more reliable, less costly service. AT&T relegated the Pole Farm to backup status in the 1960s, removing antennae as they were taken out of service. In the final years, the facility that once provided groundbreaking voice communications to world capitals was now left to serve small markets in countries most Americans couldn’t easily locate on a map.

AT&T fully decommissioned the Lawrence Overseas Telephone Radio Transmitting Station on December 31, 1975. By the end of 1977, virtually every standing structure on the Pole Farm had been demolished – everything but a single pole from the Tel Aviv rhombic. Farmer Charlie Bryan had requested that it remain standing as a lightning rod to protect his home and barn nearby.

Other traces of the Pole Farm’s infrastructure are largely gone, through you might find the stray cable or concrete footing among the ground foliage as you stroll along the wooded paths. The county has memorialized the two transmitter buildings with steel arches that approximate where their entrances would have been. The site of Building Two, not far from the parking lot, includes a large concrete map of the antenna configurations that once stood on the grounds. One can walk from Bogota to Berlin, to Moscow, to London, to Willemstad, to Bermuda, imagining the conversations that flowed through those radio waves.

Turns out, too, that the Pole Farm is a remarkably lovely place to visit on a summer afternoon. In the two decades since Mercer County bought the property, 435 acres of the former farmland has been converted to native grasslands. It’s great habitat for Short-eared Owls and Harriers in winter, and Grasshopper Sparrow, Bobolink and Meadowlark in summer. The Washington Crossing Audubon has pegged the fields as outstanding for butterflies if the county leaves the grasses and wildflowers unmowed for the summer.

Level gravel paths make the entire place very welcoming to anyone on foot, bicycle, stroller or wheelchair. As you walk or roll or run, consider that some of the very routes you’re taking are the service roads that linemen once used as they maintained the antennae that connected the world’s voices. Stop to look closely in the woods, and you might even see vestiges of the poles, guy lines and concrete footings that stabilized the antennae. Interpretive signage along the paths offer photos of the structures that once stood there, along with portraits of some of the people who kept the station humming. A leisurely visit will leave you marveling at what once stood there.

While I’ve covered a lot, there’s so much more to the Pole Farm, from nature to history to technology. Lawrence Township historian Dennis Waters’ very informative presentation for the Mercer County Park Commission, available on YouTube, dives a bit deeper into the technology, the people who worked at the site, and the post AT&T history. It’s definitely worth watching.

Fun with Flags at the Old Barracks*

One of my favorite parts of exploring New Jersey is that there's always the chance of finding something extraordinarily cool in a spot you're not really expecting.

Like the time we found a bamboo forest at Rutgers in New Brunswick. Or when we discovered a piece of Grover Cleveland's wedding cake at his birthplace in Caldwell. Or found a taxidermied specimen of the now-extinct Heath Hen at the Drake House in Plainfield. Usually, they're not the things you're initially looking for in the place you're visiting, but they become one of the dominant aspects of your memories of the place.

I had a similar experience not long ago at the Old Barracks in Trenton. Said by some to be the last remaining colonial British military barracks in North America, it was constructed in 1758 as part of a larger defensive system during the French and Indian War. It played a pivotal role in the American Revolution and had a checkered past until it was purchased by local preservationists in the early 1900s. Now owned by the state of New Jersey, it's been fully restored to tell stories of colonial life and defense. If you're into military history or early Jerseyana, it's an amazing place to visit.

Among the many artifacts is something you'd never expect to find at a small museum in New Jersey: one of the oldest surviving flags in North America and maybe the British Isles. It's hanging unassumingly on a wall in the Barracks' French and Indian War exhibit space.

The Pine Tree Flag. Photo courtesy The Old Barracks Museum..

In the interest of full disclosure, the flag's story is tied more to Connecticut than to New Jersey, but there's no shame in that. Some of our best friends came here from other places. It's known as a Pine Tree flag for the small conifer affixed to the upper left portion near the St. George's Cross. Embroidery in the center stripe of fabric appears to label it as the banner of the 5th Connecticut Provincial Regiment, which hailed from somewhere east of present-day Hartford. The soldiers of the 5th served at Fort Ticonderoga during the French and Indian War, and many of them likely clipped pieces of the flag for souvenirs at the conclusion of their service. That's why the damage to the banner would seem so uniform in spots. Flags carried by regiments during the Civil War sometimes suffered similar damage -- one could say they were sort of loved to death. (Coincidentally, New Jersey's Civil War flag collection is just a few blocks away at the State Archives, with select few examples on display.)

How do artifacts like this survive, and how do they end up in Trenton? This one seems to have been the beneficiary of the forgetfulness of the soldier who might have been its creator. Flagbearer and Ensign Jacob Woodward took the homemade flag when his service was complete, tucking it away in a chest, much as many of us do when we move from one stage of our lives to the next. Maybe he took it out occasionally to view it, maybe not. All we know is that 200 years later, a Woodward descendant sold the chest and its contents in an estate sale, leaving the new owner to discover what he fortunately recognized to be a treasure. Professional textile conservators have estimated that the flag dates to the mid-1700s, if not earlier.

One thing led to another until, in 2009, the Pine Tree flag found a home within Trenton's own French and Indian War relic. Though the Barracks and the flag weren't acquainted in their primes, it's fitting they should be together now, much like centenarians who meet at the VFW and build a friendship based on similar wartime experiences. Together, they tell a story of pre-Independence American history that so many of us know so little about.


*Apologies to fans of The Big Bang Theory

Keeping track: railroad vestiges lead to a storied past

It's not all that unusual to run across railroad tracks while wandering around New Jersey. With a few thousand miles of track laid over the past 185 years or so, any trip within the state is bound to have you hearing the "clunk-a-clunk-a" of tires over tracks, or traveling beneath a railroad overpass.

However, when you see tracks that look like this:

you stop and take a look. And when you run into them at two different locations over the course of a couple of weeks, you get curious. The first occurrence was in Hightstown, where the stones and rails were placed near North Main Street downtown. The second was within a 15 minute drive, at historic Dey Farm in Monroe Township. Connecting rails were pulled away years ago, leaving these two segments as utter curiosities. The stone is virtually the same as the sleepers we've seen on old Morris Canal planes, though with gaps in between rather than in abutting blocks, making us wonder when the now-common wooden railroad ties came into vogue. And where did this railroad go?

We'd stumbled on vestiges of the Camden and Amboy, the first railroad built in New Jersey, incorporated in 1830 and chartered on February 15, 1831. How old is it? It's so old that the first train that rode the tracks was pulled by horses.

The Monroe stretch is pretty short
and offers new homeowners
the frustrating reality that while they live
near the railroad, it'll get them nowhere.

The Camden and Amboy was the realization of the ambition of John Stevens, who we know from his earlier forays into steamboats, namely the establishment of the first regular steam ferry service between Hoboken and Manhattan. While he successfully laid a small bit of track on his own property to run a British-built engine, it was left to his sons Robert and Edwin to take the concept to a larger scale.

