If Batman had a subway, it would be in Rockaway

We've visited our share of old mine sites over the past few years. We've also stumbled on some lesser-known aspects of New Jersey's rich railroad history. We've even focused on railroads that overcame major obstacles to create a shorter path from mine to market.

But bats in a mine? Okay, that makes sense. I'm cool with bats and the great work they do in keeping the insect population down. If they're happy hanging out in an old mine, more power to 'em.

Bats in what could be considered New Jersey's first subway? Now we're talking!

Calling the Hibernia hibernaculum a subway might be stretching it a little, but not by much. I first caught wind of the Hibernia Underground Railroad when I was researching another story on Morris County's mining industry. Just on the name alone, one could be distracted into wondering it might have something to do with the abolitionist movement of the 18th and 19th centuries, but this was, literally a railroad that operated underground.

The history of mining in Morris County, of course, dates back to colonial times, with the area's iron-rich hills prompting New Jersey's status as the arsenal of the Revolution. Starting in 1722, a series of independent mines operating off the same rich iron source became known collectively as the Hibernia mines. It appears that there was enough ore for everyone to profit, and that the owners of the mines pretty much worked in harmony.

As technology improved, mining practices evolved, making it a no-brainer for companies to take advantage of steam-driven transportation to shuttle ore from the mine to the smelter and perhaps beyond. Some of the mine owners banded together in 1864 to incorporate the Hibernia Mine Railroad to transport ore from the source to the Morris Canal. We'd found evidence of this railroad in Somerset County, of all places, where its former trestle bridge was relocated first to Hillsborough and now to Raritan, where it's a footbridge in a county park.

Other mine owners at Hibernia took the idea further in 1873, digging an adit (or horizontal tunnel) through the mountainous terrain to connect all of the mines with a railroad. The new Hibernia Underground Railroad shuttled ore from about 300 feet below the peak the mountain itself, with tracks that stretched about a mile from mine to the mouth of the adit. From there, the Mine Railroad took over, making the transfer to the canal or, in later years, farther to other railroads.

By the early 1900s, some of the mines were exhausted, while iron magnate Joseph Wharton consolidated the rest under his own holdings, connecting his own railroad and effectively putting the Hibernia Mine Railroad out of business. The Underground Railroad continued to operate until about 1907, when it lost its connection to the canal. In reality, its years were numbered anyway, as the last ore was mined from Hibernia in 1916.

Disused or abandoned mines tend to be magnets for adventure seekers of all kinds, and Hibernia was no exception. Probably from the moment the mine went belly-up, locals started poking around the adit and mine shafts, eager to search the bowels of the earth or maybe just to get away from naggy parents.

Thing was, though: people weren't the only ones to satisfy their fascination with these holes in the ground. Perhaps due to human disturbance in the caves they'd normally seek out, bats found Hibernia mine, particularly the horizontal path of the railroad, to be irresistible. It's not known exactly when they started staking the tunnel out, but the first report of bat habitation was filed in 1939, with several thousand little brown bats and a smattering of eastern long-eared bats observed. In subsequent decades, researchers observed as many as 20,000 bats, leading many to declare the underground railroad tunnel and the mine as one of the largest bat hibernacula (or hibernation spot) in the nation. A bat enthusiast named John Hall studied the mine and tunnel extensively in the '60s and '70s, banding several and maintaining population counts.

Trouble was, vandals and mischief makers continued to invade the mine, despite landowners' efforts to block the entrance with haphazard barriers. For many years, advocates suggested installing a grate-style gate which would allow bats to travel freely while deterring humans, but to little effect. The land above the mine was slated for development, with large homes and a golf course planned, and the mine was seen as a huge liability. In 1989 the landowner installed an impenetrable foot-thick concrete wall at the mouth of the adit.

The Hibernia Underground Railroad: all aboard for bats,
not so much for humans. Courtesy NJ DEP.

