None shall pass! Sandy Hook's hidden fort

Our birding excursions at Sandy Hook usually lead us close to the tip of the hook, where Fort Hancock's Nine Gun Battery and Battery Peck continue to molder, unrestored. Part of the search for interesting species takes us close to the Coast Guard base, where, if you look in the right direction, you might notice an odd bit of construction: a very sturdy granite block structure topped by a water tank.

The big stone walls seem like a bit of overkill to protect a water tank, both regal and like a discarded part of the set of Monty Python and The Holy Grail. Then again, they probably stood up well to the surges of Hurricane Sandy. It wasn't until recently that we noticed an additional, less medieval-looking wall coming out from one side and continuing eastward for a short bit, looking rather vestigial beneath overgrown vines.

Ni! A portion of the old Fort at Sandy Hook.
We did not bring it a shrubbery.

I didn't think much of it until my recent visit to the Strauss Museum in Atlantic Highlands (more on that to come), where I came upon a 19th century map of Sandy Hook. Rather than illustrating the location of Fort Hancock's many batteries and functional buildings, the map portrayed a pentagonal structure at the tip of the hook, labeled only as "fort." Part of the location matches the site of the still-standing walls. After a little research, I realized we'd inadvertently stumbled on the remnants of the Fort at Sandy Hook, the Civil War-era predecessor to the army base that had operated from the late 1800s until 1974.

The fort's intended shape is illustrated
near the top of this 19th century map.

Who knew? Sandy Hook's strategic location near the entrance to New York Bay makes it a perfect defense location, so it's not surprising that Fort Hancock wasn't the first Army base there. To start the tradition, the wooden-walled Fort Gates was built there in 1813 to protect the harbor and city. The rather obviously-named Fort at Sandy Hook was part of the next generation Third System U.S. fortifications as advances in weapons technology drove construction of granite-walled defense systems. Construction began on the hook in 1857 as part of a larger network of forts within New York Harbor that was designed to protect shipping channels into the city along with Forts Richmond (now Battery Weed), Tompkins, Hamilton and Lafayette near the Verrazano Narrows.

As the map portrays, the fort's pentagonal shape was highlighted with bastions at each corner. Though construction was far from complete at the start of the Civil War, the Army outfitted the fort with more than 30 cannons of various sizes and capacities. Company E of the 10th New York Heavy Artillery was assigned to the fort in April 1863. By July 1866, the fort was vacant again, apparently never to be used again.

Three years later and only 70 percent built, the Fort at Sandy Hook was declared obsolete. New artillery technology, in the form of rifled cannons, could easily destroy the granite-walled fortress, rendering it useless. However, portions of the fort were reportedly incorporated into the still-standing Nine Gun Battery built in the 1890s through the early 1900s.

For safety reasons, Nine Gun remains closed to the casual visitor, so it's not easy (or prudent) to figure out exactly where the old fort walls exist in the newer construction. However, there's still that wall below the Coast Guard water tank, visible from Lot M at the base of the Fishermen's Trail near Battery Peck. Look carefully to the east of the tank, and you might be able to follow a line to additional parts of the fort wall. Don't attempt, however, to get too close. While the Coast Guard base is still recovering from Hurricane Sandy, the site remains an active military installation, and you can't just walk in. Even if you bring a shrubbery.

Hitchcock on Sandy Hook: My adventure with The Birds

Spring this year has been hit and miss, with very few warm days. Any nature lover with a flexible schedule would have headed to a favorite birding spot when the temperatures promised to reach 75 degrees on a sunny day.

For me, that's Sandy Hook. It's one of the state's top birding spots any time of year, but during spring migration, it's especially promising. I had no specific reason to believe it would be spectacular today, but you never know. And to paraphrase a popular saying, a mediocre day at Sandy Hook is still better than a great day in a lot of other places.

What I didn't realize was that my visit would land me a screen test for a remake of a Hitchcock movie. No, not Psycho (I'm not that obsessed with birding). Yes, The Birds!

Now, over the past several years, Ivan and I have seen plenty of large flocks of small avian visitors, and smaller flocks of large avian visitors, and sometimes they take flight in ways that might be scary to those who aren't familiar with their general behavior. Like anyone else would, I sometimes make Tippi Hedren jokes, especially when gulls or blackbirds are involved, but I've never felt stalked.

This time, though, I got a fish's view of a predator, totally by mistake.

Sandy Hook's varied habitats offer several different places to bird, depending on what you'd like to see. My first choice today was an area at the tip of the hook called the locust grove, known to attract warblers and other songbirds. It's nestled between Battery Peck and the northern end of Nine Gun Battery, accessible from a gate in the chain link fence, and it leads out toward the pond on the Fisherman's Trail.

An Osprey overhead -- photo not taken
during the event described in this post.

The farther north you go on the hook, the more likely you are to see Osprey, and I was thrilled to see a half dozen or so in the air as I got out of my car. Where it was once news to see one nesting pair at Sandy Hook, the population has soared in recent years. By my informal count, there are at least five active nests on the hook this year. Some are on platforms built by the National Park Service specifically for the Osprey. Others capitalize on existing man-made structures like a radar tower on the Coast Guard base and, despite the efforts of the NPS, the chimneys of a few Fort Hancock buildings. Their success says a tremendous deal about the improved health of Raritan Bay and the efforts of environmentalists to make the region more hospitable to the ol' fish hawk.

Thing is, there are so many of them that you have to wonder where else they're nesting. A couple of years ago, I was scolded away from Battery Kingman by an angry Osprey parent protecting its young, and there are other platforms tucked away in locations less accessible to human wanderers. I think that's how I got into trouble today.

I was probably about a third of the way down the locust grove path when I heard insistent peeping from the sky. Looking up, I saw three Osprey -- two circling broadly and a third hovering almost directly above me. I kept walking, only to look up again to see the same bird over me, now flapping its wings busily. I'd seen that flap before, but over water: it's the maneuver of an Osprey readying itself to strike at a fish.

Hmm. Perhaps it's time to look for birds elsewhere.

In the Hitchcock masterpiece, the birds' hostility comes out of nowhere. My experience is easily explained. The closer I got to my car, the less disturbed the Osprey seemed to be, leading me to conjecture that I'd unknowingly approached a nest. By this point in the season, they're well-established and already incubating two or three eggs, one parent keeping the unhatched offspring warm while the other guards the area or goes fishing for the family. They've got enough to worry about from predators without having to warn me off.

A big part of birding is understanding the place of the human. We're there to observe and enjoy but not to disturb or harass. When a normally-quiet bird like the Osprey starts to vocalize, or a usually sweet-sounding songbird calls harshly, it's a cue to depart. We know our intent is pure, but the bird doesn't.

Birding is good all over the hook; I had no specific need to be on the locust grove trail. If the Osprey wanted me gone, I was more than happy to cooperate.

Birding with a beret: the Bohemian Waxwing at Sandy Hook

Ah, the Bohemian Waxwing.

The name sounds like something out of one of those caricatures about nutty bird watchers: "yes, we saw the crimson-bellied saw whet and the Bohemian waxwing."

Thing is, it's a real bird, and at least one, maybe two, have been sighted over the last week or so at Sandy Hook. Normally, this time of year it's somewhere in lower Canada or the northern states of the Midwest or Western U.S. These misguided avian visitors apparently decided a trip to the Jersey Shore was a good way to spend part of the winter.

