Yesterday was the anniversary of the opening of the Outerbridge Crossing, the span that connects Perth Amboy, New Jersey with Staten Island. Along with its sister to the north, the Goethals Bridge, it was constructed by the Port of New York Authority (now the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey) and opened on June 29, 1928.
Many travelers know of the Outerbridge but if you asked them the origin of the name, it's highly doubtful they'd come close to the right answer. While it's the southernmost crossing connecting New Jersey with a portion of New York, it's not the Outerbridge because it's the outermost roadway among them all. Rather, it's named for Eugenius Outerbridge, the first chairman of the Port Authority. Obviously they weren't going to call it the Outerbridge Bridge. Well, I guess they could have, but it would have sounded pretty silly.
Outerbridge himself was a pretty interesting man, having led the Port Authority as it conceived a comprehensive development plan for the harbor. Born in Philadelphia, he spent much of his career in importing/exporting. He also ran a business that made fiberboard for vehicle roofs, eventually manufacturing a product called Homasote, which used recycled materials. Plus his sister Mary was the creator of American lawn tennis. No word on whether she ever played on fiberboard.
Now... a question for you! From what or whom does the Holland Tunnel get its name?
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Strolling like the rich folks at Huber Woods
Among the multimillion dollar estates lining the Navesink River in Middletown, birds and other creatures find homes, too. The wooded tracts that obscure celebrities’ homes are the domain of a wealth of wildlife, largely inaccessible to the average person, but for Huber Woods, preserved open space with a beautiful alpine-style mansion. It’s a relatively short drive from Sandy Hook, and Ivan and I checked it out a few weeks ago after a trip to Fort Hancock.
So how is it that a county park arises on land that’s probably worth several million dollars? The property itself was once the home of the Huber family, who’d emigrated from Germany in the late 1800’s to develop markets for their ink business, which eventually became JM Huber. At first, they merely vacationed in the area, but they later bought land and built their home here and then planned for the preservation of the woods and surrounding lands upon the deaths of Hans and Catherine, the second generation of Hubers. The company later donated additional land and the home to Monmouth County to complete the park.
Today, the home is an environmental center, focusing on educating young children about nature and the surrounding habitat. It’s welcoming and comfortable, and you can imagine the Hubers inviting many friends there for casual dinners after a good hike through the woods.
But… we weren’t there for the house. We came for the birds, and though we were there at mid to late afternoon, there was plenty of singing to be heard as we set into the woods. There are about eight miles of trails, with varying degrees of difficulty and special designations for horseback riding and nature observation. You can guess where we went.
Not expecting much, the stroll was nicely productive. For example, we saw a pair of nuthatches popping into and out of a hole in a tree trunk, most likely keeping an eye on their nest. Not far away, we saw a scarlet tanager working its way around. (Honestly, they’re one of my new favorites, particularly because I can spot them easily and they sport the Rutgers colors, scarlet and black.) The usual culprits – catbirds and robins and blue jays – were showing themselves, too.
We didn’t go very far into the woods but it’s clearly a good place to check out at a later date, probably earlier in the day and later in the season. Such an easy destination from one of my favorite haunts, and located in the midst of beautiful countryside – there’s no reason not to return.
So how is it that a county park arises on land that’s probably worth several million dollars? The property itself was once the home of the Huber family, who’d emigrated from Germany in the late 1800’s to develop markets for their ink business, which eventually became JM Huber. At first, they merely vacationed in the area, but they later bought land and built their home here and then planned for the preservation of the woods and surrounding lands upon the deaths of Hans and Catherine, the second generation of Hubers. The company later donated additional land and the home to Monmouth County to complete the park.
Today, the home is an environmental center, focusing on educating young children about nature and the surrounding habitat. It’s welcoming and comfortable, and you can imagine the Hubers inviting many friends there for casual dinners after a good hike through the woods.
But… we weren’t there for the house. We came for the birds, and though we were there at mid to late afternoon, there was plenty of singing to be heard as we set into the woods. There are about eight miles of trails, with varying degrees of difficulty and special designations for horseback riding and nature observation. You can guess where we went.
Not expecting much, the stroll was nicely productive. For example, we saw a pair of nuthatches popping into and out of a hole in a tree trunk, most likely keeping an eye on their nest. Not far away, we saw a scarlet tanager working its way around. (Honestly, they’re one of my new favorites, particularly because I can spot them easily and they sport the Rutgers colors, scarlet and black.) The usual culprits – catbirds and robins and blue jays – were showing themselves, too.