Their usual entry point blocked, the Hibernia bats were essentially buried alive, with just a few very small openings to the outside world. Local human friends of the bats reached out to Bat Conservation International and the New Jersey Division of Fish Game and Wildlife for help, ultimately negotiating with the property owner to create a mine opening sufficient for the bats' easy transit. Through a long and winding process that persisted through successive owners and a few years, advocates finally succeeded in getting the much needed gate installed.

Even after this monumental success, the future for the Hibernia bats is uncertain. The 2010 mine census indicated that, fewer than 2000 bats hibernated there, due to the white-nose syndrome fungus that has decimated the population in several states around the country. Two years later, the wintering bat population was down to 537. Subsequent counts show somewhat of a leveling-off of the decline statewide, so perhaps there's hope that the worst of it is over. Scientists are still working to better understand the fungus, its causes and impact on bat reproduction, with hope that positive human intervention can help.

Here's hoping that the bats' prospects turn around soon. How cool would it be to watch hundreds - thousands - of bats emerging from this old mine train tunnel in the spring?

Robert Erskine, Ringwood and the West Point chain

We're rather accustomed to finding unusual things on our journeys, but I'm still tickled when a random discovery unexpectedly links up with something I'd seen long ago. Most recently, it wasn't just a link: it was a chain.

The roots of the story are in a trip I made awhile ago to Constitution Island in the Hudson River. While I was there, I learned that the American forces tried a number of approaches to prevent the British Navy from advancing on strategically-important rivers. For example, not far from Fort Mercer on the Delaware, they modified a French system called chevaux-de-frise. It was conceptually the same as those spikes used in toll lanes and parking garages to prevent drivers from backing up in key areas (you know… the ones that puncture your tires if you go in the wrong direction). American General Robert Erskine devised a nautical version that, once sunk across the river, would wreak havoc on the hulls of any ships that dared to cross.

While these spikes were used in the Hudson, the Americans added another blocking mechanism for good measure. Fearing that the British would attempt to sail upriver from their stronghold in Manhattan, they placed a massive chain across the river between West Point and Constitution Island. That portion of the river was already difficult to navigate by ship, and the theory was that slowing traffic even further would provide additional time for the Americans to fire on their opponents from the elevated West Point vantage. From 1778 to 1782, the chain was set out in the spring to block passage, and then removed in the fall to prevent damage from ice in the winter.

Ultimately, the British never tried to get past the chain, though Benedict Arnold reportedly had claimed it could be breached. Some of the massive links were saved, though others were melted down for salvage. I saw a bunch during my visit to Constitution Island, where the anchor point and a short length are preserved near the dock.

What does this have to do with New Jersey? Consider that Washington and his military leadership relied on the state’s significant iron mines and forges for weapons and ammunition, earning the state the sobriquet of Arsenal of the Revolution. The chain had to be made somewhere, and it only made sense that it came from here.

Thing is, while I was fairly certain of that, I wasn’t sure exactly where it was made or where it ended up. Someone had told Ivan that a length of the chain was being used as a decorative border in front of a building near the Wayne/Paterson border, but when we checked it out, I saw that the links were very different from those I'd seen near the Hudson.

A pre-hurricane visit to Ringwood Manor helped to solve the mystery. The Manor, of course, was home to General Erskine, Washington’s chief geographer and surveyor during the war, as well as the operator of the Long Pond Ironworks. His mansion is fronted by several impressive examples of American military history, including the cannon used on the main deck of the U.S.S. Constitution during the War of 1812, and a mortar used during the Civil War. They're both lined up against a massive 25-link length of chain and an anvil. No markers are there to explain the significance of the ironwork, and if you didn’t know better, you’d probably write off the chain as a coarse border or maybe a length that had once tethered an anchor to a ship. I immediately had my suspicions about its provenance, and a bit of research proved it out: it's part of the Hudson chain, come to rest where it was manufactured.

Thing is, when I looked into the history of the Hudson chain a little more deeply, it seems to have many fathers and many origins. Some will tell you that the entire chain was fabricated in New York State, while others will state that various lengths were made in different places and then assembled near West Point. I've also found a reputable source that asserts that the entire thing was made at Erskine's iron works.