Yes, they spent Washington's birthday weekend at the Sandy Hook that's been totally frozen this winter. According to the many hearty birders who've seen the Bohemian there, it's been very cooperative, happily eating berries from the hollies near the flagpole at the scout camp.

Bohemian Waxwing, courtesy Lisa Ann Fanning.

A combination of the weather and workload kept Ivan and me from taking a look, until the unusually warm (for this winter, anyway) Sunday of Washington's birthday. Though I'd wanted to hobnob with George and Martha at his headquarters in Morristown I wanted to see the waxwing even more. This beautiful creature, even more distinctive than its dapper cousin who's a New Jersey regular, has been on my "must see" list for quite some time.

"Bohemian" brings up thoughts of bongos and smoke-filled Greenwich Village coffeehouses, but this bird eschews the hep cat life for a diet of fruit in the winter, supplemented by insects during the breeding season. The first part of their name comes more from their said nomadic journeys, much like the European Bohemians of old. The "waxwing" part comes from the crimson markings on some of its wing feathers, which makes them appear dipped in red sealing wax.

Seeing either waxwing, common though the Cedar waxwings are, is always a treat. Unlike the usually stark differences evident between feather colors on most birds, the waxwings' bodies appear almost airbrushed, greys evolving into browns, and the yellow of the Cedars' breasts gently transitioning from the brown surrounding it. If your only exposure to one came from a painting, you'd be excused for thinking that something so beautiful couldn't exist in nature.

The Bohemian, while still very dignified, is larger and more colorful than the Cedar, making it a "want" not just for my own life list, but because I want the joy of seeing it for myself. Enough that yes, I'd be happy to head to ice-encrusted Sandy Hook to see it.

How cold was it? Sandy Hook Bay was frozen.

So, off we went, thankful for the 40 degree weather that usually passes for "normal" this time of year in New Jersey. Reports were also that a Vesper sparrow was hanging out near one of the parking lots at the base of the Hook, but the Bohemian was our top priority.

We weren't the only ones looking. After stopping at the Nike base on a hunch that a guy with a scope set up had the bird in his sights, we found a scarce spot in the small parking lot near the camp. Other birders returning to their cars said they'd heard the bird was with a flock of robins, but they hadn't seen it.

Thus started a couple of hours of wait and see, wander a bit, chat with other birders, and just one sighting of a waxwing of either kind. The hollies at the camp flagpole were still pregnant with berries, but alas, no birds were there to feast on them. Perhaps the waxwing had decamped to a spot deep within Sandy Hook's enormous holly forest, far from the prying eyes of appreciative birders. Wherever it was, we didn't find it. My usual mantra about chase birds once again came true: if it wants me to see it, it will be there. I guess it just wasn't my time.

The Vesper sparrow on the other hand, was a bit more cooperative, though barely. Flocking with a bunch of Song sparrows, it finally sat long enough for us to spot it among some weedy grass on the north end of B lot. While it already made my life list just before Hurricane Sandy, they're not always an easy find in New Jersey, so this little guy was a nice consolation.

Back to school in Montague: the Nelden-Roberts Stonehouse

Delaware Water Gap National Recreational Area is loaded with them: old houses and buildings that largely stand empty, the silent tribute to faulty government planning and successful public outcry. Many had been in the same family for generations before the Army Corps of Engineers set out to flood much of the Water Gap as part of the Tocks Island Dam project. In preparation, the federal government purchased acres of farmland and forest plus the structures that stood on them.

Public opinion ultimately trumped the dubious need for the project, but the impact on the area was profound, nonetheless. While the National Park Service assumed ownership and management of the land from the Army Corps, the families were not allowed to return to their ancestral homes. What's left in many cases is the puzzling sight we discovered at the Westbrook-Bell House: a nicely maintained but tightly shut colonial-era stone house with a decidedly 21st century satellite dish. If you're like me, you salivate a little as you drive past buildings like that, wondering how much of the average stuff of daily life is left in them and whether you'll ever get to find out.

More rarely than most of us wish, you may drive past one of the old houses to find it's open. That was our luck as we approached a small stone structure not far from the Milford-Montague Bridge on Route 206. The Nelden-Roberts Stonehouse was accepting visitors, as it does, two Sundays a month in warm weather.

As we discovered from our friendly volunteer docent, farmer George Nelden held the property as early as 1817. It was a schoolhouse until about 1865, one of a handful located in the area in a time before free public education. The Roberts portion of the house's name came from a family who owned a farm across the road; tenant farmers were among the many families that used it as a dwelling until the federal government acquired the property. One gets the feeling that rather than being a beloved homestead, the stonehouse was more like an accommodation that came along with local employment. Still, or maybe because of that status, it has a valuable story to tell.

It's likely that when it was originally built, the building was a lot like others in Montague and surrounding communities, but circumstances have a way of making the ordinary truly special. Vandalism and the loss of nearby Brick House village to the Tocks Island project encouraged concerned citizens to form the Montague Association for the Restoration of Community History (MARCH) in 1979 to save some of the remaining historic properties. A federal grant paid for adaptive restoration, which led to the building's reopening in 1982. MARCH now has an longstanding agreement with the National Park Service to maintain and interpret the Nelden-Roberts Stonehouse and the nearby Foster-Armstrong House, a wooden homestead first built in the late 18th century and enlarged in 1820.

They've done an admirable job. Walking into the stonehouse, we discovered a one-room schoolhouse, complete with some of the primers, slates and other items rural students would have brought for a day of study. A small side room was set up like an early 20th century general store that was, no doubt, a very welcome amenity for the rural community.

Upstairs was an attic room for the teacher, large though the walls were slanted. In addition to curating it with spartan bedroom furniture, MARCH uses the space to exhibit other artifacts representing community history. When we were there, it held a World War display saluting local veterans, as well as a number of Native American objects reflecting the area's Lenape past.

With the coming of colder weather, the unheated Nelden-Roberts Stonehouse will be closed for a few months, but it's well worth putting on the to-see list for the spring. Just as important as any "Washington Slept Here" attraction in the state, the stonehouse is a refreshing look into a community's past, lovingly perpetuated by neighbors who see the importance of preserving local history.

The hidden Ellis Island Hospital: admitting again, starting October 1

Long-time readers know we have a special relationship with Ellis Island... the New Jersey side. As a volunteer with the National Park Service partner non-profit Save Ellis Island, I tell the little-known story of the immigrant hospital that once treated and cured over a million people in the first half of the 20th century. I've explored portions of the 29-building unrestored hospital complex, but I haven't been able to share that much with you because, well, it hasn't been open to the public. Why share something hidden that you can't go to see for yourself?

That's about to change.

Starting on October 1, Save Ellis Island will be conducting reservation-only hard hat tours of the island's south side, including several sites within the historic Public Health Service hospital. Visitors will see rooms where doctors worked to cure immigrants of illnesses ranging from measles to the infectious eye disease trachoma. While there's very little furniture left in the wards, the walls and windows tell a compelling story, reminding us how hard it must have been for sick immigrants to have their American dreams delayed by illness. 

The hospital was a city unto itself, and the tour will reflect that. More than a million people were treated there, with mortality of only 3500 souls. The morgue and autopsy room will be on the tour, as well as the laundry that cleaned and sanitized up to 3000 pieces of linen a day (imagine the cool machinery involved with that!). You'll also get to see the large (but yet to be fully restored) lawn and recreation space where recuperating patients enjoyed fresh air, sunshine and a breathtaking view of lower Manhattan.