We didn’t go very far into the woods but it’s clearly a good place to check out at a later date, probably earlier in the day and later in the season. Such an easy destination from one of my favorite haunts, and located in the midst of beautiful countryside – there’s no reason not to return.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Fall for America's industrial history in Paterson
Another ‘hidden in plain sight’ New Jersey notable is America’s first planned industrial community. Combine one of the state’s grittiest cities with the second largest waterfall in the eastern United States, and you’ve got a fascinating story with roots in the American Revolution. We talked about it a little in an earlier post on Garret Mountain, but the city deserves a post all its own.
Alexander Hamilton first conceived the city while accompanying General George Washington through New Jersey during the war. As legend has it, the pair stopped for lunch at the base of a magnificent waterfall, where Hamilton saw the possibilities for hydropower to run machinery. Counter to Thomas Jefferson, who saw America's future as largely agrarian, Hamilton believed that the country's best chance for economic independence was through industry. If we could manufacture our own products, from our own resources, we'd have little need for imports from our former European rulers. With others who felt likewise, he was instrumental in the creation of the Society for the Establishment of Useful Manufactures, or SUM, which then built Paterson's industry starting in 1792.
Through a clever system of raceways, the Great Falls of the nearby Passaic River provided hydropower to run mills and factory turbines. Eventually, the city became home to the Colt gunworks, the Rogers Locomotive works, and a variety of textile mills. In fact, Paterson was known for a long time as Silk City due to the strength of that industry within the city. Thomas Edison located one of his Illuminating factories there, as did the Wright-Curtiss operation that built the engine for Lindbergh’s storied aircraft, the Spirit of St. Louis.
Over time, the series of water raceways was replaced by a more efficient hydroelectric plant near the falls that continues to serve the local power grid. And as suburbanization populated the area upstream of Paterson, a good portion of the Passaic's water was shunted off for other purposes. Now on most days, the Falls, while still impressive, are but a trickle of what they were over 100 years ago. Check them out after a good rain, especially after Wayne has flooded, and you’ll get a good sense of their full might.
Paterson itself continues as a gritty, working-class city, though much of the industry has left the same as it has in many US cities. A productive artists' colony now makes its home in some of the mill buildings, and there's been some effort to preserve the history that's all around. In fact, Congress voted to fund a management plan for the area, which earlier was designated a National Historical Park. With any luck, that will bring much-needed attention - and tourist dollars - to the city. There are a lot of National Park geeks who would visit a phone booth in a remote corner of Nebraska if it were on the Parks list (I should know… I’m one of them.).
It's really pretty astounding that Paterson hasn't gotten more attention, given its location, Hamilton's involvement, and the impact of its founding on America's economic history. Perhaps the industrial aspect was what held it back as a tourist attraction: how many people make it a point to visit gritty, working-class cities? In an upwardly-mobile, striving culture like ours, how many people want to be reminded that there are people still pushing their way up the ladder? Paterson has long been home to recent immigrants -- people who don't necessarily speak the language, and have different traditions. We all know how that makes some people nervous. Most of all, though, I think people just don't know it's there.
There's a great little welcome center near the Falls, and when I visited, I was welcomed by a city resident who was a wealth of information. He spent about an hour with me, outlining history of Paterson's founding, interesting facts about Alexander Hamilton (i.e. had things gone differently, he might have been our first African American president. Yes, you read that right. His mom was Creole.), the best local restaurants, and American traditions that have their roots in the city. It’s amazing what you can find out, just by running into the right person.
Alexander Hamilton first conceived the city while accompanying General George Washington through New Jersey during the war. As legend has it, the pair stopped for lunch at the base of a magnificent waterfall, where Hamilton saw the possibilities for hydropower to run machinery. Counter to Thomas Jefferson, who saw America's future as largely agrarian, Hamilton believed that the country's best chance for economic independence was through industry. If we could manufacture our own products, from our own resources, we'd have little need for imports from our former European rulers. With others who felt likewise, he was instrumental in the creation of the Society for the Establishment of Useful Manufactures, or SUM, which then built Paterson's industry starting in 1792.Through a clever system of raceways, the Great Falls of the nearby Passaic River provided hydropower to run mills and factory turbines. Eventually, the city became home to the Colt gunworks, the Rogers Locomotive works, and a variety of textile mills. In fact, Paterson was known for a long time as Silk City due to the strength of that industry within the city. Thomas Edison located one of his Illuminating factories there, as did the Wright-Curtiss operation that built the engine for Lindbergh’s storied aircraft, the Spirit of St. Louis.