The first stretch of the railroad linked Bordentown through Jamesburg to South Amboy via horse-drawn cars. Rails were spiked down onto granite sleeper stones reportedly produced by inmates at New York's Sing Sing Prison. Only when shipments were late did Robert Stevens consider laying the rails on squared-off wooden crossbeams, creating a more reliable bed that prompted him to replace all of the granite with wood. Stevens was also responsible for the development of the "T" shaped track and railroad spikes we're accustomed to; used together, they provided a smoother ride overall.

As workers continued laying track, the Stevens brothers purchased their first locomotive, the John Bull, from a Newcastle, England manufacturer. In a situation that's familiar to anyone who's bought Ikea furniture, the engine arrived in several pieces and without instructions for assembly, leaving railroad mechanic Isaac Dripps to reason it out though he'd never seen a locomotive before.

It would be another two years before the engine would serve the line, but Robert Stevens cannily made a test run in November 1831 to give select New Jersey legislators and other dignitaries a chance to enjoy the new technology. This, perhaps, was an early taste of the outsize influence the company would have over government officials in its most powerful years; at one point years later, pundits would jokingly refer to New Jersey as the "State of Camden and Amboy."

In fact, the C&A secured a monopoly on transportation across the state's waist, merging with the Delaware and Raritan Canal Company by a 1831 act of the Legislature that created "the Joint Companies." Passengers would travel by rail, while the canal would handle freight shipments from Bordentown to New Brunswick. The new company agreed to pay the state a $30,000 annual franchise fee that effectively financed government operations. By 1834, the railroad finally reached the breadth of the state between its namesake cities, later buying out rivals to extend its chokehold.

The history of New Jersey's railroad industry is long, complex and loaded with intrigue that would confound J.R. Ewing (consider, for example, Hopewell's frog war). Ultimately, the C&A was bought out by the larger, more powerful Pennsylvania Railroad in its quest to control New Jersey's transportation system, but it had already made its mark as a true pioneer.

Have you seen other portions of the C&A?

Washington's Crossing: more than meets the eye

It's not exactly hidden New Jersey, but the annual reenactment of General George Washington crossing the Delaware River was a bit of an eye opener for me when Ivan and I attended this Christmas.

This year's reenactment looked nothing like this.
Washington Crossing the Delaware, Emanuel Leutze.
Metropolitan Museum of Art collection,
gift of John Stewart Kennedy, 1897  www.metmuseum.org

Every American school child learns the story of the crossing and events that led to it, or should. Having lost the Battle of Long Island and Forts Washington and Lee in the summer and fall of 1776, Continental troops retreated across New Jersey to the relative safety of Pennsylvania. During these bleak days, morale plummeted and troops deserted in droves, having lost confidence in Washington's leadership. Philosopher and pamphleteer Thomas Paine, traveling with the retreating forces, was inspired to write some of his most famous words in The American Crisis: "These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman."

Washington knew that he would have to make a daring move to save the young nation that had been born with the Declaration of Independence less than six months earlier. While a diversionary attack would be waged farther downstream, he would lead 2400 men across the Delaware about eight miles upstream of Trenton on Christmas night. Once ashore they'd split up and march southward to surprise and engage Hessian troops at their winter quarters.

Today we know that Washington's plan succeeded. Wins in three battles over the following ten days gave the Continental Army a much needed shot in the arm and the encouragement to continue fighting for the cause of freedom. Artistic representations of the Delaware crossing are part of our shared vernacular and are used everywhere from New Jersey's contribution to the state quarter series to The Simpsons.

But... you don't really get it until you see it. At least that's what I came to realize as Ivan and I stood on the banks of the Delaware this Christmas, waiting for the reenactment of the crossing.

When we arrived at Washington Crossing State Park that morning, skies were cloudy and the temperature around 50 degrees. Winds were blustery, though, and while there were no ice floes as there were on the original night, the river current was running briskly. We walked across the narrow bridge that spans the river to get to the Pennsylvania side, where the small town of Washington's Crossing was buzzing with a growing number of reenactors and spectators. Altogether, the group may have totalled about half the number Washington had with him that night. A few Durham boats had already been brought down the riverbank and positioned in the river, only a small representation of the number that the general had commandeered for the crossing.

The relatively warm weather and all of the hubbub made it hard to envision what Washington and his troops faced on that stormy, bitterly cold night in 1776. Even when we returned to the New Jersey side to await their arrival, the event was taking on a carnival atmosphere. Children chased each other between chatting adults, the local Lions Club was selling hot chocolate and a historian was describing the events that led up to the fateful night.

As we often do, Ivan and I had brought our binoculars for some casual birding as we waited for the event. They came in handy as we gauged how close the crossing was to starting; when the reenactors walked down toward the boats, we probably had a much better view than most of the people on the Pennsylvania side, but it still seemed to be taking a long time.

"Eagle," Ivan said, looking over the Washington's Crossing Bridge. Indeed, a nearly-adult Bald Eagle was soaring overhead, unnoticed by the people around us but entirely fitting for the event. It circled once or twice and then winged away, perhaps looking for someplace a bit less crowded to set down in a tree.

And finally, a small party of about six or eight reenactors made their way into the smallest of the boats -- a bateau -- to make the initial foray across the river. We're accustomed to thinking of Washington and his men rowing directly across the Delaware in more or less of a straight line, pushing blocks of ice aside along the way. Bergs weren't a factor for the 21st century patriots, but the current seemed to be. First struggling to row a few hundred feet upstream, the crew valiantly started making their way across in somewhat of a V pattern. For a bit, they seemed to be losing to the force of the river, leaving me to wonder if they might actually end up traveling to Trenton by boat rather than possibly reenacting the march.

We're so accustomed to seeing history represented in movies with action-heightening editing and dramatic music that an actual reenactment can seem tedious by comparison. Watching the struggles of the batteau men, however, seemed so much more realistic and perhaps truer to history, even if the weather, time of day and river conditions weren't consistent with the actual event. Were they going to be able to make it to New Jersey safely? We didn't know. Would all of the boats make the trip, or would the organizers decide conditions weren't right to finish the reenactment? Only time would tell.

The uncertainty, more than anything else, made an impression on me. Washington truly didn't know if his plan would work. He wasn't sure that all of his troops and their horses and equipment would make it across the Delaware, and in fact, it took hours longer than he expected. Further downstream, the diversionary attack was aborted without his knowledge. If the crossing we were watching had been cancelled, it would have been disappointing but not a tragedy. Had Washington's not worked, the future of the United States would have been in question.

Ultimately, in 2014 all of the boats made their way to New Jersey, their crews welcomed by loud applause and cheers from a happy crowd. Reenactors got into formation and marched across the bridge back to Pennsylvania, many of them undoubtedly looking forward to a big Christmas meal.