Befitting the hospital's unrestored state, this is a program for folks who are comfortable with uneven surfaces, dust and peeling paint. The buildings are safe, but they definitely won't pass the white glove test.  

If the prospect of getting into buildings that haven't been open for 60 years isn't cool enough, tour participants will be getting an extra treat: a really unique (and hidden!) art exhibit. The artist JR is in the process of installing a project that repopulates the hospital with some of the immigrants who traveled through Ellis. I had the opportunity to check out a few of the areas he's already worked on, finding hope, poignancy and whimsy mixed among more than a dozen life-sized historic photos installed on the walls, windows and fixtures.

Revenue from the ticket sales for the tours will support SEI's ongoing restoration and preservation work on the hospital buildings. As you can imagine, bringing more than two dozen century-old buildings back to life isn't a quick or inexpensive task.

Keep an eye on our Facebook page and the Save Ellis Island web page for details on reserving your spot on an upcoming tour. Who knows -- I may even end up being your guide!

Sabotage on Sandy Hook: our oldest lighthouse's Redcoat past

Standing as it does within a decommissioned U.S. Army fort, it's difficult to imagine that the Sandy Hook Lighthouse was once the target of sabotage by loyal Americans.

How the heck did that happen? Did the government cover up some sort of invasion on the Jersey Shore? No, not quite. The pieces start to come together after you consider the history of Sandy Hook and the lighthouse itself, which celebrates its 250th birthday this year.

The oldest operating lighthouse in the United States, Old Sandy was originally conceived in the early 1760s by New York merchants weary of losing incoming cargo to shipwrecks. Approaching New York Harbor by ship can be a tricky prospect, even today, but it was downright hazardous back then. Importers lost about 20,000 pounds sterling in merchandise to the shoals in just a few years, leading them to petition the Colonial Assembly of New York for funds to construct a lighthouse on the hook. (Why didn't they appeal to the New Jersey Legislature? The borders had yet to be settled, so the jurisdiction for the Hook was up for conjecture, and the merchants no doubt went where they felt they'd have more influence.)

Drawing on a popular funding mechanism for the time, the legislature authorized two lotteries to raise the £3000 to pay for construction. Its ongoing maintenance and a salary for a resident keeper were funded through a tax on cargo entering through New York Harbor. The lantern on the 105 foot New York Lighthouse, as it was called then, was first lit on June 11, 1764. Combined with the efforts of the Sandy Hook Pilots organized 70 years earlier to help ships navigate the shifting sand bars on the approach to the harbor, the light proved to be an effective aid to navigation.

Sandy Hook Lighthouse, ca. 1937
(photo by Historic American Buildings Survey
photographer Nathaniel R. Ewan)

The tower operated peacefully for twelve years before it metaphorically landed in troubled waters. New Jerseyans and New Yorkers were starting to take sides: remain loyal to Great Britain, or advocate independence. By early 1776, rumors of a British military invasion of New York were beginning to take hold. The powerful British Navy would likely attempt to sail into New York Harbor, led by ship captains unfamiliar with the intricacies of the waters south and east of Staten Island. Destroying the light at Sandy Hook would deprive them of a vital navigational aid, leaving them prone to grounding and shipwreck.

Seizing this strategic opportunity, the independence-minded legislatures in Trenton and Albany sent troops to dismantle the New York Lighthouse lantern and remove the lamp oil, confiscating whatever they could take away. The troops, led by Monmouth County Militia Colonel George Taylor and New York Major William Malcolm, completed the task and departed the Hook, leaving the lighthouse unguarded.

In the weeks that followed, foraging parties of British sailors would periodically land on the Hook in search of fresh water, often being ambushed and captured by American troops. The British responded by capturing the lighthouse in April 1776, fortifying the grounds to repel additional attacks and ultimately repairing the light by June to welcome additional naval vessels to the bay. As further protection, the Redcoats stationed several additional ships in the waters surrounding the Hook, adding potent firepower to the defense.

Undeterred, the Americans continued their attempts to take out the lighthouse, with a half dozen or more attacks in 1776 and 1777. National Park Service historians will emphasize the sturdiness of the lighthouse's six-foot thick walls by highlighting the unsuccessful use of artillery trained on the tower, but one has to consider the relative size of the cannons to get a true sense of the threat. The patriots' six pound guns (known as such for the six pound cannon balls they fired) were small in comparison to other artillery available at the time, and likely not up for the challenge, though they did do some damage to the lighthouse's walls.

In any case, the patriots found themselves no match for British forces on the Hook, especially when the firepower of the surrounding warships was taken into account. The peninsula became a refuge for a motley assortment of New Jersey loyalists, thieves, smugglers and raiders until the end of the war. Patriot privateers would occasionally attempt foraging raids on the Hook but lacked the firepower to attempt any harassment beyond stealing British supplies.

You can get a taste of the lighthouse's revolutionary past during its birthday celebration on June 14, when Revolutionary War reenactors will be on hand with musket and cannon-firing demonstrations. Though it doesn't sound as if any NPS-sponsored smugglers and raiders will be on hand, the event looks to be a fun time for all.

The WACs of Fort Hancock: Sandy Hook's women soldiers

You may not notice at first glance, but Sandy Hook's Fort Hancock is, in many places, a study in uniformity and symmetry. With golden-hued brickface and green woodwork, most of its buildings share a common look, regardless of their size. Officers Row is organized so that the smaller lieutenants' houses are on the outer flanks, the intermediate-sized captains and majors near the middle, with the commanding officer's home standing as the largest building in the middle.

Fort Hancock-based WACs receive
good conduct medal outside Barracks 25.

On the other side of the parade ground stand four much larger buildings: the barracks designed to house 70 enlisted men and a handful of non-commissioned officers each. Erected in the late 1890s as some of the fort's first 32 structures, the barracks were later supplemented with separate mess hall buildings, moving food prep to open up bunk space for an additional 38 soldiers. Today, one of the barracks is used by the New Jersey Marine Sciences Consortium, while the others remain unrestored and empty.

Uniformity being a big thing with the military, there was nothing about the barracks' exteriors to distinguish them from each other. As alike as they appear, however, the northernmost one, Building 25, holds a special place in history. During World War II, it was home to the 70 female recruits of Fort Hancock's Women's Army Corps (WAC) detachment.

Organized to fill administrative roles within the Army to free up male soldiers to go into combat, the WAC (originally the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps, or WAAC) was the first of the service corps to enlist women for the war effort. The concept met with resistance on several fronts, among them the manufacturers who needed women to work in defense plants, and clergy who felt that mixing the genders in the service would lead to morally questionable situations. Many WAC recruits enlisted despite the disapproval of their families, though others were pleasantly surprised to discover their parents were proud of their commitment to serve their country.

Like their male Army counterparts, WACs were expected to be in general good health, but other physical requirements indicated that they were not going to be taking on jobs that required heavy labor or exertion. Eligible women were between the ages of 21 and 50, anywhere between five feet and six feet tall, and weighed between 105 and 200 pounds. The educational requirements for WACs exceeded those of Army recruits: women had to have earned a high school diploma, while men could enter the service without one. In reality, many had their college degrees, as well. What they all had in common -- men and women alike -- was a desire to do their part to defend the United States.

