Uncovering the Blue Comet in blueberry country

Near the center of the Pinelands community of Chatsworth, there's a sandy, partially grass-covered clearing on the side of the road. In it, there's a square plot marked off by a decorative black chain, and within the plot, a pair of rails embedded in the ground.

Apologies for the bad framing.
Photo shot from the car.

It's hard to see in the picture, but those rails extend far beyond the clearing, well into the woods in the distance. They mark the remains of Chatsworth's ties to the rise and fall of New Jersey's version of glamorous land travel.

Today, the strongest connection any of us have to passenger rail travel is likely to be with New Jersey Transit commuter trains and light rail, but for our earlier neighbors, that wasn't the case. In the first half of the 20th century, particularly before air travel became the norm, trains could be something very special. Long distance travelers could enjoy luxury accommodations on express lines like the 20th Century Limited, and even local commuter trains sometimes sported cars specifically for the first-class set.

By the 1920s, Central Railroad of New Jersey President R.B. White saw glamour as a way to attract riders to what had become the company's rather pedestrian, unpopular line to the state's southern shore destinations. The Blue Comet would run from New York to Atlantic City, but with style that lived up to its name in appearance and engineering. Capable of traveling up to 100 miles an hour, the train was said to be the first east of the Mississippi River to use roller bearings for smooth starts and stops.

White spared no expense in furnishings and design: passengers enjoyed luxurious upholstery and carpeting, fine dining and windows hand-etched with comets and stars. Each of the cars was named for a comet, including an observation car whose back deck could accommodate six travelers. The train was swathed in blue and cream colors, representing the sea and sand of the Jersey Shore, with nickel-plated accents. Even its whistle was distinctive, with Pinelands residents recalling a foghorn- or steamboat-like tone. When the Blue Comet made its maiden trip in February 1929, it became CRRNJ's flagship train.

Its introduction was ill-timed. Eight months later, the stock market crash plunged the nation into the Great Depression, leaving most potential travelers without the resources for luxury travel. By 1933, the train was making just one run a day, and competition from the Pennsylvania Railroad took additional ridership away. However, the Blue Comet soldiered on, logging an on-time record so reliable that people along the route set their clocks by the train's arrival. Legend has it that the people of Chatsworth counted on the northbound train to slow enough to drop off the New York and Philadelphia newspapers that passengers had read and discarded.

In fact, Chatsworth was little more than a brief blip of scenery to the Blue Comet until August 19, 1939. More than a foot of rain fell during a tremendous storm that day, with cloudbursts delivering the vast majority of it after 2:00 p.m. Poor visibility forced the train's crew to reduce speed to about 40 miles an hour, but restricted sightlines were just part of the danger ahead. 

By 4:30, flooding had washed the sandy Pinelands soil out from beneath the tracks at milepost 86, about a mile west of Chatsworth. The train's crew had no idea of the hazard they were approaching. Though the locomotive and coal tender made it over the now-unsupported track, the five passenger cars separated and came off the rails, resting at angles nearly parallel to the railbed.

Despite crashing in the sparsely-populated Pinelands, help wasn't long in coming. Realizing that the ever-reliable Blue Comet was late to the station, the concerned people of Chatsworth waded to the scene of the crash. Word went out that 100 or more souls could have died in the crash, drawing ambulances and doctors from distant communities. Of the 49 souls on board, 38 suffered mostly minor injuries, though the train's cook was fatally crushed and scalded when the dining car stove fell on him.The crash scene was so flooded that local residents later recalled wading through chest-deep water to help passengers in the train's last two cars.

The track was quickly repaired and service restored after most of the Blue Comet's cars were reconditioned, but the flagship train's days were numbered. Just over two years later, it made its final run, never having made much of a profit, if any, for the Jersey Central.

After finding the brief bit of track commemorated in downtown Chatsworth, we headed east on a road alongside the old railbed. The area may have become more developed over the years, but it wasn't hard to imagine what residents might have faced as they attempted to help the Blue Comet's passengers after the derailment. The track runs pin-straight for what seems like miles, often on berms of that classically-sandy Pinelands soil. Portions of the track were obscured by overgrown weeds and trees that had sprouted between the rails. Other stretches seemed to be clear enough to accept a train on a moment's notice. Someone with a good imagination could stand there at night and will herself to hear the roar of the Blue Comet, its foghorn whistle alerting local residents of its approach.