For the rest of us, they'd provided a memorable insight into the realities of one of the pivotal events in our forefathers' fight for independence. It's one I'll not soon forget.

American Freemasonry, Colonial land battles and corruption: Made in Trenton?

Sometimes when we find a historic spot, it sets us down a path of research that lands me in a far more different spot that I originally expected. Such was the case with a modest fieldstone building at the corner of Barrack and West Lafayette Streets in Trenton.

Amid all of the government buildings scattered around our state capitol, this historic Colonial-era property tells a unique story. Now hosting the Trenton Visitor Center, the small two-story building began its existence as one of the oldest Masonic temples in the United States. While the local lodge it hosted was founded in 1787, its existence in Trenton arguably gives it standing as the spiritual birthplace for American Freemasonry nearly 300 years ago. And as I was checking that out, I found a personality who would probably garner about the same reaction to his actions today as he did in Colonial days.

Freemasonry itself has gained a reputation for mystery and intrigue over the years, but at its core, it's a fraternal organization with roots in medieval English trade guilds. Many of us are familiar with the Founding Fathers and signers of the Declaration of Independence who had masonic ties, from Benjamin Franklin, John Hancock and George Washington to New Jersey's own Richard Stockton, but the organization has much earlier ties to the colonies.

While some sources say that Pennsylvania hosted some of the first Masonic lodges in the New World, they appear not to have had the official backing of the governing body. According to the WPA Guide to 1930's New Jersey, several masons in the colonies of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania petitioned the Grand Lodge of England, for a provincial grand master, or leader, to preside over Masonic activities in the region. Trenton resident Colonel Daniel Coxe was selected for the post in 1730, thus becoming the first Mason to hold the post in the New World.

Coxe himself was here essentially as a real estate manager. His father, Dr. Daniel Coxe, had purchased substantial holdings in West Jersey in the late 1600s, becoming governor as a result despite never visiting the colony. The younger Coxe arrived in West Jersey in 1702 at the age of 28, living first in Burlington before moving to Trenton as the city's political and social standing grew within the colony. Frequently traveling back to England to manage his father's land holdings, he'd become a member of the Mason's lodge at the Devil's Tavern at Temple Bar in London.

Regardless of his social standing in England or Freemasonry, Col. Coxe became a less than popular guy in New Jersey, largely to his zealous defense of a tract of property his father had owned in the Hopewell area. It seems that when the elder Coxe sold his New Jersey properties to the West Jersey Society, there may have been some irregularities with the paperwork, meaning that the folks who later bought the property from the Society didn't actually own it. As far as they were concerned, the younger Coxe had no claim on the land, though the courts eventually ruled in his favor. To stay on the land they thought was theirs, the disputed owners had to either purchase or lease it from Coxe, or leave on their own. Otherwise, they'd be evicted.

Some of the owners paid up, realizing they had little leverage against Coxe's political and social standing. Others hired a lawyer in a futile effort to plead their case in the courts. Prospects there were dim: Coxe had been appointed as a justice on the New Jersey Supreme Court, leaving little doubt how any further appeals would be received. Some angry former property owners, frustrated by what they saw as an impossible situation, burned Coxe in effigy.

Several left the colony altogether, migrating south to form what became known as the Jersey Settlement in Rowan County, North Carolina. It might have been the first case in which New Jerseyans were so frustrated by official corruption that they voted with their feet.

Was the paperwork truly muddled during the transactions between Dr. Coxe and the West Jersey Society, or had the entire incident been a Machiavellian attempt to maintain control of valuable real estate? Right now your guess is as good as mine, but initial research suggests this disputed land grab may have been one of the early grievances in the growing appetite for independence from British rule. More to come!

John Fitch: a man with a head of steam

New Jersey was fertile ground for the development of the steamboat industry, whether in Nicholas Roosevelt's side-mounted propulsion wheel or Cornelius Vanderbilt's ferry operations between New York and New Brunswick. And, of course, there was John Stevens, who established the first steam ferry operations between Hoboken and Manhattan.

One man, however, beat the rest of them to the punch, however imperfectly. In 1787 John Fitch proved that a boat could be propelled by steam engine, using a series of interconnected oars to row through the water.

Why, then, do we hear so little about Fitch and much more about Robert Fulton and his steamboat Clermont?

Fitch, as it turns out, is a classic case of a creative mind whose personality appears to have gotten in the way of his success. Born in Connecticut in 1743, he had little formal education but studied astronomy, math and geometry on his own as he tried to forge a work life that suited his interests. He attempted an apprenticeship as a clockmaker without much success before eventually making it to Trenton as a silversmith, losing his business during the British occupation of the city in 1776. He briefly served as a gunsmith to the New Jersey militia after losing his commission in a dispute, and also provided beer and other supplies to troops at Valley Forge. By the end of the war, he was surveying land in the territory that eventually became Ohio, where he was captured by Native Americans and turned over to the British.

Following his release from captivity, Fitch came back east to Pennsylvania to work on his ideas for a steam-powered boat. Collaborating with clockmaker Henry Voigt, he developed a proper steam engine and installed it on a boat outfitted with mechanized oars on port and starboard sides. Hoping to get funding or an endorsement from the federal government, he invited members of the Constitutional Convention to the 1787 demonstration on the Delaware. Many attended and were impressed as the boat moved forward an a slow but respectable three miles an hour. However, no backing was forthcoming.

Why is John Fitch not known as the inventor of the steamboat? There seem to be a few factors at play here. First, his invention came at a particularly inauspicious time in the development of the legal system in the United States. The Federal patent office had yet to be created, leaving intellectual property protection to the individual states. That meant an arduous trek to the capitols of all of the states, or at least those where competition or theft of his idea was most likely. He brought a working model of the boat, hoping to impress the legislatures and the scientific community with the genius of his design.

Perhaps more telling, he doesn't seem to have had the right personality. He was either a bad salesperson, or maybe he just rubbed people the wrong way. During his 1786 tour, he got less than encouraging feedback from Philadelphia's American Philosophical Society, where Benjamin Franklin held sway. The Virginia legislature was unimpressed, favoring the design of its native son inventor James Rumsey, who'd already secured George Washington's endorsement. The only place where he seems to have gained some sway is New Jersey, which granted him an exclusive 14-year franchise to build and operate steamboats. That endorsement in hand, he built the full-sized boat the Constitutional Convention observed in 1787.

Fitch is commemorated not far from
Trenton's minor league ballpark.

By 1788, Fitch had received patents from Delaware, New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia and had attracted sufficient financing to build a new boat that ran the route between Philadelphia and Burlington. Two years later, a third boat was running between Trenton, Burlington, Bordentown, Wilmington and Philadelphia, a route that appears to have made as little sense to potential customers then as it might today. He may have created mechanically-sound equipment, but he seems not to have had a very strong understanding of market forces or customer demand. Stagecoaches could still reach his destinations faster, despite the steamboats' improved speed of eight miles an hour. Rather than seeing his craft as viable transportation, many viewed it as a curiosity or a stunt. His company was soon out of business.

