I would call my encounter yesterday with the DEP policeman a
fine example of irony. After I was
issued the summons for trespassing, and a date when I would have to appear in
court, I called the encounter maddening, irritating, insulting, and downright
stupid. And oh yeah, why must DEP cops
wear dark glasses? Is it
intimidation? Arrogance? It’s not about the glare of the sun on a
bright day, I can tell you that.
I was full of Sunday morning sunshine and good intent as I
drove over to the reservoir, just six miles from my home. Driving slowly across the weir, reduced to one
lane for several months, I enjoyed the sparkle of the reservoir’s water, the
blurred surround of mountains that loomed soft and hazy. Seeing the water so low, and the exposed
bluestone and flat concrete pieces here and there reminded me of the NY Times article
Watery
Graves NY Times 2002 I’d just read, when the reservoir was so low, one
could view stone building
foundations and drinking wells.
All belonging to the “dozen bucolic hamlets” that were submerged there
in 1913. Hundreds of houses, thousands
of people, plus stores, schools, post offices, churches, cemeteries and bodies
displaced.
Recently I’ve delved heavily into the history of the
reservoir; specifically, the displaced people who had built their homes there,
raised families and farmed there, and then were forced to leave their homelands
so that New York City could improve their water supply. As an offshoot of genealogy research into my
partner’s family, I’d unearthed more and more details, read through more and
more tales of that time in Ulster County.
I found myself poring over census records until 1am, dragging myself to
work the next day. Last year it was my own family history that I researched until
the early morning hours. It is etched in my being, this needing to
know, this curiosity about past lives and ancestors, and the footsteps taken in
so many lives that led us to be where we are today. Some say don’t live in the past. I don’t think I live there, but I sure like
to visit. And I like fitting the puzzle
pieces together. But my ancestors, Irish
immigrants, were easier to trace in a way; they landed in Manhattan and mostly
stayed there, some branching to Brooklyn or Queens at some point. And the streets in Manhattan had names long
before streets or roads existed, per se, in Ulster County. I found addresses
like “back road”, or “the corners”. But
the majority enumerated" didn’t even have that.
JR’s family, as it turns out, has lived in Ulster County for
several generations. They farmed, they
quarried, they lived off the land. I
became addicted to the discovery – where did they come from, and how had they ended
up in West Hurley? Glenford? It didn’t take long to realize that they had
all been among the families that were displaced when the Ashokan Reservoir, the
“last of the homemade dams”, was constructed.Which leads me back to the Ashokan
Reservoir yesterday morning. There is a
certain Great Great Grandfather and his wife Sarah that I can find no death
record for; also, one of their sons, Phillip.
It became a matter of principle that I find Phillip especially, for more
than one reason. I’d parked in the
circular drive that is provided for folks who generally do their exercise thing
across the reservoir on the macadam walkway.
In warmer weather, you can be inundated with fellow walkers and joggers,
cyclists, roller bladers, and gaggles of angry geese, on occasion. But no dogs allowed. The walk is marked every ¼ mile as you
go. The view is spectacular, but it’s boring
just walking along between two fences, in my opinion. I like the woods.
Anyway, I walked down through the woods where I like to go,
passing the No Trespassing signs and notices about how they are protecting the
environment as I went. I was just going to get some better shots of the res
from where the old boats are laying, chained up to trees for the winter. Maybe score some driftwood, just enjoy the
quiet. My camera crapped out on me, as I
lined up the perfect shot (to replace one I’d taken from the same spot last
month that had been blurry). I sat down
on an overturned row boat and decided to channel Abram and Sarah and maybe
Phillip; maybe they would tell me where to find their graves?
The water has slight movement in a reservoir, did you now
that? From where I sat, across the
ground littered with bluestone chunks and smooth rocks, I watched the tiny wave
ripples gently moving back and forth. I
stared at the mountains and the houses high up on the hills over in
Shokan. They would not have been there in
the late 1800’s. I spoke to Sarah,
believing in some sort of Mana y Mana...where are you? How can I find you? Where is Phillip?
I got cold and turned to head back which is when I spotted
the DEP SUV cruising by. I ditched my
smooth driftwood (no sense adding theft
to trespassing I thought, chuckling) behind a tree and kept on walking back
up through the woods. The blond, crew-cutted,
sun-glassed, polite officer (who looked like a sixteen year old) got out of his
car and walked over to greet me. “Afternoon
Ma’am, nice day for a walk”, was the way it started. I found it amusing that a geezer like me
could possibly be in trouble for something as innocent as walking in the woods
on a sunny day. I even told him I was
taking a photo of the place where my partner’s ancestors had once lived. He was unimpressed. “Do you have a recreational permit?” I do not. The conversation escalated to seeing my driver’s
license and being told to wait while he went into his car to write out a
summons. I do believe the idling of his vehicle
for 10 or 15 minutes was far more damaging to the environment than my walk in
the woods. I have a court date in
March. I have an option of applying
online for a recreational permit.
So my latest bead of irony entails being forbidden to walk
on the very grounds that were called home to the ancestors I’m looking for. And
so far, no luck in finding Phillip.