As seems to be the case with so many legendary trains, bits and pieces of the Blue Comet are still out there for the finding, with four complete cars still in New Jersey. One car, Biela, stands near Route 22 West, having been converted to a dining room at the Clinton Station Diner. Another three are owned by the United Railroad Historical Society of New Jersey, with plans for restoration and eventual return to the tracks.

Sopranos fans might also remember the train's fateful appearance on one of the series' final season installments. Model railroad aficionado (and Tony Soprano's brother in law) Bobby Baccalieri is admiring an antique Lionel Train version of the Blue Comet when he's dispatched by two hitmen from a rival crime family. Perhaps the show's producers didn't resolve the story of the famed Russian of the Pine Barrens episode, but ironically, someone in Tony's crew received a Pinelands-related payback of sorts.

Exploring cultural differences through pork products

Anyone who's lived in the state a while knows that there are cultural differences between North and South Jersey. Many of the variances are related to foods. You eat a sub sandwich in the North, while it's a hoagie down South. Some of us call the candy topping for ice cream "jimmies" while others say "sprinkles."  Then there's the great Wawa/Quick Chek debate. Thing is, I've always assumed that people still recognize the 'other' term for a food, even if they don't describe it that way themselves. How many of us have been strongly corrected for using the 'wrong' expression for something when we're out of our home region? That takes a level of awareness. And in this age of rampant communication, how could someone not be aware of alternate names?

That's what I thought before the great Taylor ham debacle.

Ivan and I had built up quite an appetite during our visits to Hollybush and Glassboro WMA, so when we found a decent-sized diner in Mullica Hill, we headed in, sat at the counter and ordered. Having only some fruit before we'd left the house around 5:30 a.m., I figured I'd get a substantial breakfast at midday: two scrambled eggs with toast and home fries, plus a side of Taylor ham. I'd seen pork roll listed as an option, and my brain automatically translated it to Mr. Taylor's spiced pork product. I didn't even think about it.

Taylor ham: the disputed pork product.

I think you know where this is going. I ask for Taylor ham, the waitress writes it down, all is good...

...until she shows up with my eggs with toast and home fries on a platter, and a slab of ham on a small plate.

"Uh, I asked for Taylor ham," I said, courteously but obviously not pleased.

"This is the only kind of ham we have," she said, equally as politely.

"Taylor ham," I insisted. "I saw it on the menu." Then the light switch went on in my head. Ohhhhhhhh! "Pork roll," I clarified.

We were in South Jersey, but I never, ever thought I'd have to explain Taylor ham to a diner waitress anywhere in New Jersey. She confessed that she'd thought I was looking for a particular brand of ham, so she hadn't asked for clarification. I guess she figured I wouldn't know the difference, but we weren't talking Hormel vs. Shop Rite here.

State Senator John Taylor:
inventor of the cornerstone
of the Jersey Breakfast

After we I worked it out and mutually apologized for the confusion, another waitress came by. She told me she'd heard the whole exchange and knew what I was talking about because she'd heard about Taylor ham from some people from "up north." Apparently a bi-regional translator, she noted that she often had to explain scrapple to people north of the Philly region.

I checked a nearby menu and confirmed my error: they offered pork roll, not Taylor ham. So, yeah, it was my bad, but really, isn't it reasonable to expect that a diner employee would have heard of Taylor ham, no matter where she lived in the state?

The famed North/South Jersey researcher Steve Chernoski addressed the pork roll debate in his blog, Where is the Line Between North and South Jersey. According to his research, "Taylor ham" is a term used only in seven and a half counties (with Warren suffering the split) on the northern end of the state, with my home county of Union being the southernmost. I could swear I used to enjoy Taylor ham and cheese sandwiches at the Cook College student center in New Brunswick, but they might have split the difference and called it Taylor pork roll.

I guess I'm going to have to concede this one. And read diner menus a lot more carefully from now on.