When Fitch finally received his federal patent in 1791, he was infuriated to learn that Rumsey's design had been recognized by the patent office as well. Rather than getting the patent for the steamboat concept, it was for the particular design, as was Rumsey's, leading Fitch's investors to abandon him for other opportunities. Additional attempts to secure funding -- this time in Europe -- and demonstrate his newly-conceived steamboat innovations met with indifference, further angering him. Giving up hope on the steamboat, he headed west to Kentucky in 1796, apparently hoping for a better reception there.

He got none and died within months of his arrival, some say of poor health, others say of worse. According to some reports, he struck a deal with a tavern operator to provide him with room, board and a pint of whiskey a day in return for a few hundred acres of land. He planned to drink himself to death. When that didn't work, he committed suicide with an overdose of opium. He's buried in Beardstown, Kentucky, his grave marked with a modest military stone that notes his Revolutionary War service. He was moved there from his original pauper's plot through the actions of the John Fitch chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution.

Some sources claim that Fitch endured bipolar disorder, that his emotional extremes fueled both his creativity and the less admirable personality traits that drove away investors. What is known is that inventing is a difficult trade, with people of many temperaments and similar ideas often competing for the ultimate prize. It's possible that if Fitch had possessed Fulton's ability to make steam travel more economically viable, he'd have been better able to capitalize on the technology.

Fitch's onetime hometown of Trenton recognizes what many of his contemporaries may not have: his genius and perseverance. The first of two memorial boulders was placed at the site of the Old Wharf along the Delaware in Fitch's name in 1921, with the nearby highway rechristened John Fitch Way from the site to Assunpink Creek.

Palmer Square: Vintage Colonial charm, circa 1937

Walk around Princeton's atmospheric Palmer Square, and you'd be excused if you thought parts of it had been there since the American Revolution. Small shops with brick facades are interspersed with wood-faced neighbors, and the picturesque Nassau Inn stands in the center, seemingly having been there forever.

However, Palmer Square is much younger, a planned development built in the 1930s. Its construction brought the destruction of a local institution with a legitimate link to colonial times, as well the relocation of a thriving African-American community.

A portion of Palmer Square, Fall 2014.

Given how central Palmer Square is to the contemporary image of Princeton, and how convincingly old it looks, it's difficult to conceive the town before it was built. Edward Palmer, a Princeton alumnus and heir to the New Jersey Zinc fortune, envisioned a mixed-use development that would become the new focus within the town. In the late 1920s he began to quietly acquire property just a few blocks west of the University gates, between Nassau Street and Jackson Street. He hired architect Thomas Stapleton to design shops and office buildings that, though united, would appear to have been built over an extended period of time.

Typical for 20th century redevelopment projects, Palmer's vision meant displacement for some of the community's less prominent residents. In this case, it was members of the black community, many of whom worked in service positions around town and at the University. As the land for the project was cleared, residents were moved eight blocks north of their previous neighborhood, creating a new 'edge' of town. With them went several houses; new dwellings were built for those whose homes couldn't be salvaged. The project also erased two roads: Baker Street, which intersected Nassau, and Nassau Place, which had been a service road for coaches.

The original Nassau Inn (College Inn) on Nassau Street.
Photo from the Historic American Buildings Survey/
Library of Congress

The Nassau Inn was was to be the focal point of the development, but ironically the lovely Colonial-style building we see today took the name of a 1757 structure that was razed in the name of progress. Originally built of brick imported from Holland, Judge Thomas Leonard's home was known as the finest in Princeton for its day, and eventually became widely known as the place to stay as the town became an important stop on the stagecoach route.

A hotel since 1769, the original Nassau Inn had stood directly on Nassau Street, eventually absorbing the adjacent Mansion House built in 1836. At its start, the inn had been known as "The Sign of the College" or "College Inn," and had hosted commencement dinners for the original College of New Jersey until the Revolutionary War forced an end to the tradition. According to local lore, Paul Revere and Thomas Paine visited during wartime, as did several signers of the Declaration of Independence.

In later years, the building hosted the annual commencement ball, though Princeton students were ordinarily forbidden from visiting the tavern. According to notes from the Historic American Buildings Survey, New Jersey Legislature committees often held meetings at the inn, as well. It appears that by the time the building was brought down, it bore little resemblance to the hostelry Washington Irving had visited on an 1813 stop in Princeton.

Though the neighborhood -- and the Inn -- had received their death warrants in the late 1920s, the advent of the Great Depression put the project on hold until 1937. The WPA Guide to 1930s New Jersey notes that construction was to be completed by 1941, but in reality, pieces and portions of the project have evolved over the decades. More stores, an office building and luxury apartments have all been added in the past 20 years.

As for the old inn, only a few relics remain: a stone platform that now graces the Nassau Inn's Yankee Doodle Tap Room, and the old Nassau Inn sign salvaged by Princeton students in 1937.   

Hidden in plain sight: New Jersey's original State House

Its gilded dome shining on a bluff above the Delaware River, the New Jersey State House isn't exactly hidden, but if you were Governor Richard Howell, you might say otherwise. Serving from 1793-1801, New Jersey's third governor was accustomed to a much less ornate seat of government which, while not obvious to the casual observer, is actually still there, 220 years later.

Confused? We found out more on our visit to Trenton for the celebration of New Jersey's 350th birthday, when the State House hosted a viewing of the document that conveyed the then-colony to Sir George Carteret and John Berkeley, Lord of Stratton. Tours of the building's public areas are available six days a week, yours for the asking, and we asked.

New Jersey's original 1792 Statehouse.

The nation's second oldest state capitol building still in use, the building on West State Street looks nothing like what our earliest legislators saw when they convened in their new Trenton chambers in 1792. Constructed of stone by Philadelphia builder Jonathan Doan, the original modest cupola-topped building had just enough room for senate and assembly chambers plus a courtroom and office space for the governor. Chances are that today, we'd walk by a comparable building without giving a second thought of it having any great significance, but its size likely made it remarkable in the Central New Jersey of the late 18th century.

The look of a 'real' capitol building didn't come until 1844, with the adoption of New Jersey's second constitution. As the executive branch grew in importance and the court system evolved, both branches needed more space in which to conduct government work. Chosen to build onto the existing State House, Philadelphia architect John Notman brought grandeur to the capitol, designing an addition with a striking dome topping an ornate three-story rotunda. Standing closer to West State Street than the existing building, the new building's facade blocked the view of the original 1792 State House, starting its fade into obscurity. Further enlargements in 1871 dwarved the Doan structure, which was modified to relocate the governor's office into the former assembly chamber.

The gilded dome, from within the rotunda.
Pretty impressive.