What's the real story? I think you know where I stand on the issue, and I'm pretty confident I'm right. I'm not a metallurgist or an expert on 18th century ironworks, but to me, the Ringwood Manor chain looks a heck of a lot like the Constitution Island chain.

Where Edison concentrated: iron ore processing at Ogdensburg

A little over a year ago, we made a trip out to Thomas Edison's concrete mile on Route 57 in Stewartsville/New Village, the site of his famed Portland cement factory. What I didn't mention in that account was the earlier use of the equipment that ground stone into fine enough particles to make a durable concrete.

You see, the Wizard of Menlo Park didn't originally set out to make concrete. He was looking to capitalize on the high iron content of the northwestern reaches of New Jersey, to supply concentrated iron ore bricks manufactured from the raw material of Sussex Mountain. And to do it, he built the first Edison, New Jersey: a veritable city of workers and innovative rock crushing machinery that used magnetic force to separate iron from pulverized stone. While mines in western Morris County and beyond were starting to peter out of useful material, he somehow thought that his experience would be different. No matter what, you've got to give the guy credit for optimism.

Finding the Edison mining property wasn't all that easy for me -- this is a trip I took before Ivan and I met, so I didn't have the benefit of his knowledge of the area. After some internet research, I discovered that my target was just off Sussex County Road 620 in Ogdensburg. More specifically, it's on Edison Road. For some reason, the Garmin people hadn't included 620 on their GPS maps, so I was left to do a little automobile bushwacking once I got into the Sussex area.

I arrived to find a stone and brass marker erected by Sussex County not too long ago, and a sign with topographic mapping of several trails that ramble through the woods. Noticing a New Jersey Audubon logo on the topo sign, I realized that I'd come upon one of the organization's unstaffed areas, and that if I'd bothered to look at my Audubon trails guide, I'd have known exactly where to go.

If you check the area out for yourself, be sure to stop at the county marker and check out the photos embedded in it. They show an environment that differs substantially from the woods and open fields currently on the property. More than 500 men and several huge pieces of processing machinery were working furiously during Edison's time there, and there's little to show for it now. Yes, as you walk around, you'll find the remnants of rustic looking stone walls, and a fair number of steel reinforcing rods poking up from the ground, but besides that, there's little to indicate the industry that existed there from 1891 to 1900. Still, though, random rocks on the ground show the telltale reddish-brown shade of oxidized iron. And fittingly, the area is now traversed by a set of high-voltage transmission lines.

Edison spent much of his time at Ogdensburg during the eleven years his iron ore business operated, ultimately spending about $2 million of his personal wealth on the unsuccessful venture. Characteristically unaffected by the cost of yet another experiment that didn't work out, he said, "Well, it's all gone, but we had a hell of a good time spending it!"

Where does the cement come in? Like any great inventor and entrepreneur, Edison studied the failed venture to determine lessons learned. He noted that the crushing machinery was especially good at manufacturing finely-ground material that could be used in high-quality cement. The machinery was moved about 45 miles southwest to New Village, and in 1903, a new business was born: Edison Portland Cement. From roads and houses to Yankee Stadium, this durable material showed up all over the place as Edison strived to find markets for the product. Once again, he'd managed to make some pretty tasty lemonade from the lemons he'd been served.

A Hidden Trifecta in Raritan

Fresh from our greater white-fronted goose sighting, Ivan and I spotted a small truss bridge and historical marker on the side of the road. Wait! Stop! Turn back! Tiny bridges have always brought interesting stories, and I didn't want to pass this one up.

A Hibernia Mine bridge in Raritan? Isn't that Morris County territory? Had we stumbled on a Hidden New Jersey gem linking two non-contiguous counties? Ivan started reading the marker through his binoculars, but I couldn't help myself. I got out of the car to find out.

Talk about a span with a history! Not only is this an old bridge, it's survived its own obsolescence twice. Originally, it was part of a railroad started in 1863 to move ore from the Hibernia iron mines in Morris County to the Morris Canal and later to the Central Railroad of New Jersey (CRRNJ) at Wharton. The mines were pretty much tapped out by 1916 and closed in 1930, the same year CRRNJ bought the line to serve the area's industries.