Dining over the Pequest? Check out Uncle Buck's

Ravenous after exploring the birds of the Delaware Water Gap, we set the GPS to our next destination and agreed to see what the fates would present us along the way.

I drove a bit too quickly along rural Route 46 in Warren County, meaning we missed an opportunity to roll into a rustic drive-through somewhere south of Buttzville. Ivan declined my offer to turn around, noting that something else would make itself known soon enough. Knowing how rare it is to find a place along 46 on that stretch, I had my doubts, but then I also wasn't really sure what route the GPS would take us on. Faith is sometimes just a horse with wings. Besides, if the talking road map was right, we'd be in Phillipsburg within a half hour, anyway.

Things started looking up when we got off the 'main' road and found our way to Belvidere. It's the Warren County seat, so there had to be good options there, right?

We found it, just a few hundred yards down from where the Pequest River feeds into the Delaware: The Original Uncle Buck's Diner. With visions of a tasty lunch and John Candy dancing in our heads, we quickly found a parking spot and walked on in.

Uncle Buck's is the classic storefront diner/luncheonette, but half cantilevered over a spillway on the rushing Pequest. We were hoping for a river-view table and got it, as it was a little past the lunchtime rush and the only other patrons were a few couples of older folks socializing at a corner table.

While it's not a classic manufactured railroad-car type diner, Uncle Buck's seems to be a close spiritual cousin in its layout. Everything's there, just kinda mushed in, as Ivan found out on a trip to the restroom. In getting there, you walk right next to an industrial-grade stove/oven, down a short corridor past the dishwashing station. Without intending to, you could very easily become part of the operation of the place, just by making a wrong turn.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. We seated ourselves and started leafing through the menus that were thoughtfully already on the table. They weren't huge but had all of the diner staples. Breakfast all day? Check. Happy Waitress special? Check. Burgers? Check, check, check. They even had a burger special that included the always-desirable Taylor ham as a topping.

I was half tempted to order the Happy Waitress, but then our human waitress showed up and seemed to be channeling all the happiness in Warren County. Boy, was she cheerful! Instead, I went for the bacon cheeseburger, Ivan got a Swiss burger and we split an order of gravy fries.

Yum on all counts. Both of us ordered our burgers cooked medium, and when Ivan lifted his off the plate, it dripped a pleasant few drops of beef juice. Looked a lot like the way I generally cook mine at home. When I bit into mine, I found the center was cooked just enough, with a little bit of pink still showing. And instead of being melted on the patty, two slides of cheese were placed on the insides of the bun. Only thing it could have used was some lettuce and tomato, but then I might have inadvertently not seen the deluxe version on the menu.

The fries came as we were enjoying our burgers. Straight-cut versus crinkle cut, they stood up nicely to the lumpy and very flavorful gravy. Yeah, the bottom-most fries were a bit mushy, but that's to be expected after being smothered.

To sum up, it was a satisfying meal and Uncle Buck's is a great find we'll keep on the short list for future visits to the area. After all, we'll need to grab another hearty lunch after visiting the shoe tree oak.

Heading down to Salem...

This weekend's trip brought us down to the end of the New Jersey Turnpike: Salem County and environs. Truth be told, it was a bit of a compromise. I've been wanting to get back down Jersey for quite a while now, given that I haven't made any regular trips to the region in some time. When Ivan checked his online birding bulletin board and found that a yellow-headed blackbird had been found in Mannington, the plan was in motion.

Fortunately the weather was on our side this time, as it was relatively warm with variable skies, not a lot of wind, and no precipitation. We hit the road, with the general direction of going to Exit One and making a left onto Route 45. This pretty much immediately brings you into the flat farmlands of Salem County, occasionally punctuated by a small bit of commerce or some marshy territory. Not surprisingly, there are plenty of opportunities to see random birds of interest along the way.

Now, I have to admit that when I head to Salem on my own, I always seem to end up taking different routes, driving by sense of feel, so to speak. It's kinda hard to navigate someone else with that approach, and there was the need to get through Salem City on the way to the bird in Mannington. Thus, I'm a little scrambled in my mind on which came first: the birding or the Saleming. For the purposes of the blog, I'll handle the birding first.