Ironically, the Notman addition fronted the State House for an even shorter period of time than the original it dwarfed. Destroyed in an early morning fire in March 1885, it was soon replaced by an even more ornate version designed by Jersey City architect Louis Broome. Like the Notman version, Broome's design included columns but added an even more impressive dome.

Over the ensuing years, the growth of state government led to additional enlargements and modifications to the State House, and even a separate annex built in the 1920s. The whole shebang almost got torn down following the adoption of the 1947 constitution, which essentially made New Jersey's governor the most powerful chief executive in any of the states. Fortunately, plans for a more modern State House were shelved due to lack of funds, and our historic capitol building, original, additions and all, was saved from the wrecking ball.

Why would the government want to tear down such a historic structure? Our frequent reference, the WPA Guide to 1930s New Jersey, offers a hint of what might have been the prevailing attitude about the State House at the time: "The three-and-one-half story facade is in the French renaissance style, with a clumsy two-tier entrance porch supported on small scale polished granite columns. What remains of the original structure, built circa 1792, is now a part of the present building, although exactly what part is uncertain. Subsequent growth has been without regard to any foresighted plan [...] The ill-lighted main entrance corridor is hung with indistinguishable portraits of early Jersey statesmen and patriots; portraits of various Governors hang in the executive chambers." Look to the architecture of the Federal and state buildings of the day, and you'll find clean lines with little decoration, no fussiness and certainly no classical flourishes. The modern was in. Your grandfather's classicism was out.

Restoration in the late 80s and early 90s brought much of the shine and grandeur of the State House back, and it remains today. The rotunda provides an impressive entrance to our government's central building, and the legislative chambers convey the state's history along with a seriousness of purpose. Still, it's pretty much impossible to tell where the original State House begins and ends. Our guide pointed out an archway leading from the rotunda to the hallway between the governor's suite and that of some of his staff members, telling us that it was the site of the original entrance to the 1792 building. To our eyes, there was nothing distinct about the walls, floors or ceilings to indicate its post-colonial heritage; it all looked to be of the same vintage as every other part of the building we saw that day.

Still, though: it's there. Trust us.

Washington back across the Delaware? Piecing out a mosaic in Titusville.

Every once in a while, we get an interesting story by means of our readers. This is one of them. It gets a little convoluted, so stick with me.

In the midst of telling the story of the first Civil War re-enactment at a recent speaking engagement, I mentioned one of the key attendees, Major General Dan Sickles. He wasn't a New Jerseyan, but his reputation as a colorful character only proved the point that the organizer of the reenactment, Sussex County's own Major General Hugh Judson Kilpatrick, threw one heck of a party. To illustrate Sickles' general attitude toward life, I mentioned that when his leg was amputated after an injury sustained during battle, he donated it to the Army Medical Museum in Washington, DC and would visit it on the anniversary of its removal.

A few of the program attendees chuckled knowingly, so I figured we had a few Civil War buffs in the audience. Nope -- even better, as I discovered when they came up to chat after the program was over. They didn't just know about Dan Sickles; they were related to him. We had a few laughs over some of the stories, and the fact that they'd admit being related to such a scamp. One thing was clear: they had a real interest in the ways that good stories become history.

Hours later, they reached out to me with a lead on a historic marker in Titusville that seems to carry a bit of mystery on its own.

Now, there's no lack of historic markers in Titusville, given the location's status as the site where George Washington and his troops landed after they crossed the Delaware in 1776. If you leave the community's boundaries without understanding how crucial the spot is in the story of our nation, there's no way you can pin blame on the locals. However, the marker the Sickles descendants mentioned doesn't explicitly mention Washington's crossing. Rather, it's a large stone with two elements: a brass plaque dedicated to the members of the Union Fire Company and Rescue Squad, dated 1976, and a colorful stone mosaic of someone we're assuming is supposed to be George Washington.

Here it is. You be the judge:

To make matters even more interesting, it stands not on the road for all to see as they drive down Route 29, but in the parking lot behind the Union Fire Company building. The artwork isn't dated, but it appears to have been completed long before 1976, and certainly well before the newish firehouse was erected. It clearly was moved from another site.

According to the Sickles descendants, that's exactly what happened. The mosaic had originally stood in front of the old Washington Hotel on Route 29, which was a resort of sorts for visitors who came by way of the Delaware-Belvidere Railroad to enjoy a few days in the countryside along the historic river. Apparently created by an experienced German-born tile maker who lived in the community, the mosaic might have been commissioned by the hotel to further honor the hero the inn owners had named their establishment for.

As the story goes, the stone and mosaic stood proudly in front of the hotel until World War I, when anti-German sentiment prompted vandals to push it off its base and roll it across the road and into the Delaware and Raritan Canal. There it sat until the 1970's, when it was fished out by firefighters and again given a place of honor.

Now, consider the ironies: honoring the memory of Continental troops crossing the Delaware to take on the Hessians in Trenton, a hotel in Titusville commissions a German American to create a likeness of General Washington. Years later, presumably patriotic Americans express their anger in war by figuratively giving the likeness the old heave-ho into the nearest approximation of the Delaware. And I hear about this from folks whose military forebear was known for his own special brand of mischief.

Whether Washington or Sickles would appreciate the story is up for conjecture, but I think we can all feel better knowing that the Father of our Country wasn't sent totally back across the Delaware out of anger against a distant enemy. One trip was enough.

Thanks to Cathy (Sickels) Fortenbaugh and Peter McGrath for the lead!

Trenton's silent paratroopers, stars of D-Day

A secret corps of paratroopers from New Jersey were instrumental in the Allied victory on D-Day, during World War II. Their story was briefly included in the blockbuster 1962 movie The Longest Day, but no mention was made of their origin.

I discovered this on a visit to the Aviation Hall of Fame in Teterboro, where one of the paratroopers is suspended from the ceiling below a parachute. He’s not human. He’s a rubber decoy.

Developed by the Switlik Parachute Company, 500 para-dummies were attached to parachutes and dropped from airplanes behind enemy lines, intended to distract German troops from the actual dropzones where live paratroopers were landing. If the torrent of descending bogus parachutists wasn’t enough to cause confusion, they were accompanied by special forces personnel who deployed sound recordings of battle noises. The decoys also exploded with the sound of gunfire when they made contact with the ground.

The irony is that the Allies fooled the Germans at their own game. In 1940, the Nazis had tossed straw-filled dummies out of airplanes over the Netherlands, Belgium and Scotland to incite fear in the population. It was the first recorded use of human decoys by an airborne military, setting off a small industry in developing more convincing paradummies.

If you’ve seen The Longest Day, you might remember the highly lifelike (yet smaller) detail of the decoys said to have been used by the Allies. In reality, such detail likely was unnecessary and probably too costly, given the expendability of the dummies. As the war progressed, though, improvements made the decoys’ earthbound fall more convincing to observers from the ground.