Over time, the series of water raceways was replaced by a more efficient hydroelectric plant near the falls that continues to serve the local power grid. And as suburbanization populated the area upstream of Paterson, a good portion of the Passaic's water was shunted off for other purposes. Now on most days, the Falls, while still impressive, are but a trickle of what they were over 100 years ago. Check them out after a good rain, especially after Wayne has flooded, and you’ll get a good sense of their full might.
Paterson itself continues as a gritty, working-class city, though much of the industry has left the same as it has in many US cities. A productive artists' colony now makes its home in some of the mill buildings, and there's been some effort to preserve the history that's all around. In fact, Congress voted to fund a management plan for the area, which earlier was designated a National Historical Park. With any luck, that will bring much-needed attention - and tourist dollars - to the city. There are a lot of National Park geeks who would visit a phone booth in a remote corner of Nebraska if it were on the Parks list (I should know… I’m one of them.).It's really pretty astounding that Paterson hasn't gotten more attention, given its location, Hamilton's involvement, and the impact of its founding on America's economic history. Perhaps the industrial aspect was what held it back as a tourist attraction: how many people make it a point to visit gritty, working-class cities? In an upwardly-mobile, striving culture like ours, how many people want to be reminded that there are people still pushing their way up the ladder? Paterson has long been home to recent immigrants -- people who don't necessarily speak the language, and have different traditions. We all know how that makes some people nervous. Most of all, though, I think people just don't know it's there.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Exploring the last northern battles of the Revolution: Visiting old Connecticut Farms
New Jersey was the crossroads of the American Revolution, with more battles fought here than anywhere else during the battle for independence. The last of those battles occurred 231 years ago this month in Union County, including my home town of Union. A few weeks ago, Ivan and I visited two sites key to that -- the Connecticut Farms Presbyterian Church and the Caldwell Parsonage.
Here’s the story: in June 1780, General George Washington and his troops were still in Morristown after their second and most brutal winter encampment there. Many of the remaining troops were disenchanted with military life and on the brink of mutiny, having waited months for pay which hadn’t yet come. The British, having taken New York some time before, were stationed on Staten Island, within a reasonable rowing distance of Elizabeth. They’d made occasional forays into New Jersey and thought they’d capitalize on the discontent of the colonial forces to make a raid on Washington and his staff, plus their remaining supplies.
By this time, civilian New Jerseyans had mixed feelings about the rebellion against the crown. They’d endured several raids and battles, destruction of farms and theft of livestock, and the assumption was that they were too tired to put up much of a resistance to an incursion. With that in mind, the British, fortified by elite German Jaegers, planned to land in Elizabeth on June 7 and take the path of present day Morris Avenue (State Route 82) up to Hobart Gap and then on to Morristown.
What they didn’t count on was the effect of the colonists’ frustration, stirred to a frenzy by local Presbyterian minister James Caldwell. Known to the British as the High Priest of the Revolution, Caldwell was based at Elizabeth’s Presbyterian church but also preached before congregations in Springfield and Connecticut Farms (now known as Union). He was also chaplain for the Third New Jersey Regiment, better known as the Jersey Blues. Caldwell regularly used his pulpit to promote the cause of freedom and foment against the crown, making him a prized target for British forces and loyalists.
After landing in Elizabeth, over 5000 British and Hessian troops and their artillery began the advance westward, expecting little to get in their way. They were confronted by 800 Jerseymen and a host of angry local farmers, prepared to fight for their land. The patriots fought valiantly against the invaders, holding them back for three hours. Ultimately, the British forces pushed the locals west toward Springfield, but realized they faced much more resistance than they’d anticipated. Vowing to return another day, they finally retreated back to Staten Island, pillaging and burning the village of Connecticut Farms as they left. They’d make another foray on June 23, this time to Springfield, but that’s another blog entry.
The Battle of Connecticut Farms gave Union County what’s probably one of the most gruesome government seals in the country: an image of a woman being shot by a British soldier as she runs from a cabin. It’s meant to represent Reverend Caldwell’s wife, Hannah, who, according to legend, was killed by British gunfire as she fled the Presbyterian parsonage. In truth, she was sitting inside the house and was the victim of a stray bullet which might have even come from a colonist’s musket. Regardless of where the bullet originated, she was seen by many as a martyr to the cause, and her death brought a rallying cry for revolutionary forces eager to avenge her death.
