My experiences with the Hudson River have been that of a sort of passive observer more than anything else. I had, for quite a while, never touched the river physically, only seeing it through the glass pane of the vehicle that took me down its banks. A few of my friends have given me the label of a “bad New Yorker," citing my lack of experience on the river as a missed right of passage. This remained the case until recently when my classmates and I meandered down to Albany for a trip down the Hudson.
I expected great things! “Surely,” I told myself, “the leaves will be magnificent shades of yellow, tinted with spots of brown as winter ever so slowly makes its descent onto the New England countryside, casting the entire landscape in brilliant specks of color, no?” I was perturbed to discover that, in fact, this would not be the primary subject of our tour. Perturbed, but not entirely surprised. The Port of Albany is not a scenic display of upstate New York’s outstanding beauty, but a place of commerce.
Our source of transportation that morning: an old wooden ferry called, “The Dutch Apple." It was sweet–much like it’s namesake–with an old, creaky, riverboat charm. As we set off, I began to fancy myself a regular Mark Twain: sitting aboard a river vessel, taking in the surrounding nature, making witticisms about the human condition, and of course, wearing stylish white suits (alright, not the last one).
So began my first trip down the Hudson. Though I’ve made a few snarky remarks regarding the Hudson being of the industrial persuasion, there’s something quite compelling about what it says about the Hudson’s character.
To better illustrate this long-winded point, I’ll discuss two different forms of transportation and how these altered my perspective.
The train ride from Albany to New York City does not give one the true sensory joy of fall in upstate New York. To my left, there was the same repeating landscape of rusted train stations and sparse bits of shrubbery. To my right sat the Hudson, which though beautiful, had a certain distance that never allowed an observer to truly enjoy the experience. The pane of glass that separated me from the natural world did little to enhance my understanding of the true nature of the river before me.
Our cruise down the Hudson via boat left me with a different feeling entirely. The whipping wind pushed us along, the passengers taking in the sights and sounds of the world that surrounded us. I enjoyed the tranquility too much it seemed, as the silence was promptly interrupted by our tour guide for the day, Pat. Pat had what I can only describe as a pseudo-Fargo inflection about her speech. She regaled us with facts about the growing population of Falcons that hide and hunt under the harbor’s bridges, preaching the importance of a sustainable ecosystem. As the ride progressed, I started to truly understand the Hudson as a place of commerce. On both sides of the boat, long stretches of open yards housed gigantic towers of scrap metal and Zinc. Former ice factories brooded over the construction that would soon eliminate their purpose entirely. Antiquated power plants sat abandoned amongst the bustling harbor, a time capsule to a different time and place in the country’s history. Pat mentioned that, at least for now, the plants would remain standing due to asbestos in the lining of the walls. Gigantic freight ships sat docked on our port side, dwarfing our humble cruiser in pure size and power. The ship would sail for Switzerland soon, its cargo being grain and molasses. The grain from the factory floated into the air, its tiny particles holding form like a swarm of insects, before dissipating into the windswept tide.
As we traveled deeper down the river, the landscape began to shift. The once gray, industrial shoreline replaced by the resplendent explosions of yellow and red that come with the fall. The other folks on deck began to speak to Pat, while I attempted to remain ironically detached from the whole ordeal. While conjuring what I believed to be the next great American novel in my mind, I trailed off from the natural beauty of the environment, my own worries, and the blistering winds that sent unoccupied deck chairs hurdling towards my blissfully unaware classmates: I focused purely on the conversation of the folks in front of me. Though they had introduced themselves just recently, the couple that sat at a table near to me had a report with Pat. They spoke of the upcoming elections, the remarkable effects of Hurricane Irene on the state, and more simple endeavors, such as the grocery store they all shopped at. During the trip back, Pat spoke about the procedure for storing and preserving ice back during the turn of the 19th century, and the couple interjected about a poor gent who had been electrocuted a couple years ago. Pat responded by with the exact name of the man, and where he had lived. They spoke of the effect this event had on the Albany area, and it truly resonated with me. I think very often, we don’t put enough value in the community that surrounds these areas. We retreat to our ivory towers and extol the virtues of the working class, yet rarely make attempts to interact with the people that make up so much of our communities. This trip helped me better understand the community that surrounds Albany and the Hudson, and to dismount my high horse before leaving campus, so as not to hit my head on the way out.