Museums in Europe hold a variety of WWII era dummies, including the American-made, British-deployed Ruperts (sack cloth filled with sand or straw), the American prototype Oscar (non-magnetic metal and, ironically, developed with the help of Douglas Fairbanks Jr.) and the PD Pack (rubber) developed by the Navy at Lakehurst. Though the Switlik dummies appear to have been Ruperts, the Aviation Hall of Fame displays what looks to be a PD Pack.

Switlik is still in business, and has been manufacturing in Trenton for over 90 years. While the company stopped producing parachutes after the Vietnam War, the family-owned business continues to make life preservation products for the aviation and marine markets, including life rafts, life vests, and anti-g and anti-exposure suits.

Digging up mystery on Province Line Road

My downtown New Egypt exploring done, I had a lead to track down. A few weeks ago, reader Rick Donnelly contacted me about another Province Line Road, this one separating Mercer and Burlington counties from Monmouth a few miles out of Plumsted Township. Not only was it a seeming continuation from the Mercer County Province Line Road outside of Hopewell that I'd written about last year, it runs through the state's most prolific archaeological site, along Crosswicks Creek in Ellisdale.

Crosswicks Creek, near Ellisdale.
Where dinosaurs roamed.

Ivan's the paleontology guy of this partnership, so I didn't plan to go too far into the site without him along. I don't know enough to differentiate a fossil from a weird rock, but it still would be fun to notice something unusual. I did enough research before I left Hidden New Jersey HQ to learn that the Ellisdale site is managed by the New Jersey State Museum, and collecting specimens is prohibited. No way would I pick something up to take away to show Ivan later.

Aside from the fossils, that area of New Jersey is interesting from a county border perspective. Depending on which road you take, you could be in Mercer, Burlington, Monmouth or Ocean County. Or, if you're on Province Line, you're straddling two of 'em. As I tooled around, the pentagonal blue county road markers were switching counties with alarming frequency.

Rick had written that the fossil site is near the one-lane truss bridge where Province Line passes over Crosswicks Creek. Typical for a county road, there was no shoulder to park on, but I was fortunate to find enough of a clearing among the trees and brush to pull my car off the road near the bridge. Monmouth County Parks rules were posted on a nearby sign.

The odd thing was, after I crossed the road, I saw the Monmouth signs on that side, too. Wouldn't it be Mercer -- or Burlington -- there? Maybe my map was a little off? From the road I'd noticed a tall yellow stake in the ground, several yards into the woods. It wasn't until I got closer that I noticed the aggregate concrete block next to it. Looking down, I saw an oxidized metal nub on the top, reminiscent of the tops of the meridian markers we'd first found in Flemington last year. Must be a surveyor's marker, right? I was even more certain when I noticed an M on one side and a B on the other.

Today's Hidden New Jersey story
is brought to you by the letter M.
For Monmouth, or maybe Mercer.

One had to be Burlington, that was easy enough. But does the M stand for Mercer, or Monmouth?

Times like this remind me I need to improve my exploring kit. It would have been really helpful to have a compass with me. Monmouth is northeast of Burlington; Mercer is directly north. My gut says the M is for Mercer, but I think there's a good argument for Monmouth, given the county park signs.

This raises an interesting point about county history. When the United States gained independence, New Jersey had only 13 counties. Over time, the additional eight were carved from the existing ones, until 1855, when the last one, Union, was created from the southern end of Essex. Monmouth was one of the original four counties created in 1683, while Mercer was crafted from portions of Hunterdon and Burlington in 1838. Thus, to be denoting Monmouth for sure, the marker would have to have been planted before 1838. My gut, once again, tells me it's newer than that, but I've been known to be wrong before.

I'd say this mystery was solved pretty quickly, but we still have the matter of the fossils to contend with. We'll definitely be returning with a compass and GPS. And maybe we'll even find out if there's another county marker in the area. That might be a hard one to locate though: a few yards further, the trail is interrupted by a deep wash with no bridge.

Mercer: a county, a tree and a kick-butt general

Every once in a while, we run into a place or a story that is so remarkable that we wonder why in heck we'd never heard it. Our visit to the Princeton Battlefield revealed the contributions of a Revolutionary War officer who was so tough that, well, he could teach nails how to be tough. His grit and heroism made such an impression on his contemporaries that a county, a fort and a tree in New Jersey were named in his honor though he never lived here. Add to that the fact that he sired a family that produced, among others, General George Patton, and it's odd to think that more of us don't know his story well.

Hugh Mercer, in a study
by painter John Trumbull

Originally trained as a physician, Hugh Mercer first saw combat in his native Scotland as an assistant surgeon in the army of Bonnie Prince Charles during the battle to regain the Scottish monarchy. Fleeing to America to escape persecution, he settled in Pennsylvania and practiced medicine, but the call of battle came once again, this time the French and Indian War. He joined the British cause in 1755, first as a surgeon and then as a soldier, serving honorably in both roles. It's said that after suffering serious injury and being separated from his troops in a battle against the Delaware and Shawnee tribes, he walked 100 miles back to his fort. His feats earned him the rank of colonel and some influential new friends, most notably George Washington.

Fast forward to the American Revolution. Mercer was first appointed Colonel within the Virginia Line and then Brigadier General of the Armies of the United Colonies. In the latter role, he supervised the construction of Fort Lee on the Palisades, and his brigade was among the troops who retreated in November 1776 following the British attack on the fort. You'll recall that after the Continentals' arrival in Pennsylvania, Washington set into motion the surprise attack that would startle the Hessians at Trenton and turn the tide of the war in the Americans' favor.

The success at Trenton emboldened Washington to attempt to take Princeton on January 3, 1777, with Mercer's brigade at the lead. Hitting the British head on at Thomas Clarke's farm outside of town, Mercer found himself separated from his troops as he had during the French and Indian War. This time, however, the outcome was not to be as favorable for him. Having shot his horse from under him and confused him for Washington, the British surrounded Mercer and demanded that he surrender. Instead, he drew his sword and charged, despite being substantially outnumbered. The Brits set on him with musket butts and bayonets, beating him severely and stabbing him seven times before leaving him for dead. They clearly underestimated the amount of fight left in the man: he endured another nine days before perishing.

The 'new' Mercer Oak,
descendant of the original.

While Mercer himself was unsuccessful in repelling the British, his courage ultimately helped turn the tide in the Americans' favor. Washington rallied Mercer's retreating troops to return to the conflict, resulting in another decisive battle that lifted American morale and forced Cornwallis back to New York. Not long afterward, Fort Mercer, on the Delaware River, was named for him.

So, now we know about the general, but what's this about a tree? Legend holds that the mortally injured Mercer was propped beneath a white oak tree on the Princeton battlefield, and that he refused to leave his troops until they had won the battle. In truth, he was brought to the nearby Clarke House for treatment as soon as he could be retrieved, but you have to admit that the tree story is a lot more compelling. A reminder of the general's heroism, the oak became the symbol of Mercer County and Princeton Township, as well as New Jersey's Green Acres program. (So much for the Salem Oak.) Unfortunately the tree succumbed to old age and collapsed in 2000, but a healthy successor tree, sprouted from an acorn of the original in 1980, now stands next to the stump of the trunk against which Mercer was said to have leaned. Let's hope that this descendant lasts many years, to help tell the story its parent is said to have witnessed.