The parsonage and church were torched as the British left, along with the rest of the village, but the congregation soon rebuilt both, and those ‘new’ buildings still stand today. As Union has grown more and more urban, places like these remind residents and visitors of the town’s rural colonial heritage. The high school’s sports teams aren’t known as the Fighting Farmers for nothing.
The Connecticut Farms Presbyterian Church stands beside a busy intersection near Union Center, with a congregation proud of its colonial heritage. Its churchyard holds many Revolutionary-era headstones and a mass grave of Hessians killed in the battle; you can contact the church to arrange a visit. In my youth, the church also had a small room with artifacts including a cannon ball that pierced the church’s wall.
Caldwell Parsonage is a few blocks away, on Caldwell Avenue. Once standing in farmland, it’s now shoehorned between other homes of more recent vintages, making it a bit difficult to imagine how a stray gunshot could have possibly gotten anywhere near the window where Hannah sat. The building now serves as the Union Township museum, displaying the town’s full history from first settlement to today. It’s a bit jumbled inside, but well worth a visit if you’re interested in obscure Jerseyana. It’s open on the third Sunday of the month, from 2-4 p.m.
There’s plenty more to say about these last battles… and a few more great sites to visit. Stay tuned!
Here’s the story: in June 1780, General George Washington and his troops were still in Morristown after their second and most brutal winter encampment there. Many of the remaining troops were disenchanted with military life and on the brink of mutiny, having waited months for pay which hadn’t yet come. The British, having taken New York some time before, were stationed on Staten Island, within a reasonable rowing distance of Elizabeth. They’d made occasional forays into New Jersey and thought they’d capitalize on the discontent of the colonial forces to make a raid on Washington and his staff, plus their remaining supplies.
By this time, civilian New Jerseyans had mixed feelings about the rebellion against the crown. They’d endured several raids and battles, destruction of farms and theft of livestock, and the assumption was that they were too tired to put up much of a resistance to an incursion. With that in mind, the British, fortified by elite German Jaegers, planned to land in Elizabeth on June 7 and take the path of present day Morris Avenue (State Route 82) up to Hobart Gap and then on to Morristown.
What they didn’t count on was the effect of the colonists’ frustration, stirred to a frenzy by local Presbyterian minister James Caldwell. Known to the British as the High Priest of the Revolution, Caldwell was based at Elizabeth’s Presbyterian church but also preached before congregations in Springfield and Connecticut Farms (now known as Union). He was also chaplain for the Third New Jersey Regiment, better known as the Jersey Blues. Caldwell regularly used his pulpit to promote the cause of freedom and foment against the crown, making him a prized target for British forces and loyalists.
After landing in Elizabeth, over 5000 British and Hessian troops and their artillery began the advance westward, expecting little to get in their way. They were confronted by 800 Jerseymen and a host of angry local farmers, prepared to fight for their land. The patriots fought valiantly against the invaders, holding them back for three hours. Ultimately, the British forces pushed the locals west toward Springfield, but realized they faced much more resistance than they’d anticipated. Vowing to return another day, they finally retreated back to Staten Island, pillaging and burning the village of Connecticut Farms as they left. They’d make another foray on June 23, this time to Springfield, but that’s another blog entry.
The Battle of Connecticut Farms gave Union County what’s probably one of the most gruesome government seals in the country: an image of a woman being shot by a British soldier as she runs from a cabin. It’s meant to represent Reverend Caldwell’s wife, Hannah, who, according to legend, was killed by British gunfire as she fled the Presbyterian parsonage. In truth, she was sitting inside the house and was the victim of a stray bullet which might have even come from a colonist’s musket. Regardless of where the bullet originated, she was seen by many as a martyr to the cause, and her death brought a rallying cry for revolutionary forces eager to avenge her death.The parsonage and church were torched as the British left, along with the rest of the village, but the congregation soon rebuilt both, and those ‘new’ buildings still stand today. As Union has grown more and more urban, places like these remind residents and visitors of the town’s rural colonial heritage. The high school’s sports teams aren’t known as the Fighting Farmers for nothing.
The Connecticut Farms Presbyterian Church stands beside a busy intersection near Union Center, with a congregation proud of its colonial heritage. Its churchyard holds many Revolutionary-era headstones and a mass grave of Hessians killed in the battle; you can contact the church to arrange a visit. In my youth, the church also had a small room with artifacts including a cannon ball that pierced the church’s wall.