By June 1943, when the first seven WACs came to Fort Hancock, their "auxiliary" status had shifted, and the women were on the same rank and pay structure as their male counterparts. They were on Sandy Hook to support the 1225th Army Service Unit, Second Service Command, which provided administrative and logistical support to tactical commands. Thousands of male soldiers had already swelled the base's population to over 7000, but the women remained well outnumbered until the end of the war, with ranks of approximately 70 at their height. They fit comfortably (if anything in the Army could be "comfortable") into Building 25, which one WAC declared to be a "honey" of a place. Only small concessions were made for their gender: sheets, shower curtains, toilet stalls and a laundry. Well, that and the fact that the adjacent barracks was converted to post headquarters to conform with Army regulations requiring 150 feet separating mens' living quarters from womens'.

Army leadership had envisioned WACs as a clerical force, but the women proved their mettle in more than 400 of the service's 625 occupation codes. Following an edict from Fort Hancock Commanding Officer Colonel J.C. Haw, women soldiers easily took on their assignments at the motor pool, commissary, finance office, post exchange and elsewhere around the base.

Oral histories collected from Fort Hancock WAC veterans indicate that they were well accepted around the base, and aside from the usual bad apples one runs into in any job, their military experiences were positive. Like many of their male counterparts, some capitalized on the GI Bill to get their college degrees after the war, and some met their future husbands on the base.

According to the National Park Service's historic structure report for Barracks 25, the WACs appear to have left Fort Hancock by the time the 1225th departed at the end of 1949, about six months before the base was deactivated. Maintenance records seem to reflect the WACs' return to Barracks 25 in 1955 to support the reconstituted 1225th, but their further history isn't clear. What the role of women was at the fort by the time of its decommissioning in 1974, well, that's a story for another day.


(For another example of the contributions New Jersey servicewomen made in World War II and beyond, check out our story on Womens Airforce Service Pilots veteran Marjorie Gray.)

Visiting our favorite Easter Peeps*: the Piping plovers

Easter seemed like the perfect day for a trip to Sandy Hook for the annual nesting season of the Piping plover. It was a beautiful day, breezes on the shore were soft and reasonably warm, and, well, who doesn't like a good Peep?

These impossibly cute shorebirds return to New Jersey every spring to mate and raise their young, and Sandy Hook is one of their favorite breeding spots. In fact, they were the mascots, of sorts, of New Jersey Audubon's late, great Sandy Hook Bird Observatory, which used to sell t-shirts emblazoned with the plover. (As an aside, the shirt was a great conversation starter in Hawaii, scoring me a few pointers for locating the endangered Nene goose.)

Piping Plover adult. U.S. Geological Survey/photo by Susan Haig.

Besides their overall loveableness, Piping plovers deserve our regard as a federally threatened species, with fewer than 2000 breeding pairs in the Atlantic population. Over-development along the shoreline and indiscriminate human behavior on the beach are among the biggest perils to these little guys, so state and federal parks are usually the best places to find them. It's always good to see them return in the spring, and every successful brood is cause for celebration.

The top of the hook -- North Beach and above -- is generally a reliable place to find the plovers, which means a hike along Fisherman's Trail. It's a good workout, tromping a sandy path over small dunes and mounds that shift below your feet. Who needs the gym?

Neither Ivan nor I had been to the end of the trail since Hurricane Sandy came through, but the beach seemed to be in pretty decent shape. Inland from the water's edge, a wide expanse of sand was cordoned off for the explicit use of nesting protected birds. As always, a variety of gulls was making their presence known in the sky above and on the beach. American oystercatchers were easy to find, their orange bills and dark backs and heads contrasting nicely with the sand.

The plovers, not so much.

Imagine trying to find a tiny bird, the color of wet sand with some white thrown in, on a damp beach strewn with shell shards. It ain't easy. On the plus side, it gives you a real respect for the power of camouflage. But you're left scanning yards and yards of what looks like empty beach, hoping to detect some movement that's not a stray piece of paper or plastic fluttering in the breeze.

Some knowledge of their habits helped us eliminate part of the beach right off the bat. We figured they'd make themselves scarce among the gulls and oystercatchers, both of which are known to dine on plover eggs and chicks. Passing a good stretch of sand, we got to some yardage seemingly free of all life but for random dune grass in the distance. And then... there was movement.

They weren't easy to focus on, but about a half dozen plovers were rushing among the beach detritus, looking like house hunters power-walking to the next real estate listing. We felt reasonably sure they were still checking out neighborhoods, because the usual unmistakable signs of nesting weren't yet there.

The thing about Piping plovers is that depending on the time of season, the nests can either be near impossible to locate, or darn easy. Unlike the construction of twigs or grass that most birds generally use, plovers' nests are pretty much just uncushioned scrapes in the ground, their mottled tan and white eggs laying in a slight depression that might be decorated with shells or pebbles as camo. That makes them almost invisible. If the area wasn't cordoned off, folks might mistakenly step on a nest without realizing it.

Ironically, it's the benign hand of man that makes the nests easy for birders to find. On Sandy Hook, for example, the National Park Service reserves parts of ocean-facing beaches with regulations and signage to keep the birds from being harassed. The dunes are roped off from March 15 through Labor Day, and visitors are reminded that dogs are allowed only on the bay-facing beaches, where the plovers don't nest.

If you wait long enough in the season, your search for Piping plovers is aided by the large chicken-wire structures the Park Service erects around the nests the birds create on the beach. The holes in these exclosures are large enough to allow the plovers to leave easily to forage for food, while being too small to allow predators in. Raccoons, cats, skunks and foxes are all known to go for plover eggs and chicks.

Piping plovers generally lay clutches of two to four eggs, which hatch in about 25 days. Born with pinfeathers, the chicks are mobile almost immediately and will follow their parents around as they graze for food. In about another month, the youngsters will be ready to fly, provided they survive predation. Parents will feign a broken wing to distract predators from the nest, as the little ones lay motionless in the sand, nearly invisible thanks to their camouflage. That's not to say that Piping plovers won't stand up for themselves. Other birds who approach the nest will be chased, bitten or pecked, possibly leaving an enduring injury.

Like us humans, plovers are generally off the beach by the middle of September. They often gather in groups in quiet staging areas before heading south to the gulfshore and beyond. For now, though, they're counting on us to share the beach with them as they start another generation of adorable birds.


*Technically, Piping plovers aren't included among the shorebirds generally categorized as "peeps" by birders. Those would be a certain group of Sandpipers. I just couldn't resist the Marshmallow Peeps reference.

Shift change on the Hook

If the first really, really nice day of March is a gift, this year it's the winning lottery ticket. After the winter we've endured -- bone chilling cold interrupted by repetitive big snow storms, or the combination of both -- the prospect of frolicking in 60 degree weather is totally irresistible.

That's exactly why I ended up at Sandy Hook earlier today. Well, that and the fact that the Osprey should be returning any day. Among the first raptors to capture my imagination many years ago, the good ol' fish hawk is generally expected to arrive back at the Hook around March 15. Given the harshness of the winter, I wasn't really sure whether they might be delayed, but it was worth a shot. Would they resettle on the nesting platform near the still-not-replaced boardwalk deck at Spermaceti Cove? Could they already be staking out the usual spots on Officers Row and the Officers Club? (Hmm... with homes like that, could it be that Osprey are the Hook's full bird colonels?)

And besides, I might get a chance at seeing the straggler seals in the bay before they head north for the summer.

These prickly pears will soon be livening up for the summer.

Usually we're so busy looking for signs of spring -- crocuses, the first robin, budding trees -- that we don't consider that our winter visitors are getting ready to leave for points north. I was wondering whether I might be able to see both today: maybe some winter ducks and seals, within view of newly-arrived osprey and other recent migrants.