A classical ruin and the preservation of a battlefield

If you have interest in historic preservation, you're likely familiar with the many protracted fights to keep development from encroaching on some of America's most important battlefields. The past 40 years or so have seen attempts to build a Disney theme park on the Civil War-era Manassas battlefield in Virginia (also known as the "Third Battle of Manassas"), and here in New Jersey, the encroachment of residential sprawl on portions of the historic site of the Battle of Monmouth.

It goes without saying that your Hidden New Jersey explorers are firmly on the side of preserving historic battle sites. Keeping battlefields undeveloped is crucial to helping visitors understand the the challenges our forebears faced in liberating and defending our nation. Somehow, watching a reenactment on a developed battlefield -- as I did for the 225th anniversary of the Battle of Springfield -- loses its impact when you see Hessians marching past a CVS.

Thing is, we've been building on battlefields for as long as there's been a United States. Many of the battles took place on privately owned land, and when the wars were over, the owners were more concerned with making their land profitable than they were in preserving history. You really couldn't blame them, especially farmers who were trying to get as much from their acreage as possible.

I hadn't given too much thought to the old development issues until we stopped by the Princeton Battlefield a few weekends ago. A key location in the ten crucial days that turned the tide of the Revolution in the Americans' favor, the Battlefield State Park includes the site of the recently-deceased Mercer Oak, under which General Hugh Mercer was said to have collapsed after having been bayonetted by Redcoats several times. The Clarke House, which was used as a hospital during and after the battle, is also still on site.

And then there's the Colonnade -- a set of Ionic columns topped by a large lintel and supported by brick walls on the sides. It sits on the northern side of the park, atop a hill far opposite the Clarke House, looking very out of place and incomplete. There's no statue of Mercer or Washington or anyone else beside it to give it context, and the casual passer-by is left to wonder what in heck it is. If it were in Greece or Italy, you'd shrug it off as just another classical ruin, but in Princeton? Ivan and I took a walk up the hill to check it out (and, well, to see if we could find winter finches, but that's another story).

Long story short, the Colonnade is a ruin -- of not one, but two houses. Originally, it served as part of the facade for a Philadelphia mansion designed by U.S. Capitol architect Thomas U. Walter in 1836 for a merchant named Matthew Newkirk. After the Newkirk home was demolished in 1900, the columns were brought to Princeton and recycled for the entrance of Mercer Manor, a grand home built at the edge of the battlefield.

Mercer Manor stood on the site for over 50 years, until it was severely damaged in a fire. Mostly unsalvageable, the mansion was demolished in 1957, except for the Colonnade that stands today. Its then owners, the Institute for Advanced Study, donated the property to the State for inclusion in the Battlefield Park.

A view of the battlefield from behind the Colonnade.

Since then, the four Ionic columns have become the focal point of a memorial to unidentified soldiers killed in the battle -- 21 British and 15 Americans who are buried somewhere behind the site where Mercer Manor once stood. Nearby, there's a plaque on which is printed a memorial poem written in 1916 by visiting Princeton professor and future Poet Laureate of England, Alfred Noyes.

Unintended as it might have been, the Colonnade could be considered a fitting tribute to the brave Americans who fought at Princeton. These patriots were battling for a new republic and victory that until then appeared unlikely. Their humble contributions helped forge a country that has stood strong for well over two centuries.

Finding the key in Princeton

When you spend a good bit of time in historic buildings, you start to notice the anachronisms. You know, the current day things that shake you out of the pretense that you're actually seeing the place the same way it looked to the people who made history there.

Usually, they're things like fire supression systems or safety lights: items placed to protect and preserve visitors, the building and its contents. Most of the hardware is obscured from visitors' eyes, leaving only the necessary working parts in view. There's generally some level of respect and consideration.

Other times, they're just thoughtless additions. During my college days, I despaired at the sight of red "No Trespassing" (or words to that effect) stickers slapped on the doors of Rutgers' most historic structures. Really, guys? Granted, these buildings are in active use, but there's no other way of getting the message across without defacing history?

I made occasional visits to Princeton when I was going to Rutgers, and while I will always bleed scarlet red, I was tremendously impressed with the older Princeton University campus buildings. The oldest building, Nassau Hall, had, of course, been the meeting place of the Continental Congress in the early 1780s, and had suffered damage from British gunfire. Regardless of college loyalties, you have to admit that's pretty cool.

Rutgers, of course, has a similar building, Old Queens, and while it's about 70 years younger than Old Nassau, it too houses university administration. I'd never had occasion to venture inside, and to be honest, I was a little frightened to just open the door and walk inside. I never had university business there, and, well, there was the matter of that red sticker, right?

Most of my Princeton visits were made at night, but I once found myself there in the late afternoon during the week. Maybe a visit to Nassau Hall was in order?

It was a bit daunting to walk the long path from Nassau Street to the front steps and then up to the door. It seemed so official, so formal. I hadn't seen anyone else enter the building that way, so I wondered if the imposing black door was even functional or unlocked. And where would it land me? Would I open the door to end up directly in the university president's office? Would I have to withstand the glaring inquisition of an imperious security guard? I wouldn't know until I tried, so...

I tried. The doorknob turned and the door opened into a large lobby. Once inside, I saw the walls were adorned with the names of Princeton graduates who had died in the service of their countries in wars back to the Revolution. As I later found out, the building itself could be considered a veteran, as it served as both a barracks and a prison during the Battle of Princeton in 1777.

I was up to the World War casualties when I heard steps approaching. Oh, no, a guard. Was I trespassing? I figured the best thing to do was to apologize, but apparently there was no problem. "I'm just closing up for the day," he said.

We chatted about the building for a few minutes as we walked to the front door and stepped outside. He seemed to have a real interest and respect for Old Nassau, and he appreciated that I did, too, but he couldn't talk for very long. He had his rounds to make, so he had to lock up and be on his way.

"They'd kill me if I lost this," he said, pulling the door key out of his pocket. It was large, obviously quite old and still effective, as he inserted it into the ancient keyhole and gave it a twist to secure the entrance. Yup, they were still locking up their oldest building with what appeared to be original (or close to original) equipment.

Persistence pays off: the West Windsor Caracara

If there ever was a good year to take up birding in New Jersey, I seem to have picked it. Between a couple of intrepid finds and a tenacious desire to check out some rarities, we've seen a northern shrike, black bellied whistling ducks, reddish egret and a bunch of other interesting avian visitors that don't always come through this way. The fact that I've gotten to see some really cool birds in my first active year is testament both to Ivan's enthusiastic energy and a community of birders that's happy to share details on where to locate the notable visitors they find.