Caldwell Parsonage is a few blocks away, on Caldwell Avenue. Once standing in farmland, it’s now shoehorned between other homes of more recent vintages, making it a bit difficult to imagine how a stray gunshot could have possibly gotten anywhere near the window where Hannah sat. The building now serves as the Union Township museum, displaying the town’s full history from first settlement to today. It’s a bit jumbled inside, but well worth a visit if you’re interested in obscure Jerseyana. It’s open on the third Sunday of the month, from 2-4 p.m.
There’s plenty more to say about these last battles… and a few more great sites to visit. Stay tuned!
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Ticking away at Negri Nepote Grassland
Franklin Township (Somerset County) is one of those massive towns in the middle of the state that just seems to go on and on. Its reach is so vast, in fact, that it includes several unincorporated communities and three of the state’s six area codes hold sway there. With a history that goes back to colonial times, the township was largely rural for many years, until a building boom in the ‘80s that brought condo and townhouse development. Fortunately, though, there are still a few sizeable farms, and much of the open space is being preserved by the township and other entities so that about 75 percent of the acreage is still undeveloped.
It was one of those preserved entities where Ivan and I went for some light hiking and birding. He’d seen reports of dickcissels at the Negri Nepote Grassland and wanted to check out a new spot.
While I know some of Franklin Township, I wasn’t entirely sure of the exact location, and I was tickled to find it’s not far from the Trojan Cow. Yes, you read that right. Somewhere off South Middlebush Road, there’s a dairy farm with a massive Holstein cow in the yard. When we passed, it was standing, proud and freshly painted, with its living counterparts clustered around it. I don’t know anything about it; I’ve been aware of it for many years but haven’t yet had the guts to drive up and ask the farmer about it. Frankly, I’d rather keep the mystery going in my mind.
In any case, the Negri-Nepote property itself is largely grassland with some wooded areas thrown in for good measure. There’s also a very small, apparently man-made pond with an elevated blind; when we were there, the water level was pretty low and a lone mallard was hanging out. The field is traversed by a set of high-voltage transmission lines, which buzz ominously a hundred feet or so above you as you walk. (Old power company joke: Why do transformers hum? They don’t know the words.)
The path starts out as a gravel bed from a small parking lot, eventually turning into a wide swath of mowed grass when it veers to the right. After some of the places we’ve been, it was a bit of a relief not to have to bushwack or be overly concerned about brushing past high grass, but it’s no place to let your guard down. As we walked, we picked up a fair number of ticks that seemed to be laying in wait for us. Together, we must have attracted close to 20 of the suckers. Thank goodness for light-colored hiking pants.
Approaching the humming path of the transmission lines, Ivan noted a red-tailed hawk sitting atop one of the towers a few hundred yards away. Curious whether it might be keeping tabs on us, I took a quick scan of the other towers and found a large stick nest perched atop one of the higher-voltage towers. I could just about spy some feathers up there, but I couldn't tell whether it was the other parent or maybe a chick.
Not long after, we got our answer. We heard the distinctive scream of one of the parents, who’d taken wing ahead of us, warning us away from the nest. Little did he/she know, they’d selected what is probably one of the safest places around to raise a hawk family: not only would it be a tough climb up that tower, the surrounding voltage would quickly fry anyone foolish enough to try the ascent without the appropriate safety gear. Good luck to anyone who wants to band the chicks in that nest.
The dickcissels were quiet, perhaps because it was midday, but we saw a fair number of tree swallows and more than a couple of bluebirds making use of the nesting boxes off in the fields. We also spotted a kestrel perched on a ladder rung of one of the transmission towers. She obligingly took flight so we could fully appreciate her plumage.
All in all, it would have been a nice, leisurely walk in the field, but for the ticks hitching a ride on us. Next time, I’m bathing in DEET before we go… and perhaps wearing a Tyvek suit.
It was one of those preserved entities where Ivan and I went for some light hiking and birding. He’d seen reports of dickcissels at the Negri Nepote Grassland and wanted to check out a new spot.
While I know some of Franklin Township, I wasn’t entirely sure of the exact location, and I was tickled to find it’s not far from the Trojan Cow. Yes, you read that right. Somewhere off South Middlebush Road, there’s a dairy farm with a massive Holstein cow in the yard. When we passed, it was standing, proud and freshly painted, with its living counterparts clustered around it. I don’t know anything about it; I’ve been aware of it for many years but haven’t yet had the guts to drive up and ask the farmer about it. Frankly, I’d rather keep the mystery going in my mind.