By then, though, the bridge had gone on to its second use as a vehicular passageway across a railroad right of way in Hillsborough. It served that purpose for more than 100 years before being dismantled and stored. For the past four years, it's been exclusively a footbridge within the Somerset County Park System, enabling pedestrians to easily cross the Raritan Water Power Canal.

The what canal? When we were in Duke Island Park, we'd wondered if the canal we crossed was simply a portion of the Delaware and Raritan Canal, or maybe a feeder, given the proximity of the Raritan River. I didn't know of any other canal in central New Jersey, so when I read the Hibernia bridge marker, I was stumped. Logic and lessons learned from my many visits to Paterson's Great Falls led me to reason that water had been shunted for industrial purposes, but that's as far as I could figure when we were standing at the bridge. I doubt the Raritan ever supplied the mighty wattage of the falling Passaic River waters, but heck, I could be wrong.

Further research cemented the link: Alexander Hamilton. According to the Raritan Borough website, Hamilton visited the community after the Revolutionary War and thought the river's power could be harnessed to bring industry to the community. Local leaders were less than convinced, but the idea stayed alive and the three-mile long Raritan Water Power Canal was constructed in 1840. Predictably, factories started springing up along the river, taking advantage of cheap power and the proximity of the railroad. That's our link to Passaic County, courtesy of our first Secretary of the Treasury.

Raritan hosted one of the country's largest textile manufacturers, the Raritan Woolen Mills, which supplied the army during the Civil War and World War I. I can't find a direct source confirming the mill used water power, but it was located close to the Raritan, making it likely the Water Power Canal was a factor in its operation. Today, the property is site of a condominium complex. I wonder how many of its residents know their tenuous connection to Alexander Hamilton?

Long Pond Ironworks: walking through a century in an hour or so

Long Pond Ironworks Historic District is literally hidden from the average motorist driving by on Greenwood Lake Turnpike in Hewitt. From the road you can see a restored building that held the old country store, plus a Victorian-era church and an aging house or two, but even more is obscured until you get out of the car, grab a map and walk the path back into the woods. As you leave the highway behind, you'll be walking into a mine area that dates back to the 1760s.

Before we even get into what's there, I've got to mention that on our visit, there was more interpretive literature outside the closed visitor center than you'd get at most museums that were open and staffed. I found no less than four separate leaflets packed with information from the Friends of Long Pond Ironworks. They've done a fine job of research and restoration, but for the quickest overview on a first visit, it's probably best to consult the eight-panel self-guided tour document. It contains a nicely drawn and labeled map that separates the area into seven briefly-described areas.

The original mine and ironworks at Long Pond were established in 1767 by Peter Hasenclever, a German working on behalf of a British company. When operating under Robert Erskine in the 1770's, Long Pond supplied the Continental Army with iron products. Eventually, the property came under the ownership of Cooper and Hewitt, which built new furnaces and continued the proud tradition of supplying American troops, this time for the Union cause during the Civil War. The furnaces finally stopped producing in 1882 as the iron industry moved westward.

A walk around the property reveals structures built at different points of the ironworks' history, from a stone double house all the way to the Victorian church. If you look really carefully through some overgrowth, you'll also see the remains of an arts-and-crafts style house just off the road. The visitors center map shows the location of most, if not all of the buildings, but as you walk around, you'll see that while some of them are in relatively good shape (i.e. they look like buildings), others are mostly just foundations or crumbling stone walls. Ivan had been there many years ago and commented that a lot of work had been done on the property over the years to stabilize what was still there. All of the windows were boarded over, with fake window panes painted on them so that from a distance (and with bad vision), one might even think the real windows were still there.

Besides the living quarters and company store, the historical society is working to recreate the waterwheels that used the Wanaque River to power the blast furnaces back in the day. According to the map, these are the only surviving waterwheels from the region's iron industry.

Hasenclever and the host of other ironmasters who succeeded him lived in the nearby Ringwood Manor, which still welcomes visitors today. The Long Pond property and the manor were once linked by a well-traveled road, now a several miles-long hiking path dotted with interpretive wayside signs. Note, however, that a portion of the path near Peters Mine is closed.