Then there are the birds we didn't see, like the scissor-tailed flycatcher that was a no-show despite our six hour wait at a field in Somerset. Those are the instances that remind me that for all of the directions we might get from those who've spotted the birds, these creatures still have wings and come and go on their own schedules. Despite our desires, they're ultimately the ones in control of the situation.

Case in point was our attempt to see a crested caracara that showed up in West Windsor last weekend. To be honest, we weren't even in the state, having taken a road trip to beef up Ivan's list of bird sightings in New England. Just our luck: a bird that's native to Texas, Florida and Arizona comes up to New Jersey for what might be the first time, and we're not here to check it out. We agreed that if the bird was reported to be hanging out on Monday after we returned, we'd make the drive to see it. Personally, I was eager to see a bird that Ivan described as looking like an eagle with a bad hairpiece. I'd come upon its listing in the Sibley guide when checking out the bald eagle from Hawk Rise, and I'd pretty much written off the chance to see it without doing some serious traveling. An hour to West Windsor was nothing compared with where I figured I'd have to go.

Monday's reports were promising, but when we got to the appropriate farm acreage, the folks there hadn't seen the bird yet. The caracara reportedly had spent some time foraging through the alfalfa fields when it wasn't standing watch from a high perch, but it seemed to be away for the late morning and early afternoon. Maybe it only shows at the field at early morning and evening? Maybe it was walking amid the fields on the other side of the crest in the acreage, which we couldn't see from our vantage point. Frustrated, we drove around the area looking for other fields where it might be hanging out, our route taking us between open fields and residential subdivisions. No luck at all.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. Our weekend birding expedition had been less than fruitful, and seeing a major rarity at home would have gone far in making up for our unsuccessful travels, but it wasn't meant to be.

Then we decided to try again on Wednesday. By that time, the reports revealed a pattern: the caracara did, indeed, seem to be showing in the early morning and late afternoon. Perhaps if we got there just before rush hour, we'd get lucky. 

Jumping onto the Parkway that afternoon, we attempted to make the trip as quickly as possible. "It's the skinny pedal on the right," Ivan shouted out to a particularly poky driver ahead of us on the entrance ramp. "We've got a bird to see!" Because we'd taken this route before, the trip to Grover farm seemed a bit shorter, and we made pretty good time getting there. A few other birders were already parked at the appropriate location, spotting scopes, cameras and binoculars at the ready. Just from their stance, we could tell the bird wasn't visible, at least not yet. Crows were calling from a tree near the boarded-up farmhouse, leading us to wonder if they saw the caracara approaching, but their noise led to nothing. A merlin glided by, checking out the scene without finding the larger bird it had been hassling over the recent days, according to reports.

Meanwhile, we were standing on a fairly well-traveled road, all aiming our optics in the same general direction, so it wasn't surprising that we got some inquiries from passing motorists. I have to admit, I was tempted to tell them we were tracking a spy blimp. Or it might have been just as fun to point to the empty sky and simply ask, "You mean, you don't see it, too?" Instead, some of the other birders explained what we were waiting for, and why it's so remarkable.

Then... a dark streak flew over the field from the left. The white patches on the wings and the black cap on the head made it unmistakeable... it was the caracara. Just as he apparently had over the preceding days, he glided over and perched on a utility pole along the driveway to the farmhouse. There, he settled and preened while we watched. I was fortunate to get a few relatively decent snapshots through my phone and Ivan's spotting scope, but they don't really do the bird justice.

There are several theories on how and why this bird came to a farm field in Mercer County. Some have questioned whether it might be an escapee from a zoo or wildlife handler, but it's not banded and has shown every sign of being able to handle itself quite well in the wild. Others believe that it may have been pushed in this direction by Hurricane Isaac, and that seems a heck of a lot more plausible to me. Whatever brought it here, we're very happy to have seen him. Sometimes persistence means returning for a second look, and sometimes, the effort in that second look is rewarded.

It's also possible that the caracara's arrival will do something for its current home, the Grover farm. Purchased by the township of West Windsor in 1994, the farm, its house and some other buildings are currently sitting unused and boarded up, deemed to be too expensive to restore to use. Local residents and preservationists met in July to discuss ways to bring the property back to useful life, and perhaps the new bird on the block will bring additional support and interest in the farm. I doubt it will be very handy with a bandsaw or a hammer, but it surely could provide great publicity. 

Aerial recon over the Turnpike, or just taking the blimp out for a spin?

Driving the Turnpike South the other day, I noticed something small and roundish in the distant sky. I wasn't sure what it could be, given that the sky was filled with mostly grayish clouds, and I couldn't really differentiate the object's shape from what might possibly be a natural formation.

To my delight, the object was heading north, almost as if it was getting on the Turnpike, too. Wait! It looks like... an airship! I couldn't see any markings from that distance, but it didn't appear to have the broad, colorful brand labels you see on an advertising blimp.

My mind immediately went to the news coverage I'd read earlier this week: a prototype long endurance drone airship was set to be tested at Lakehurst Naval Air Station. Could this be it? I was near Exit 7, not so incredibly far from the base by air. I had to get pictures.

Photo of the airship in question, taken from a safe
and stationary location.

Only problem was... the Turnpike. Had I been on Route 22 or 46 or 70, I could have just moved over to the shoulder or quickly turned the car to a parking lot. Obviously, you can't do that on the Turnpike, and I didn't really feel like meeting a State Trooper that afternoon. Just my luck, I was alone, so I couldn't even get Ivan to take a few snaps through the windshield as I drove. What to do?

Exit 7 was fast approaching, and I considered pulling off there, but I couldn't remember if it was verboten to park or leave your car standing in a toll interchange. (Turnpike and its danged rules!) Then I saw my salvation: a sign for the nearby Richard Stockton Rest Area. Could I get there before the airship did? I passed up the exit, put the blinker on, and eased into the right lane for a quick slide into Stockton.

Fortunately, movement was light in the parking lot and I was able to glide into a parking spot facing the highway. Nobody seemed to notice the airship as it grew larger in the sky and started to pass right in front of us. Well, except for a limo driver standing next to his town car, gazing skeptically upward. 

I grabbed the camera, and as I snapped away, I hoped the lens would be sufficient for the distance. Lettering on the ship's side confirmed it was a Navy vessel, and I could see the mooring lines hanging from its bow. Was it the drone in question? I don't know that much about airships, but this one looked pretty run-of-the-mill. Maybe, though, being mundane is part of its camouflage, of sorts. 

The excitement of running into something potentially great got deflated just a bit when I returned home. A little post-discovery research confirms that the prototype is significantly larger than the Turnpike airship. There's no specific word on when the big guy will take to the air; anytime between now and June 10 is as much as I've been able to garner. 

If you happen to be around Lakehurst over the next few days, keep an eye to the sky, and let me know if you see anything!