In any case, the Negri-Nepote property itself is largely grassland with some wooded areas thrown in for good measure. There’s also a very small, apparently man-made pond with an elevated blind; when we were there, the water level was pretty low and a lone mallard was hanging out. The field is traversed by a set of high-voltage transmission lines, which buzz ominously a hundred feet or so above you as you walk. (Old power company joke: Why do transformers hum? They don’t know the words.)
The path starts out as a gravel bed from a small parking lot, eventually turning into a wide swath of mowed grass when it veers to the right. After some of the places we’ve been, it was a bit of a relief not to have to bushwack or be overly concerned about brushing past high grass, but it’s no place to let your guard down. As we walked, we picked up a fair number of ticks that seemed to be laying in wait for us. Together, we must have attracted close to 20 of the suckers. Thank goodness for light-colored hiking pants.
Approaching the humming path of the transmission lines, Ivan noted a red-tailed hawk sitting atop one of the towers a few hundred yards away. Curious whether it might be keeping tabs on us, I took a quick scan of the other towers and found a large stick nest perched atop one of the higher-voltage towers. I could just about spy some feathers up there, but I couldn't tell whether it was the other parent or maybe a chick.
Not long after, we got our answer. We heard the distinctive scream of one of the parents, who’d taken wing ahead of us, warning us away from the nest. Little did he/she know, they’d selected what is probably one of the safest places around to raise a hawk family: not only would it be a tough climb up that tower, the surrounding voltage would quickly fry anyone foolish enough to try the ascent without the appropriate safety gear. Good luck to anyone who wants to band the chicks in that nest.
The dickcissels were quiet, perhaps because it was midday, but we saw a fair number of tree swallows and more than a couple of bluebirds making use of the nesting boxes off in the fields. We also spotted a kestrel perched on a ladder rung of one of the transmission towers. She obligingly took flight so we could fully appreciate her plumage.
All in all, it would have been a nice, leisurely walk in the field, but for the ticks hitching a ride on us. Next time, I’m bathing in DEET before we go… and perhaps wearing a Tyvek suit.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The history and romance of Newark Airport (yes, you read that right)
For some cockeyed reason, I still enjoy flying. Even when I'm crammed in like a sardine on one of those huge buses with wings, the little kid in me can't help but grin when I look down from the skies and see the earth in miniature. Taxi-ing around the tarmac, I'm drawn to the most mundane inner workings of a busy airport. I wonder whether those guys who guide the planes to the jetways get a secret thrill at edging huge aircraft into their parking spots just minutes after they've crossed the continent or the Atlantic.
That's not to say I enjoy the process of getting to the plane, or dealing with nasty people or any of that. I love the concept of flight, and the romance of it. When I can block out the garbage, I can mentally drift away to a time and place when air travel was still kind of exotic and people wore nice clothes to get on the plane. Don't get me started about prop planes -- make me climb up into the cabin on a drop-down staircase, and I know I'm itching for an adventure.Despite myself, I get nostalgic at some of the older airports. Lindbergh Field (a.k.a. SAN, San Diego) looks nothing like its past but was the home field, of sorts, to the Spirit of St. Louis. The couple of times I flew into Washington National (DCA, now Reagan) I half expected to see Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Smith, striding purposefully down the corridor.
Now, Newark (EWR) that was a glamorous airport. Once the East Coast terminus of the Air Mail, it was the busiest landing strip in the United States for a time in the late '20s and early '30s. It eventually had a beautiful WPA-style terminal and administration building with an observation deck where you could watch the planes take off and land. And it was a regular stop for the pioneers of aviation as they traveled to other places. Names of fallen flyers like Earhart and Post are memorialized by some of the access roads within the airport fences.
Needless to say, the airport's gotten a lot bigger over the years, and virtually all of the vestiges of its early glory have been obscured. Unless you know where to look, that is. Nestled in the north corner of the airport, not far from Route 1, that 1930's style terminal still stands, having been moved from its original spot and restored to most of its former glory. It now houses the Port Authority Police and some other security, but interestingly enough, it's still open to visitation. Step inside, and marvel at the art deco style architecture and trim that brings the early age of passenger flight to life. You can very easily imagine checking in for your flight and then walking directly outside to the moveable stairs to your airplane.
And, there's more. Years ago, as my plane taxied to its gate at Terminal A, I gazed down at the tarmac to see the word LINDY in bold yellow letters outlined in black. Charles Lindbergh had taken off and landed at Newark many times, so I assumed that history-minded airport workers had painted his name on the pavement. For whatever reason, perhaps the tradition still persists. In airport parlance, these markers are known as hard stops.
