Checking out both sides of the tracks in Carpentersville

Yesterday I returned to the site of one of our more disappointing winter adventures in Pohatcong Township, hoping for better luck.

See, we'd gone there the day after one of this winter's rare snows, only to find we were barred from the area's chief birding spot because the road wasn't plowed properly. When we tried to find an alternate route, we ended up in the small village of Carpentersville, which appeared to be just a few houses and a couple of public buildings. I didn't think much of it until I looked up at the door to the one-room schoolhouse and saw a large doll just inside, hanging by its neck. That, plus the inordinately large number of POSTED and NO TRESPASSING signs got me thinking that perhaps it wasn't the friendliest place in the world. I took no pictures, though I was really tempted to.

Fast forward to yesterday. The weather was much nicer and I'd spent a total of 10 minutes at Motor Vehicle getting the biannual car inspection, so a road trip was in order. Maybe I could figure out the whole Carpentersville thing.

An hour and a few side trips later, I discovered the doll essentially hasn't moved since January, though there's now an unfriendly sign on the door, banning trespassing and gunning. (Gunning? You mean, using a gun, or revving an engine?). Check it out:

Well, I was there, so may as well do a little driving around. I hit a big "Do Not Enter" area farther down the road the hanging doll was on, so I made a right turn onto River Road. I found myself driving alongside a railroad track mounted on a berm. Several hundred yards down, the road split, the right side going to a gravel company and the left crossing the tracks and skirting toward the river. I went left.

For some crazy reason, it didn't occur to me that it was the Delaware I was seeing. I guess I'd lost my bearings once I left Route 78 and didn't realize how far west I'd gone. At that point, the river isn't anywhere near as wide as it is at the Water Gap, and the houses along the banks were pretty modest.

The train tracks still had me wondering, so I turned the car around and retraced my path in the hopes of discovering something, perhaps an old station. On a previous trip to Phillipsburg, we found a depot for the Belvidere and Delaware Railroad, which now offers occasional leisure rides along the river. Perhaps this was part of it?

River Road dutifully hugged the tracks, much as a tow path accompanies an old canal. Once I got past the little enclave where the hanging doll road intersects River Road, the pavement narrowed and fewer homes lined the way. Soon, the left side of the road was defined by craggy rock about 10 or 20 feet high, and the tracks to my right were looking less and less used. I passed a crew of two workers who appeared to be using picks to clear growth from around the tracks, but then... nothing. At points, the tracks were laid dangerously close to the river; I couldn't help but think that if they were used with any regularity, their owner would have shored them up more firmly. In fact, I have to believe that there's been significant erosion since they were first laid. Who'd take the chance a well-laden freight would tumble into the river?

Not to worry: the road and tracks eventually intersected again, giving the rail route a comfortable distance from the banks. A little farther down and to my left, I saw a few old stone structures built into the hillside, looking very much like furnaces. Research later told me that locally quarried lime was processed here and then shipped out for use as fertilizer and an essential ingredient of cement. To me, however, they looked a lot more medieval, especially the less well-preserved ones. Perhaps someone was inside with a vat of boiling oil? Who knows. It seems to fit well with the slightly unfriendly vibe I felt back in town.

When is a hotel not a hotel? When it's the Cranford Hotel!

Go to the downtown business district in many of the older towns on the Raritan Valley railroad line, and you'll see a Victorian era building that might or might not still have a restaurant or a bar, or both. During the the late 1800s and early 1900s when the line was part of the Central Railroad of New Jersey, those were important stops for city dwellers who came out to the 'countryside' for a weekend or maybe longer. Cranford is no different, with the Cranford Hotel standing a few dozen feet away from the elevated railroad tracks.

Today, the Hotel is a local meeting place with reliable dining options and two friendly bars, but it doesn't take in overnight guests anymore. That got me curious. Did the building always offer hospitality? Who stayed there? When did they stop taking in guests? What's upstairs now? I had the chance to get a rare behind-the-scenes chat and tour recently with the Hotel's general manager, Dave Carracino.

Forebears of the current owners bought the Cranford Hotel
in the 1940s for less than $3000. 

The current Cranford Hotel building was constructed in 1893, replacing an earlier structure on the South Avenue side of the block, which had burned down. The railroad tracks were just outside the front door, at grade level in the days before the entire line was elevated to eliminate conflicts with road traffic. In addition to sleeping rooms, the hotel included a bar and a produce store on the ground floor. Visitors today might notice that the room housing the J-shaped upstairs bar has a section called the Tac Room. Barely noticeable now, that separate space is where the produce stand was, and it was still a separate room within the bar until the 1980s. Where the name comes from is a mystery; there doesn't seem to be any connection to horses.

The real surprise for me came when we went to the basement level bar. Evenings there can be a bit boisterous, with sporting events usually playing on several TV monitors, and apparently it was even more so during the Hotel's early days. The cozy fireplace dining area was originally a bowling alley, and the dartboard on the wall near the entrance was once the site of a grill that served quick meals. A relaxing game of ten pins, a burger and brew: what else could a guy want after work?