The bird itself had been located on Compromise Road in Mannington (there's got to be a good story around that name, don't you think?), among a flock of blackbirds. We found our way up Route 45, beyond the county hospital and just outside of the radius of the alarm sirens for the Salem/Hope Creek Nuclear Station. Along the way, we made some roadside stops against a marsh or two to scout some birds, including three bald eagles perched authoritatively in a tree. Pretty cool.

Once on Compromise Road, we were looking for a place described as "about half the way up the road, across from a house with a white sign and a couple of cows in the front yard." I wondered: what if the cows had gone in for the day? And how would we know we were halfway up the road?

Not to worry: it wasn't long before we saw a white sign advertising the Wilson Wool Works, with a few cows in the yard. Where were the sheep? Who knows? The real question became "where's the yellow-headed blackbird?" Among the birds we found along the stretch of road, none had a distinctive yellow pate. Somewhat disappointing. (And a side question: if the Wilson Wool Works had a website, would the URL be www.www.com?)

We did, however, find something interesting where Compromise Road ends: a rather large and distinctive grave marker for John Fenwick, who, with other Quakers, founded Salem in 1675 as the first permanent English settlement on the Delaware River. The Mannington area had been named for him before being renamed for the tile manufacturing company that now dominates the area.

A little later, once in Salem, we made a stop by the famous Salem Oak, where Fenwick negotiated for the land with the local Indian tribe. That, of course, would make the tree well over 300 years old, and its spread branches extend in a broad radius over many graves in the Friends Burial Ground on West Broadway. While the tree was still fertile, its acorns were much sought after and thousands were sent nationwide, meaning there are countless Salem Oaks still out there somewhere.

Now, Salem city itself is an interesting case. The WPA Guide to New Jersey, written in the late 1930's, has a description that still fits: "Salem is like an old, old sampler with a few bright spots: but it is time-worn and frayed. The old brick Georgian Colonial houses facing the brick-paved streets would stir envy in a Williamsburg reconstructionist, and the square, heavy, frame structures, typical of the Civil War era, are a living memorial to another historical period."

Not a lot has changed in 70 years. A thriving port in colonial times, its somewhat tucked-in location on the river made it difficult for Salem's nautical industry to change with the times, and it really hasn't recovered since. Over the years, the discovery of marl for fertilizer, and the growth of the glass industry helped improve the economy, but now it's back to being a backwater, with not a lot of money evident in the community. It's really a shame, too, because the architecture is a hidden gem. Someone with a lot of vision, some money and a long timeline could make a huge impact.

Across the street from the tree is another Salem Oak: the diner bearing its name. A classic Silk City diner with very little renovation over the years, it's a real throwback. Save the crummy pastel paint job on the outside, you'd think the whole thing had just come off the production line in Paterson. I was especially taken with the condition of the restroom, which reminded me that these old diners were delivered with virtually no prep needed by the owner. Just get the plumbing and wiring hooked up from the street and main, and you're open for business.

Now, the last time I was at the Oak, I had a less than stellar meal and indifferent service. This visit didn't change my opinion much. While the French toast was pleasantly thick and spongy, the bacon was disturbingly hard in places, as if there had been a rind they didn't bother to trim off before cooking. And the waitress totally blew Ivan's order, which led to a five minute wait to get resolution. She was apologetic and owned up to the mistake, but really -- there were probably about five tables occupied, and the place wasn't all that busy.

One fun find, just outside of the city center on Route 45, was Royal Port Antiques, located in a restored feed mill on Fenwick Creek. I often check in on one or two favorite shops in Salem which carry 'olde junk,' but much of Royal Port's inventory are legitimate antiques found in the surrounding communities. With so many old and unpreserved farmhouses in the region, it's not surprising to find good stuff there. I had to stop myself from buying a huge old lightbulb for $5, wondering where in heck I would put it... but honestly, I may find myself driving back down to snap it up. (Yes, I know -- I'll spend more in gas and tolls to get it than it's worth, but whatever. I'm an Edison nut, so sue me.)

here's more to come on our Salem County visit... stay tuned for more!