Bronx River Wild
My uncle Jim repaired things underwater for the Army when he was overseas during World War Two. When he returned to his native Bronx, the engineer set about to straighten the Bronx River. The waterway weaved a meandering path from Westchester to the East River near Hunts Point in the South Bronx. If it weren't for the zig zagging and the flooding, the river was a perfect route for a modern parkway to be built along side of it. Enter uncle Jim and a team of backhoes and steam shovels to fill in the river's banks and make it go straight. Today most of us don't even know there is actually a river next to the Bronx River Parkway, but now old people can get to the slots at Empire City Casino in Yonkers pretty damn fast.
Since I own a canoe and like the idea of a natural waterway running under the worst place on earth, the Cross Bronx Expressway, I set out this past weekend with two friends to see what uncle Jim had worked on and maybe spot José, the resident beaver.
A couple of quick exits off the Bruckner Expressway, we arrived and unloaded at 233rd street and Bronx Park, a put-in point I arbitrarily choose a few days earlier because it had good parking.
"Ain't nothing wrong with that." The journey began with that remark from a guy cleaning his car on this clear crisp fall morning as he watched three wool clad white kids unload a wood canvas canoe, carry it over a guardrail and disappear down a bluff.
We descended into a zone that was neither park nor wilderness. It was a feral. And although what we were doing was perfectly legal, it felt illicit. Sun bleached clothes lay strewn upon the shore and plastic bottles peaked out from the forest floor. I could not help but think of other more traumatizing landmines lurking amid the debris. Also, were we invading somebody's encampment?
The river and this corridor of green and crimson leaves were why we had come. The early morning light had a soft dappled effect through the canopy above us. The water now at our feet, moved slowly, cool and gin clear. A family of ducks pushed downstream.
We put the boat in and began our paddle. The river, really more of a creek at this point, was shallow. Shoals obstructed our path and the channels were tight along the edge of the bank. But the day was early and we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. We navigated the sandbars and trained our eyes for hazards in and out of the water. For a short time we had our Lewis and Clark moment, bravely charting this solitary waterway sandwiched between a major highway and a city street.
When we saw our first pack of middle aged woman power walking above us that feeling of conquest halted instantly. All of these ladies walked at a faster pace than our boat. Some laughed at us and some just shook their heads. We at this point were tip toeing through the frigid water.
Throughout the morning I kept an eye out for any manmade features that uncle Jim may have applied upon the banks. He would have been pleased to know that the Bronx River Parkway hummed with cars just a few dozen yards away and the river was definitely straight and hemmed in on both sides. Some of the shore was reinforced with mossy slate retaining walls and dotted with decades old culverts. This must of been the work of his era.
We saw other evidence of human activity along the shore and in the river. This secluded stretch of water that passed through these neighborhoods served its residents in different ways, all of which were more practical than whatever the hell we were doing. The river served as a dumpster (half submerged children's tricycle and bags of garbage), a setting for public sex encounters (used condoms discarded along the walkways under the bridges), a pharmacy (a floating half full pill bottle of Ambien). And the most poignant, an altar for prayer and solace (a rosary bead necklace placed carefully over a dollar bill by the water).
The one person who might have been able to tell us everything we needed to know about this river and its visitors was Tan Parka Man. We felt his eyes on us pretty early on. Eventually we spotted him standing still in the bushes. We later located him sitting on an overpass and then again under a bridge. He would just appear suddenly and then vanish. He tracked us until the fence that separated Bronx Park and the private New York Botanical Gardens. We waved to him and said hello. He remained silent and just escorted us to the border of his turf.
It took us two and half hours to travel about twenty blocks worth of the river. We spent most of that time walking the boat in the freezing water. Morale among my crew was slipping. Around 211th Street the river made a sharp "S" turn and the water became suddenly deeper. Our spirits lifted. It was going to be clear coasting from here on out I thought. And right on cue we heard the tear. A long and sustained one. It sounded really bad and we when started to take on water quickly, I knew we were screwed.
Amid the wilds of the Botanical Gardens, we pulled up on to the shore to empty the boat, let it dry and break out the duct tape. After some nourishment and the warmth of a couple grips from a flask, I applied a tape job to the torn canvas. A pretty pathetic one. As soon as we set the boat back in the river, the water poured in undeterred through the hull. We were not going to arrive at our destination of the East River. Any further downstream and we would have been have been stuck in the South Bronx where the river transforms into a walled canal with few places for us to bail out. Uncle Jim would have deemed my lack of conviction to be pussy and quitter-like, but this trip was going to end right here at a some well maintained stairs.
We pulled the boat out and carried it right into the well manicured grounds of the Botanical Gardens. Trolley busses filled with visitors whirred by with a recorded descriptions of pretty plants. I trekked off in my wet boots to find a lift to my car. My friends did not have to wait very long for me to return to the gardens. I just jumped in my car and sped two exits down the Bronx River Parkway.