Long Pond has some potential as a birding spot, both from the woods and the nearby Monksville Reservoir. Our mid-summer, midday visit didn't result in many finds, though we may have seen an elusive green heron.

If you choose to check out the area, be sure to stop by the visitors center to pick up the previously-mentioned literature and look in on the small but informative museum display. Browsing for a few minutes will give you a good idea of the area's history, and an appreciation for the work the that was done there by the ironworks' staff and the volunteers that strive to bring their story back to life.

Finding the Ford Faesch house

Following our unexpected side trip to the Mount Hope Mines, Ivan and I were even more set on finding the Ford-Faesch House in Rockaway, the colonial-era home of the mine's developer, John Jacob Faesch. I'd already done a little research to discover that the house had other historical ties as well. It had been built by Colonel Jacob Ford, who also built the eponymously-named mansion in Morristown that General George Washington had made his headquarters for a time during the Revolutionary War. In fact, the two homes are somewhat similar in layout, but the Morristown estate is whitewashed while the Rockaway home retains its stone faced exterior.

Given that we had some trouble finding the house, it wasn't surprising that Ford had left the house in 1770 for his new and probably much more convenient digs in Morristown. (If you doubt that, consider how close it is to present day Interstate 287.) The Swiss-born Faesch, already known as ironmaster for the Ringwood Mine, was the first of what would eventually be a succession of mine owners and superintendents. He was also a well-regarded patriot, having supplied the Continental Army with munitions. In 1931, the house became a two-family home, remaining inhabited until 1973, when it was put on the New Jersey Register of Historic Sites.

All we knew to look for was an old stone house on Mount Hope Road, and as the pavement curved through suburbia and less populated areas, we began to wonder if somehow it might have disappeared. I'd found an outdated website about the house and hoped restoration was still in the cards, but in the absence of involvement of a major historical organization, you can never be too sure.

Then, the road revealed a broad opening in the wooded boughs and revealed a broad grassy hill topped by a stone house flying an American flag from its front door. The wayside marker revealed it to be... the Ford-Faesch House. Nowadays, it overlooks the entrance to a large quarry facility and a broad body of water. We pulled up and around the back of the house, expecting to find a small parking lot or even an indication of where to enter, only to find nothing. I pulled out and parked down the hill, concerned we'd driven somewhere we shouldn't have.

Returning to the house, we found that restoration appears to be ongoing: there are a few building permits posted on a back window, and a bare bulb lit inside the first floor. Other than that, though, there wasn't much evidence of human habitation. Wandering around the property, we found a large pile of logs configured much like the signal fires the Continental troops had constructed along the Watchungs to warn of enemy approach. It made me wonder if perhaps a historical society occasionally held programs there, but we couldn't find evidence of that, either. From my internet research, it appears that the Historical Society of the Rockaways is responsible for the restoration, upkeep and operation of the house.

Recalling what I'd read in the past about the house, I though there might also be an old, shuttered church nearby, also awaiting restoration. We walked further up the side street and eventually found it, sectioned off in a field across the street from the house and marked with NO TRESPASSING signs. It seemed a bit odd that the church was situated so that its side, rather than its entrance, was facing the street it was visible from. In fact, the entrance was facing an overgrown tract about the size of the house's lot, surrounded by a very well-constructed stone wall that was occasionally broken up by stairways leading into the brush.

A bit of research shows that this was the Mt. Hope Methodist Church, built in 1868. In addition to being a house of worship for both miners and the well-heeled, it also served as a school and, at times, as a hospital. Ultimately, the congregation dwindled to a few families and the building was left to deteriorate and suffer the indignity of vandalism. From what I can find online, it appears that the church was open for visitation as recently as three years ago, but it honestly doesn't look all that inviting now.

As for the tract in front of the church, our best guess is that it might have been the church's cemetery. We walked as far as we could (legally) around the property and couldn't get a clear view in to see any stones or monuments. One wonders who might be resting there.