Actually, it didn't take long for me to experience the overlap. Parking at Lot C and walking the path between the dunes to the bay, I heard the call of a Red-winged blackbird just as I spotted a group of seals sunning themselves on a distant bayside beach. True, some Red-wings stick around in the colder months, but their song always puts me in the mind of sunny July mornings on the Hook.  So... mission accomplished there.

My next stop was the bayside beach near batteries Kingman and Mills, where I supposed some straggler ducks might be hanging out. A quartet of Brant swam near the water's edge; a pair of Buffleheads farther out were alternately floating along and diving. Remembering the overhead scolding I got last May, I was optimistically hoping to find an Osprey or two near the nesting platform inland of Battery Mills, but alas, it's a little too early in the season for setting up housekeeping.

This Officers Row house is being fitted with a new porch.
You can see PVC piping in the chimneys above.

That said, I wasn't too confident I'd find any down at the garrison, either, a feeling heightened by some surprising activity atop the houses on Officers Row. Several houses already sport PVC piping emerging from chimneys, perhaps a means of ventilation to stabilize ongoing decay, and a crew was fitting yet another house as I passed. While I'm all for whatever it takes to preserve and restore these amazing homes, I'm a bit saddened by the prospect that Osprey will lose their long-time nesting spaces as a result. Allowances may already have been made: one of the houses appeared to have been skipped over, and I think it's the usual nesting chimney.*

Still, though, I hadn't seen a single one of the birds that prompted my visit. I was just about passing the Officers Club (no luck) when I saw something gliding through the sky. Right shape? Right size? Pretty much. Right markings? Well, that was the question. As I pulled the car over near Nine Gun Battery to get a look, the mystery raptor's circling widened, bringing it farther away from me. Just my luck.

Patience is a virtue with birding, and I decided to wait a little to see if it would return. A clutch of Turkey vultures glided in, a few alighting on the Battery. Trying to tell me something, guys? Then I saw it: either the same mystery bird or a friend, approaching for a fly-by, but I couldn't get a bead on it. My binoculars have been temperamental lately, and they picked this moment to be especially difficult. I thought I saw the distinctive black eye stripe of an Osprey, but I didn't catch enough of its other markings to be sure. Birds, of course, don't care about your optics issues. You may get another chance, you may not.

Shaking my head, I got in the car and continued southward, in the direction the mystery raptors had flown. They seemed to be heading to the Gunnison parking lot, which, not surprisingly, held a couple dozen cars on this sunny, warm day. The vultures seemed to find the area amenable. I sat, waiting.

Well, it's often said that when you look for one bird, you often find another one that's just as interesting, and that's exactly what happened. Among the couple of "I'm not sure, but I could make it a juvenile osprey" individuals was one much different: a Red-shouldered hawk. And this fella wanted me to be absolutely sure, gliding above me so I could get a good look at his orange-tinged body and striped tail. On his departure, he wheeled to let me see his distinctive red shoulders, nicely displayed in perfect sunlight. If I wasn't entirely sure about the Osprey, the Red-shoulder was a nice consolation.

As I got back into the car, I looked in the distance to see two raptors flying a tandem pattern, apparently getting to know each other better, or maybe looking for a nice place to nest. Though they were too far off for me to identify decisively, I'm sure they were Osprey. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

*Update, April 10: the Osprey are undeterred! At least three pairs have or are attempting to set up shop on the chimneys, incorporating the PVC piping in their nest design. Scuttlebutt is that the piping was placed to discourage the birds as the National Park Service is moving to lease the houses to entities that will restore and reopen them.

Deck the Hook with boughs of holly...

Even after countless trips to Sandy Hook, I'm still finding new reasons to love the place. After visiting the snowy owl a few weeks ago, Ivan and I wandered the area near the Marine Academy of Science and Technology (MAST) and found something quite different: a set of American holly trees larger than any either of us had ever seen.

I'd long heard that the Hook is home to the largest holly forest on the East Coast, but I'd yet to see any of the actual trees, fully laden with berries. Here some were, standing innocently next to buildings. What of the forest?

Taking its slow growth into account, this holly tree on
Sandy Hook's MAST campus is likely well over 100 years old.

To find that, you likely need to go on a guided tour with a National Park Service ranger. Sandy Hook's holly forest includes several trees estimated to be more than 200 years old and 70 feet high, and is, perhaps, the country's largest stand of virgin holly forest. Its caretakers want to keep it that way, carrying on a tradition that once went as far as to include armed guards.

Yup, you read that right. The forest has a somewhat unlikely benefactor to thank for being preserved at all: the United States Army. The Hook's military history stretches back to the Revolution, when American forces raided the lighthouse to take the whale oil needed to light the then British-controlled beacon. And as speculators built entire seaside resorts along the length of the Jersey Shore, the establishment of the Sandy Hook Proving Ground and later Fort Hancock in the late 19th century cemented the peninsula's "off limits" status for developers. As a result, the trees, along with the other local plants, were free to thrive as their counterparts to the south were replaced with beach houses and boardwalks.

This female holly is already a great food source for wintering
birds, including cedar waxwings, cardinals and mockingbirds.

The New Jersey shoreline is an ideal place for holly, as it turns out. Native to sandy soil, its glossy leaves resist the corrosive saltwater spray that would decimate less hardy leaves. Still, ocean frontage takes its toll. While holly is normally slow to mature, many of the Sandy Hook trees grow only about an inch every ten years, their unsheltered boughs stunted by the force of wind and unrelenting sea spray.

While the Sandy Hook forest has enjoyed a reprieve from development, it hasn't gone entirely unmolested. By past tradition, area residents would sneak onto the Hook to grab a few sprigs of holly to decorate their homes during the winter holidays, prompting the Army to station armed guards to protect the trees. You have to question the motives of the fort's leadership on that one: officers' wives usually didn't have much trouble securing local holly to add to their own Christmas displays, and requests from dignitaries were reportedly filled. Rank has its privileges.

Sandy Hook may be home to the largest natural occurrence of holly in the state, but other New Jersey communities rank in the annals of Ilex opaca, too. Rutgers Gardens in New Brunswick contains one of the nation's biggest collections of bred hollies, while Millville in Cumberland County became known as the Holly City after the New Jersey Silica Sand company planted a 50 acre, 2800-tree orchard there in the 1920s. I haven't visited the Millville property yet, but if my research is any indication, that installation may have fallen victim to a real estate development called -- wait for it -- the Holly Orchard Estates.

On the (Sandy) Hook again

It seems a little weird to compare the reopening of Sandy Hook to Christmas, but in my case, it works. It's long been the place where I can go to get some peace, and it's one of the spots on Earth that just make me feel good without even trying. Even in the dead of winter, I can usually find a good adventure or, with Ivan, an interesting feathered visitor.

Anyway, May 1 has been on my calendar as the official reopening date for the Hook post-Hurricane Sandy, and I couldn't wait. I woke up sometime around 4:30 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep, so I opted to make an early start. Sunrise was at 5:55, giving me plenty of time do all my morning stuff and hit the highway by daybreak.

The Park Service has done a great job of setting expectations on restoration through their Facebook page, but I didn't know what to expect in terms of visitation. Weather already looked wonderful, making it as good a day as any to play hooky from work, at least for the morning. Would there be a crowd?

When it came to birds, it was anyone's guess. Since nobody's been birding there all spring (or just hasn't reported, if some lucky duck got access), it's hard to know whether the storm's impact has changed the place enough to make it unattractive to some species and more attractive to others.