What I never noticed was the other tribute. If you take a close look at this photo, pulling the image up so you can see what's beyond the bottom edge of the original frame, you'll see two lighter strips of pavement, with planes parked on them. On the right one, you'll see "LINDY," clear as day; another is obscured by the plane parked above it. On the left, you'll see the name "AMELIA" painted twice, for Amelia Earhart. While her aviation skills are still in dispute, it's pretty neat to think that someone's keeping the faith.
That's not to say I enjoy the process of getting to the plane, or dealing with nasty people or any of that. I love the concept of flight, and the romance of it. When I can block out the garbage, I can mentally drift away to a time and place when air travel was still kind of exotic and people wore nice clothes to get on the plane. Don't get me started about prop planes -- make me climb up into the cabin on a drop-down staircase, and I know I'm itching for an adventure.Despite myself, I get nostalgic at some of the older airports. Lindbergh Field (a.k.a. SAN, San Diego) looks nothing like its past but was the home field, of sorts, to the Spirit of St. Louis. The couple of times I flew into Washington National (DCA, now Reagan) I half expected to see Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Smith, striding purposefully down the corridor.
Now, Newark (EWR) that was a glamorous airport. Once the East Coast terminus of the Air Mail, it was the busiest landing strip in the United States for a time in the late '20s and early '30s. It eventually had a beautiful WPA-style terminal and administration building with an observation deck where you could watch the planes take off and land. And it was a regular stop for the pioneers of aviation as they traveled to other places. Names of fallen flyers like Earhart and Post are memorialized by some of the access roads within the airport fences.Needless to say, the airport's gotten a lot bigger over the years, and virtually all of the vestiges of its early glory have been obscured. Unless you know where to look, that is. Nestled in the north corner of the airport, not far from Route 1, that 1930's style terminal still stands, having been moved from its original spot and restored to most of its former glory. It now houses the Port Authority Police and some other security, but interestingly enough, it's still open to visitation. Step inside, and marvel at the art deco style architecture and trim that brings the early age of passenger flight to life. You can very easily imagine checking in for your flight and then walking directly outside to the moveable stairs to your airplane.
And, there's more. Years ago, as my plane taxied to its gate at Terminal A, I gazed down at the tarmac to see the word LINDY in bold yellow letters outlined in black. Charles Lindbergh had taken off and landed at Newark many times, so I assumed that history-minded airport workers had painted his name on the pavement. For whatever reason, perhaps the tradition still persists. In airport parlance, these markers are known as hard stops.
What I never noticed was the other tribute. If you take a close look at this photo, pulling the image up so you can see what's beyond the bottom edge of the original frame, you'll see two lighter strips of pavement, with planes parked on them. On the right one, you'll see "LINDY," clear as day; another is obscured by the plane parked above it. On the left, you'll see the name "AMELIA" painted twice, for Amelia Earhart. While her aviation skills are still in dispute, it's pretty neat to think that someone's keeping the faith.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Roebling aqueduct - finding New Jersey on the Upper Delaware River
Sometimes Hidden New Jersey spots jump out at us serendipitously, a phenomenon which seems to happen more often out of state. That was the case on an unplanned recent visit to the Upper Delaware River in New York State.
First, though, a little background, starting when I was writing the blog entry on Trenton's Riverview Cemetery. In researching the Roebling family members whose graves we visited, I discovered that one of John Roebling's early spans was an aqueduct crossing the Delaware between New York and Pennsylvania. I didn't read much about it, but the photo looked cool, and I told Ivan we should visit. Not surprisingly (because we'd already grown accustomed to such coincidences), he'd already come upon it in his travels. In fact, he'd discovered it after having his own bit of serendipity: the nearby Minisink Ford hosted a battleground where a commissioned Mohawk named Joseph Brant had led British troops against local colonists in 1779. Ivan had seen the name at another distant stop on his trip, no doubt remembering the name because it's, well, a species of goose. Making stops in two obscure places and seeing the same name? What are the chances?
I'd totally forgotten about the bridge when we got to the area, and thought it would be fun to check out the battlefield, which we did. Taking another road from the site than the one we used to get there, we found ourselves squarely across from the Roebling bridge. This was too good to be true! We had to stop.
What's now a one-lane river crossing was once an active aqueduct for the Delaware and Hudson Canal. Current day pedestrian walkways were once tow paths for the mules who pulled barges along the waterway, making for an interesting stroll across the broad river.