As you walk around the public areas, you can't help but notice the old-time craftsmanship and details that newer restaurants and bars attempt to recreate for atmosphere: vintage photos, exposed brick walls, wood-fronted beer coolers with those neat metal pull latches. Dave also mentioned that the acoustical tiling in the Tac Room obscures a 12-foot tin ceiling along with the air conditioning ducts.

Guests often stayed for weeks, as noted on these
40+ year-old registry cards.

All of this was very interesting and cleared up a lot of questions in my mind, but my real interest was in the upstairs rooms the public never sees. Dave was kind enough to give me a quick tour, starting with a stop at his office to check out the guest register. Opening a wooden box and pulling out random cards from the late 1950s and early 1960s, he pointed out the numbers printed at the top and bottom of each, representing days of the month. Many of the people staying there were long-term boarders, some living at the Hotel for years. They might have been working in the area and essentially just needed a place to sleep before they moved onto another job someplace else. A few of the cards were bundled together in a rubber band, with a note saying they were in arrears. Somebody owes the Hotel $150 for ten weeks of rooming!

Both the second and third floors have about five rooms apiece, plus a shared bathroom holding a toilet, sink and shower stall. Some of the rooms are larger than others, and all have sufficient space for someone who just needs a basic place to stay. Occasionally, the Hotel gets phone inquiries from travelers looking for lodging, but the building hasn't taken in overnight guests since the early 1970s. In these days of Residence Inns and Homewood Suites, most people wouldn't be satisfied with a small room and a shared hall bathroom. That's not to say that the space can't still be attractive to the right tenant for the right purpose. While the paint and plaster could use some updating, the place is sturdily built and not going anywhere any time soon. The rooms are mostly used for storage now, but you could see where they'd make good office space for small businesses, or maybe lawyers or accountants.

Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind setting up a Hidden New Jersey editorial office there, myself. Proximity to good burgers, New Jersey brews and the Newark-bound train, all in a great old building. What more could we need?

Finding the Station Agent in Newfoundland

One of my favorite New Jersey-based movies is The Station Agent, a quiet independent movie made eight or nine years ago. Some of the early scenes are in Hoboken, but the lion's share of the movie was shot and based in Newfoundland, Passaic County. Without giving up too much of the plot, the primary character inherits an old train depot in Newfoundland and relocates there. The place looks very remote, and the depot was obviously standing unused for many years, weatherbeaten and with peeling paint. A few aging train cars sit unused on a nearby siding.

This, of course, is just the kind of thing I look for, so a couple of years ago I took a drive to find the old depot and get a few snapshots.

Newfoundland had long had a special place in my mind, though I'd never actually been there. My Girl Scout troop used to make the long trip to Camp Lou Henry Hoover on Swartswood Lake, and enroute, we'd pass signs for Newfoundland. At the time I had no idea there was an actual community by that name in New Jersey, and I'd joke that we'd somehow reached the Canadian border. Poor joke, I know. I was that kind of kid.

My adult trip to Newfoundland brought me up Route 23, through Wayne and Lincoln Park and northward. Eventually the commercial establishments on the road got fewer and farther between, and the Newark Reservoir came into view. Then I started seeing signs for Newfoundland, and the real search began.

Given how quiet and peaceful the depot's environs seemed in the film, I assumed I'd be wandering around backroads for a good hour or so, but I found the depot very quickly. It's actually just a few hundred yards in from the highway! 

It's also very nicely kept and well maintained with fresh paint and, when I was there, some of those nice house banners. Apparently someone either lives there or uses it as an office, but they keep up the railroad spirit by leaving the "NEWFOUNDLAND" sign on the building for the trains that once stopped there. When I watched the movie on DVD later on, I discovered that the producers had had to rough up the station's exterior a bit before shooting. For once, then, something looks better in real life than it does in the movies. 

The Disappearing Newark Holsteins

We have a mystery on our hands. Cows are appearing and disappearing in Newark.

Yes, you read that correctly. Cows. In Newark.

Here's the story: on occasion, I travel into or through Newark by train, and as most people do, I often stare absentmindedly out the window at the world going by. On a trek in about a year ago, I noticed a cow statue on the rooftop of a building in the Ironbound area, which would be the right side of the train as you're coming in from the west. It was probably about as big as a live adult cow, just tall enough to be seen over the roof ledge. Smiling to myself, I tucked the vision away for future reference, expecting to see it every time I traveled through the area by train.

Only thing is, you can't count on the cow. Sometimes she's there. Sometimes she's on another part of the roof. And sometimes there are two cows. There's nothing visible to explain the presence of the cows, or lack thereof. Perhaps they're moved from time to time, and they're just not visible from the train, but it still begs the question: why? Or maybe the better question is, 'why not?'

I'd be inclined to go to the building and root out the story of the cows, but in some ways, it's more fun not knowing.

Check it out yourself the next time you take the train in or out of Newark Penn Station. The building is brick, about three or four stories tall, and rather old, with the name "Crane and Co." in concrete near the top. It's visible a few blocks after the train gets past the McCarter Highway viaduct at the edge of the city. The address is 90 South Street, and if you get the satellite view from Google Maps, you can clearly see the two cows on the roof, one being in the upper left corner.

Any ideas why the cows are there? And why cows, and not sheep or pigs or giraffes?