Whatever the case, I was eager to get there and find out for myself. As I took the Route 36 bridge over the Navesink River, I couldn't help but let out a whoop of happiness. I can recall having that kind of happiness entering the park on a beautiful summer morning, or at any other time of the year when I needed to recharge my batteries with a day on the Hook. I didn't realize how much I missed it, though, until I drove through the entrance plaza and my eyes teared up. Roads are still rough in places (they've been milled and some are yet to be repaved), but knowing they'd been covered with sand, I was happy they were entirely passable. And it seemed that I'd gotten there before just about everyone but the fishermen.

The landscapers have come!
Battery Peck hasn't looked this good in a long time.

My plan was to make my way to the warbler trail next to Battery Peck and Nine Gun near the tip of the Hook, and then check out some other birding spots along with Fort Hancock. Given the time of year, it seemed like the best approach.

Except that it wasn't. I neither saw nor heard a single warbler in the tight foliage along the path, though plenty of red-winged blackbirds and robins were around. Perhaps, I thought, the warblers were waiting for their breakfast bugs to warm up in the early morning sun. Either that, or they'd already come and gone.

The worst of the damaged porches on Officers Row.

On the way to my next stop, the scout camping grounds, I wound my way around Fort Hancock. I happily found a pair of osprey making a cozy home atop the Officers' Club chimney, and several others on the wing. The park's closure meant I couldn't make my usual mid-March visit to check on their annual return, and I was glad to see so many nesting around the Hook. Maybe they weren't as plentiful as blackbirds, but for a few minutes they certainly seemed to be.

Overall, as I drove around, I saw that many of the buildings had taken at least a small hit from the storm, from busted windows to missing roof shingles. Probably the worst I saw was the old mule barns near the Coast Guard base, which were accessible only by boat for a few weeks after the storm. Most of the Officers' Row houses now suffer the indignity of propped-up porch roofs and missing front and/or back steps, though it also appears that the stabilization boarding over the windows is new. The brick work all seems to have held up: those structures were built to last.

There's nothing like new barbecue equipment!

The scout camp, when I got there, was a tiny bit more productive from a birding perspective. In fact, it was tea time according to the most prevalent song birds there. The call of the normally delightful Eastern towhee has been described as "drink your teaaaaaa," but most of these guys simply sang the last two notes. They had me hunting for a bit, until one handsome fella perched atop a shrub, singing for all to see in the bright morning light. He was just the first of many who made themselves visible on my rounds. Perhaps a flight had come in overnight, or maybe procurement sent the Park Service towhees instead of warblers, but I hadn't seen so many in one place ever.

The boardwalk and deck
on Spermaceti Cove
were removed by the hurricane.

Still, though, I was a bit frustrated by the seeming lack of avian diversity, and as I ran into other birders, they admitted being just as disappointed. Walking the multi-use path will often reveal a wide range of birds, but the only ones who'd show themselves were annoyed house wrens and a pair of house finches. The lighting, however, was fantastic, illuminating the iridescence of a grackle as I'd never seen before. Absolutely gorgeous!

I also walked the maintenance road and bayside beach near Batteries Kingman and Mills, finding more towhees in the brush and a gathering of late-staying brant and a merganser in the water. Without realizing it, I antagonized a pair of osprey nesting on the land side of Kingman, an area I hadn't known was equipped with a platform for them. They seemed to be doing much better than the less-than-wise pair who were building a nest on a utility pole next to the road.

It'll probably take some time to determine the impact the hurricane has had on the flora and, by extension, the birds' feeding opportunities on the Hook. As I was reminded by one of the friendly NPS maintenance people I ran into, the peninsula had been hit with 13 foot storm surges, and the resulting flooding had to have made its mark.

For the time being, there are still repairs to be made. Superficially, there's road repaving and reconstruction of wooden walkways, most remarkably the boardwalk and observation deck at Spermaceti Cove, now totally gone. Long term, the park still needs major infrastructure improvements, including the sanitary sewer system. If you're planning a trip there, consider stopping by the Wawa or Quick Chek on 36 as you approach the park. The porta-johns were very clean when I checked, but, well, why go rustic if you don't have to? In any case, it's a small inconvenience when compared to the joy of being back on the Hook.

Jockey Hollow cemetery: Morristown's hidden tribute to remarkable patriot troops

We haven't had a lot of snow this January, but the recent cold snap brought just a small sense of the kind of misery the Continental troops had to deal with during their encampments in Morristown during the winters of 1777 and 1779-80. Ivan and I headed to Jockey Hollow on the off chance we'd run into some of the pileated woodpeckers that are sometimes visible in the woods, and while there was just a dusting of the white stuff on the ground, the Revolutionary War soldiers weren't far from our minds.

If you grew up in Northern or Central New Jersey, there's a good chance you visited Morristown National Historical Park on a class trip. The place has a lot to capture a youngster's imagination, even aside from the obvious importance to our country's earliest days. I can recall stopping at the Wick family house to hear the legend of how the young girl Tempe hid her horse inside her family's tiny house to prevent soldiers from confiscating it. And, of course, there are a handful of huts at the edge of a clearing and atop a hill, facsimiles of the rows of rough housing soldiers built to shelter themselves from one of the harshest winters on record.

The thing we didn't notice (or weren't made aware of) on those youthful trips was the cemetery which holds the remains of over a hundred Continental soldiers who perished during those bitter months. It's easy to overlook the burial grounds, even though they're bordered by Cemetery Road. Graves aren't marked with those familiar white U.S. military stones. In fact, they're not marked at all. The only indication that people are buried there is a weathered brass plaque on a large stone, placed there by the people of Morristown on Memorial Day, 1932. That would have been about 10 months before the property became America's first National Historical Park.

While soldiers didn't have to worry about dying in battle at Morristown, they faced an equally perilous threat from disease and deprivation. The exact causes of death for the roughly 100 in the cemetery aren't clear, but it's a pretty good bet that many fell victim to the lack of supplies -- food and clothing alike -- that plagued the encampments, especially the second one. General Washington had also ordered all troops to be inoculated for smallpox during the first encampment, which no doubt led to some deaths as well.

The first national military cemeteries were created after the Civil War, so those who died at Morristown were not afforded the same honors we're familiar with today. In many cases, soldiers were buried where they fell, or, as at Jockey Hollow, were placed in mass graves. Considering the hardships they endured and the uncertainties under which they served, it seems their final resting place deserves a more prominent marker and additional attention from those who visit the park. The people of Morristown seem to have understood this when they placed the marker over 80 years ago. Their words say it all:

More than one hundred Continental soldiers who made the supreme sacrifice for American Liberty are buried in this cemetery. Their comrades were housed in huts along the Jockey Hollow Road. 

 The people of Morristown reverently erect this monument as a tribute to them and to the valor of the Continental Army whose occupancy of Jockey Hollow has hallowed this ground.

The next time you're at Jockey Hollow, stop by and pay your respects. And if you're there on a particularly cold or especially snowy day, consider how long you'd be able to endure the conditions they did, barely clothed and fighting hunger. For so many reasons, they truly deserve our thanks and admiration.

Ellis Island: an update on Sandy's impact

Not long after Hurricane Sandy, I wrote about damage at Ellis Island and the uncertain future of the unrestored Public Health Service immigrant hospital on the south side of the island. Since then, the National Park Service has done a great deal of work to mitigate much of the storm's impact both there and at Liberty Island, but much more needs to be done before the islands can be reopened to the public.