It's kind of funny to think of there being a water bridge across a body of water, but when you look at the history, it makes sense. The canal had to cross the New York/Pennsylvania border, and originally the barges would traverse the river to get to the dug canal on the other side. Problem was, loggers upstream would use the river to transport wood downstream, making collisions almost inevitable. Someone had to yield, and it ended up being the canal traffic.
Enter John Roebling, engineer and wire cable manufacturer. From 1847 to 1851, long before becoming famous for building the Brooklyn Bridge, he built four suspension aqueducts along the canal. The one we visited was the last remaining, and also the oldest wire cable bridge in the United States. He did good work, too. According to the NPS website, nearly all of the bridge's ironwork, from cables to suspenders, are the same materials installed upon the structure's construction. The cables - spun on site under Roebling's direction - were tested in 1983 and found to be still viable. Now, that's craftsmanship!
For a time after the D&H was abandoned, the bridge operated as a private toll road, serving in that capacity until 1979. After many years of disrepair, the National Park Service bought and restored the aqueduct and toll house in 1986. Visitors can enjoy a few interpretive exhibits in the New York-side house, and even drive across the bridge's active roadway.
We decided it would be more fun to stroll the towpath from New York to Pennsy and back again, taking the chance to do a spot of birding. While it was an overcast day, the scenery was beautiful, and we even saw a young bald eagle in the distant sky.
Having found New Jersey striding across the far reaches of the Delaware, I can't help but realize that the water that flowed under the bridge deck beneath our feet eventually glided past Roebling's grave in Riverside Cemetery in Trenton. Hopefully he's resting well, knowing that his works continue to serve the traveling public, over 150 years later.
First, though, a little background, starting when I was writing the blog entry on Trenton's Riverview Cemetery. In researching the Roebling family members whose graves we visited, I discovered that one of John Roebling's early spans was an aqueduct crossing the Delaware between New York and Pennsylvania. I didn't read much about it, but the photo looked cool, and I told Ivan we should visit. Not surprisingly (because we'd already grown accustomed to such coincidences), he'd already come upon it in his travels. In fact, he'd discovered it after having his own bit of serendipity: the nearby Minisink Ford hosted a battleground where a commissioned Mohawk named Joseph Brant had led British troops against local colonists in 1779. Ivan had seen the name at another distant stop on his trip, no doubt remembering the name because it's, well, a species of goose. Making stops in two obscure places and seeing the same name? What are the chances?I'd totally forgotten about the bridge when we got to the area, and thought it would be fun to check out the battlefield, which we did. Taking another road from the site than the one we used to get there, we found ourselves squarely across from the Roebling bridge. This was too good to be true! We had to stop.
What's now a one-lane river crossing was once an active aqueduct for the Delaware and Hudson Canal. Current day pedestrian walkways were once tow paths for the mules who pulled barges along the waterway, making for an interesting stroll across the broad river.It's kind of funny to think of there being a water bridge across a body of water, but when you look at the history, it makes sense. The canal had to cross the New York/Pennsylvania border, and originally the barges would traverse the river to get to the dug canal on the other side. Problem was, loggers upstream would use the river to transport wood downstream, making collisions almost inevitable. Someone had to yield, and it ended up being the canal traffic.
Enter John Roebling, engineer and wire cable manufacturer. From 1847 to 1851, long before becoming famous for building the Brooklyn Bridge, he built four suspension aqueducts along the canal. The one we visited was the last remaining, and also the oldest wire cable bridge in the United States. He did good work, too. According to the NPS website, nearly all of the bridge's ironwork, from cables to suspenders, are the same materials installed upon the structure's construction. The cables - spun on site under Roebling's direction - were tested in 1983 and found to be still viable. Now, that's craftsmanship!
For a time after the D&H was abandoned, the bridge operated as a private toll road, serving in that capacity until 1979. After many years of disrepair, the National Park Service bought and restored the aqueduct and toll house in 1986. Visitors can enjoy a few interpretive exhibits in the New York-side house, and even drive across the bridge's active roadway.We decided it would be more fun to stroll the towpath from New York to Pennsy and back again, taking the chance to do a spot of birding. While it was an overcast day, the scenery was beautiful, and we even saw a young bald eagle in the distant sky.
Having found New Jersey striding across the far reaches of the Delaware, I can't help but realize that the water that flowed under the bridge deck beneath our feet eventually glided past Roebling's grave in Riverside Cemetery in Trenton. Hopefully he's resting well, knowing that his works continue to serve the traveling public, over 150 years later.
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