Doors to the Ferry Building's dock were blown off
their hinges by Sandy's powerful surges.

One thing I didn't mention in my earlier report was Sandy's less-visible impact on the continuing mission of Save Ellis Island, the National Park Service's official non-profit partner working to bring the south side buildings back to use. SEI's first large-scale project on the island was the restoration of the Ferry Building that once was the last stop for immigrants who'd passed inspection and were on their way to New York City. Reopened to visitors in 2007, the building houses an exhibit about the public health aspects of the immigrant experience, the island's hospital facility and staff.

Lesser known to the public is the building's multipurpose space, which hosts SEI's professional development seminars for educators. Teachers learn more about the historic and current day immigration experience, as well as methods for bringing Ellis Island to life in their own classrooms. Participants also have the opportunity to tour the main museum and hospital buildings, experiences that help them provide a richer perspective to their students. In many cases, teachers even return with their classes for additional, age-appropriate lessons about various immigration issues.

Ellis Island's Ferry Building classroom took a big hit, too,
leaving unsalvageable equipment and learning materials.

When the storm surges blew off the doors leading from the Ferry Building to the dock, they also took much of SEI's ability to keep its education programs running. Displays and artifacts were knocked over and soaked by the rush of water, and while they can be repaired and restored, they're now inaccessible to the public. Learning materials and historical photographs were ruined and will need to be replaced. And until the island reopens, SEI can't offer students and educators the full impact of its learning programs, which also fund a good portion of the long-range restoration effort.

As a temporary measure, the organization is working to bring its seminars into classrooms in the New York/New Jersey area, so students will get at least partial benefit from learning about facets of Ellis Island. Still, SEI will take a financial hit from the situation, only broadening the harsh impact of the storm.

Ellis has a lengthy history of ups and downs, from its heyday in the early 20th century to the abandonment in mid century and the restoration of the iconic main building in the 1980s. I have every faith that it'll come back stronger than ever, but right now, the fate of the south side is still very much in question. If you'd like to help Save Ellis Island stay the course and continue its work, visit their website to learn about various donation opportunities, as well as their educational offerings. Ellis Island is an irreplaceable part of the story of America, and its New Jersey connection - the hospital - must continue to be told.

Ellis Island's hospital after Sandy: an uncertain future

I've mentioned before that I'm a volunteer interpretive guide at Ellis Island, informing visitors about the Public Health Service hospital and medical inspections on the island. While I spend a fair amount of time at the visitor information desk for the National Park Service, my tours are a function of Save Ellis Island, the non-profit organization that's working to restore the former hospital complex and other buildings on the island. Their progress has been slow, as funding is precious and limited, but SEI has been able to renovate and reopen the island's Ferry Building to house the exhibit focusing on the work of PHS doctors and hospital staff. The hospital buildings themselves sit on the island's south side, unused, unrestored and closed to public visitation.

Ivan looks out toward the Statue
of Liberty from an unrestored
ward on Ellis Island's
south side.

The story of the Ellis Island hospital is relatively unknown, compared to the many tales of passage through the main Immigration Station. Of the 12 million immigrants who passed through Ellis Island, an estimated ten percent were held back for further medical review and/or treatment for diseases that otherwise would prevent their entry into the United States. The treatable were sent to the island's general hospital or to the contagious and infectious disease wards, depending on their condition. Entire buildings were filled with patients suffering from measles, mumps and other contagious but not quarantinable diseases. An army of doctors, nurses, orderlies and attendants kept the whole place running, a virtual city of healing.

I've made a handful of visits to the south side buildings to help inform my tours and represent the hospital accurately to visitors who aren't permitted to check out that side of the island. About a month ago, Ivan and I joined another volunteer to check out the infectious and contagious disease hospitals on Island Three, the southernmost portion of Ellis. Most of the furniture is gone, the windows are boarded up and plaster is falling from many of the walls, yet you can still get a sense of the enormity of place.  So many lives were changed for the better within these rooms, the destiny of so many families and their descendants were altered forever.

We didn't know that day that it would likely be our last visit to the south side for quite some time, if ever. Hurricane Sandy mapped a direct course toward New York Harbor, putting both Ellis and Liberty Islands in peril against powerful storm surges. I worry about what's there, or more fittingly, what isn't there anymore, particularly when it comes to the hospital buildings.

According to Park Service sources, Liberty took a pretty heavy hit, and while the Statue and her pedestal stood strong, other buildings on the island are in shambles, as are the island's electrical systems. Ellis Island's main building, the Immigration Museum, fared relatively well, though first floor windows were blown out and several feet of water in the basement knocked out the electrical system. NPS offices in another building were flooded, as was the Ferry Building, but artifacts have been removed and placed into safekeeping.

Nothing has been said publicly about the south side or how severely the surges affected that part of the island. There certainly wasn't a lot there to prevent the water from overtaking the seawalls and flooding the already suffering hospital structures. The only visible preventative measures were the stabilization efforts NPS and Save Ellis Island made several years ago. Windows were blocked and vented to mitigate further decay inside, in hopes that funding would be available shortly for a thorough restoration. I doubt that anyone anticipated those measures would suffice in protecting the hospital from a storm of historic proportions. It's safe to say that many of those protective boards were blown away by wind or the surges, allowing the elements to invade the wards and hallways.

By my educated guess, it'll be several months before Ellis Island reopens to the public, and that will probably be limited to the Immigration Museum. It's the focal point of the island and it's important that it's up and running as soon as possible. Still, I worry that through lack of funding, the hospital buildings won't receive attention and will decay more rapidly than they had been before. A daunting restoration task will become near impossible, all due to neglect.

We can't afford to lose this fundamental portion of America's immigration story. Ultimately only about one percent of all immigrants landing at Ellis Island were refused entry to the US due to medical reasons, a testament to the dedication of the hospital staff. When you consider that about a hundred million Americans can trace their roots to someone who came here through Ellis, the impact of this hospital is enormous. Imagine how many of us wouldn't be here if the sick had simply been turned away.

Dracula birds and abandoned batteries on Sandy Hook

Even the crummy days this winter don't seem half bad. Though it was cloudy and felt as if showers were highly possible, I made the trip to Sandy Hook the other day to check out a bayside birding spot Ivan had shown me a few weeks ago.

As we've experienced before on the Hook, he and I knew the same location for different reasons. We parked near the Nike launch site and walked north on the southbound road until we reached a driveway with a closed wooden bar gate. Vehicular traffic was banned, but this was a well established birding area. It's even on the maps the Audubon Society used to hand out at its now-closed nature center near Guardian Park.

A short walk took us to our destination, one of the best duck sighting spots on the Hook. All around, though, was the evidence of the Army's presence during World War II. The footpath was originally a road between Batteries Kingman and Mills, both built just before the United States entered the war. A few dozen feet into the bay were several wooden pilings that had once held up a munitions dock that took in supplies and explosives for the batteries. And if you knew what you were looking for, several hundred feet farther south you could see two concrete dynamite bunkers that had once been safely buried under sand. Erosion had taken its toll over the years, making it difficult to picture what the spot had looked like when active.

Attempting to get to the bunkers and Mills will put you into restricted territory, so I didn't try that, but I did see that a few entrances to Kingman were visible from the shore. Obscured by vegetation that had taken root in the copious amounts of sand and soil that had covered its roof and walls since its abandonment, the massiveness of the battery isn't easily imagined. All of the visible entrances are well secured, and the interior is both dark and hazardous, so exploration was unadvisable.

When I returned on my own last week, I wasn't sure what I'd find, and in the case of the birds, I didn't know what I'd be able to identify. I was relieved, then, that my first glance delivered an old reliable for me: the cormorant. Ten of them, in fact, lined up like soldiers on the pilings I mentioned earlier.

Cormorants are very easily identified in silhouette, especially in what I call the 'Dracula' position. The bane of fishermen everywhere, corms scout the waters for good fin fish and then dive in to get them. Thing is, though, unlike most aquatic birds, their feathers aren't water repellent, so when they get out of the water, they spread their wings to air dry them. In that position, they look like good ol' Bela Lugosi in his signature role, preparing to transform himself into a bat.

Take a look and let me know what you think:

Double Crested Cormorant - Phalacrocorax auritus

Bela Lugosi as Dracula - Vampiricus scaricus

Come to think of it, that comparison gives me a bit of a shiver when I think of the proximity of the dark, damp batteries and the potential they hold for substantial bat colonies. Who knows? A hapless explorer within Kingman or Mills might find herself suddenly enveloped by a dark cape and then relieved of a few units of O Positive. Perhaps the cormorants are trying to tell us something.

Probably not, but if it acts as a deterrent, all the better.

Edison's West Orange house: a real steal!

Thomas Edison's 29 room Queen Anne style mansion stands as a true Victorian-era gem in the exclusive, gated West Orange community of Llewellen Park. While members of the inventor's family lived in the home for over 60 years, it wasn't built for or by the Edisons, and in fact, its origins have a distinctly criminal bent.

Glenmont, as the estate is known, was the dream home of Henry C. Pedder, a confidential clerk in the offices of New York retailer Arnold Constable and Company. Pedder and his wife Louisa spent close to $400,000 in 1880 to purchase 13 acres at the crest of a hill in Llewellen Park, hire famed architect Henry Hudson Holly, and build and furnish the home with the finest materials. The entryway alone is paneled in oak and mahogany, and papered with gilded, embossed wallcovering. An aspiring writer, Pedder had an opulent library built on the first floor, with hand-stenciled walls and ceilings, as well as glass-doored bookcases filled with rows and rows of leather-bound volumes. Even the servants quarters were among the best to be found in a grand house of the time.

One would wonder how a department store clerk could afford to spend nearly a half million dollars building a luxurious home. Truth was, he couldn't. Pedder used his trusted status at Constable to siphon the money from the company books, not just for the house, but for trips to Europe and prime beef for his three dogs. It was estimated that he spent about $30,000 per year to keep up the lavish lifestyle he shared with Louisa, her widowed sister and the sister's three children, and none of the neighbors suspected a thing. It seems that he was living a bit of a double life, as neighbors and townspeople assumed that he was a partner in the company because of his supposed income. At the same time, Constable executives knew little of his home life, given that West Orange was considered to be countryside in those days, and not many New Yorkers would have visited the community.

Eventually, though, Pedder's forgery was discovered, along with similar thefts made by other Constable employees. Forced to sell the property to the company for a dollar, he was given the choice of going to jail or leaving the country, and he prudently chose a life outside the United States to a future behind bars. He'd enjoyed just four years of graceful living in his custom-built home.

The estate languished on the real estate market for two years before Thomas Edison bought it for half the price it took to build and furnish, as a wedding gift for his second wife, Mina Miller. He declared it as far too fancy for him, but not nearly fancy enough for his young bride. She became the household executive, running the estate while he was focused nearly exclusively on his new laboratory just a mile away on Main Street.

Mina made substantial renovations to the house over the years, but curiously, she left Pedder's library untouched. It was used mostly as a place for visitors to sign the guest register, though daughter Madeleine often hid in a small alcove in the room to read racy novels her mother disapproved of. Today, visitors can see the same leather-bound books in the same glass-fronted bookcases that Pedder himself purchased and arranged. When I've volunteered there, I've often stood alone in the room and wondered what kind of inspiration he got from all of those learned words. Was it worth possibly going to jail over?

So where did you say those warheads were?

Sandy Hook's Cold War-era Nike radar base is one of the many fascinating parts of Fort Hancock, and I've taken a few of the biweekly tours held during the spring and summer months. The big mystery for me has always been the launch site several thousand feet away, which is rarely, if ever, open for tours. Why two separate sites? Well, logistics and safety played a big role in separating the firing of these radar-guided surface-to-air missiles from the actual launch. The control center tracked potential targets and any missiles that were aimed at them, and the launch site was where the missiles were stored and would be set up and fired if needed. Given the speed of the supersonic missiles, on-site radar could only acquire and track a launched Nike from more than a mile away, and, of course, there was always the danger of portions of the rockets falling on the base or exploding during ignition.

The Nike program was decommissioned in 1974 after the advent of intercontinental ballistic missiles made them obsolete, and Sandy Hook's Fort Hancock was relinquished to the National Park Service not long afterward. Now part of Gateway National Recreational Area, the launch site is used primarily for maintenance vehicles, its barracks used for storage. The gate's usually open, but a sign warns visitors that the site is for staff only. Stand at the entry, and you can see a cracked macadam road reaching toward the beach beyond, obscured by shrubbery. The only real signs that this was a secure area are the guard shack at the entry and the Nike Hercules missile that's parked up front.

Well, and the barbed wire. Curious after finding the area on some aerial shots of the Hook, I once tried to get to the launch site from the beach side. All I could see above the dunes was barbed wire fencing and some old, busted flood lamps. The ground above was level and I noticed a hole in the fencing, but I wasn't taking my chances.

My curiosity was settled a few weeks ago when the Sandy Hook launch site was opened for rare guided tours with Nike base veterans. Ivan was on a major birding quest out of state, leaving me to explore my own obsessions, and what's more interesting than getting into restricted space? I hopped on down for a quick jaunt through the radar site, and after what seemed to be an endless wait for the first launch tour to return, I was on my way with a large group of visitors. The veteran on site was joined by the park historian, who gave an exhaustive explanation of the cold war as we stood looking at the business end of the nuclear-capable Hercules. Let's go, folks -- I wanna see the secret area!

Noticing that some of us were getting restless, the veteran took a group of us up the hill to the launch site. Along the way, he pointed out two more guard shacks and explained that each launch site had been ringed by three separate barbed wire fences, with a shack at the entrance to each. Sentries and dogs patrolled the perimeter, and the vet said that the dogs were trained to attack with force. Had he been given the choice of being shot or having the dogs let loose on him, he said, he'd go for the bullet wound. Much less painful, much less harmful.

Fort Hancock had four underground missile storage areas arranged in a square atop the hill, with elevators that lifted the missiles in a horizontal position. Once at ground level, soldiers would push a missile into place on the blast pad, all four of which are still visible. No missiles were ever fired at the base, but practice was a regular occurrence, and when they were called, the troops there never knew if they were going to a drill or experiencing the real thing.

We only saw the surface area because the underground portion of the base is flooded and accessible only through four manholes and of decaying metal ladders beneath. All of the elevators that lifted missiles to launch have been moved to their highest positions and are now apparently stuck at surface level, with any hope of restoration being many years in the future. However, the vet told us about a restored base in the Marin Headlands above San Francisco and some footage of its workings that give you a good idea of how it all looked in its prime. I'll wager that since the Park Service has already spent the time and money on restoring SF-88, it's unlikely they'll do the same at Sandy Hook, but I'm sure if the local vets want to make the effort, they'll be more than happy to support it.