Highway 23 in Sussex County, northeast New Jersey, is a steady, weaving climb from the Delaware River to the highest point in the state at 1,800-odd feet. This is the kind of road our diesel Mercedes is built for--the massive compression and torque just pushed the car up the incline. I kept pulling down the rear view mirror to smile at and talk to my 18-month old son Owen, who was strapped into his car seat, happily yammering to himself. The roads were slick, and fog drifted between the trees, revealing lush meadows and marshy clearings where birds took flight into the mist. We were heading for High Point State Park, a place I hadn't visited since 1975, when I was nine years old. That's when this picture was taken. I'm at far left, with my brother Mike and my mother. My father, with the camera, had worked at the state park when he had joined the Civilian Conservation Corps in the early 1940s, but not on the construction of the monument, as family lore recalls. He was on a crew that improved the park or built some of the massive granite walls that weave through the park, because he would have been only five years old when the monument was finished in 1930. The park, incidentally, was designed by the Olmstead Brothers, sons of Central Park-designer Frederick Law Olmstead, and who left a string of beautiful public parks in their own wake, notably Druid Hill Park in Baltimore.My father was probably between 16 and 18 when he was here--so that put it at, say, 1941-43. Nearly thirty years later, he was one of the hundreds, if not thousands, of men who labored on another sky-reaching monument across the state, on the other side of the Hudson River: The World Trade Center.
"Owen, we're going to go for a walk," I called back to my son, reassuring him we'd be out of the car soon. The poor guy has been sitting in that car seat too much in the past 24 hours. He'd been fine so far, and yesterday, when my wife, Owen and I took the five hour trip up from Baltimore to visit her friend Kelly and her husband Dustin in Glen Spey, N.Y., he was a real champ. "Looks like the park entrance is just ahead," I told him, as if he understood. I just assume that he does, and therefore, eventually will.
No park rangers sat in the gatehouse--I slowed and paused just in case someone showed up I could give my $5 to in exchange for a map or a suggestion. Nobody. It's the fog and the rain. I kept driving. No cars, no people anywhere. The park road passed a small beach area, and bore to the left, climbing. The monument is at the highest point in the state, so I was headed in the right direction. Still I passed no one. No cars, anywhere. I finally reached the end of the road, a concession stand ahead and a parking lot to the right. The fog was thick, and waves of mist rolled across the empty pavement. It was raining steadily, but a light, intermittent wiper kind of rain. I drove all the way to the back, looking for the road that would lead us to the monument, but all I saw was a small wooden sign, "Monument Trail." Ah, this must be it, I figured.
I parked, pulled out the child carrier/backpack from the trunk, and opened the back door to get Owen out of his seat. I placed him in the carrier, and put on my orange poncho. The rain was as light, but it was steady enough for rain gear. I inserted the rain cover in his carrier, and pulled him up on my back. He was strapped in. Ready for the trail.The trail was narrow, cutting along a ridge that would have breathtaking views if the sky weren't thick with fog. I could imagine how beautiful it really was, but this walk had a simple, primal beauty. It felt prehistoric, with fog on all around us, trees limbs overhanging the trail and ferns and rocks underfoot. I kept pointing out rocks to Owen--rocks are one of his fascinations now--and taking care not to slip. As I trudged through the pools of rainwater, looking around at the lush canopy overhead and along our way, I thought my father must have spent lots of time walking through these same woods, perhaps even right here. The trail, as I found out later, was built by the CCC. The trip our family took here in 1975--which included drives to Lake Wallenpaupack in Pennsylvania, Skyline Drive in Viriginia, and nearby Luray Caverns--was one of the annual summer drives our family took when Mike and I were out of school for the summer. We often camped, but I think that year we stayed in motels. I remember my dad piloting our massive light blue '72 Mercury Montego up these same kind of hilly country roads, Mike and I occasionally forcing him to pull over for us to void our guts on the side of the highway. I think they both smoked then, too, so the combination of the gyrating roads, the stale cigarette air, and sticky dark blue vinyl was enough to upset any little kid's stomach. I recently found a box of slides from that trip, and frankly my brother and I don't look too happy in many of the pictures. Dark rings under our eyes, perpetual scowls, and I can imagine us never being in the mood to venture out at these stops. Plus my parents argued a lot. And my dad had a bit of road rage tendency that made for some harrowing mano-a-manos on the interstate.
Still I have lots of great memories from these trips, and our High Point trip in particular. I don't remember the moments in that box of slides, as much as they captured the weary mood. I do remember the terror of climbing the stairs inside that monument, and thinking that I didn't trust those steel bolts that held the stairwell to the inside of the monuments stone exoskeleton, as the whole thing shook under the shifting weight of climbers above and below us. My father stayed at the entrance. He had a heart condition, as they used to call it. Bypass surgeries, high blood pressure, heart attacks, all that. So Mike, Mom and I climbed to the top. I think. I can imagine getting up a few flights and saying, "ok, enough," so terrified of heights I was, and still am (though much less so).
It was something of a rite of passage. Visiting the monument of his youth, a bygone New Jersey place and something mystical for a family who now lived in Florida. It was when Dad was young, when Dad worked. When Dad built things. Or, actually, when he began building things--things with stone, brick, cinder block, plaster. A time when he felt a whole hell of a lot better about himself, when he wasn't broken by heart attacks and humiliated by drawing Social Security checks and reduced to building concrete walls in our front yard to keep himself from going mad. There was no more work for him, only what he remembered, houses he built on sheaves of notebook paper, and small projects around the house. Before he died at 55, he could look back on a past of building things, and High Point State Park was one of those holy places where the man was himself built.
Owen and I kept climbing the trail along the ridge, and around every turn I kept expecting the looming obelisk of the monument. I wondered if I could even see it, so thick was the fog. About 20 minutes or so up the trail, my senses got the better of me. No way would one of New Jersey's most important places be accessible from a tiny hiking trail. Then it hit me--I could use my iPhone to find the monument, get us on the right trail. The map application found us right away--must have decent cell reception here. I zoomed out a bit from the map, and right away saw the monument casting a long shadow the moment the satellite took the photo on a bright clear day. We were headed in exactly the opposite direction. The monument was on the opposite end of the parking lot--when we turned right, the monument was directly at our left. I hadn't seen it. The fog was that thick. Then I remembered the photo above. How could I miss this massive thing? We headed back, and at the trail head I strained to see the monument. Nothing.
We walked across the empty parking lot, and I kept peering up to see the monument. Still nothing. As we approached the shuttered concession stand the form of the obelisk appeared. A dark smeary smudge of charcoal on gray paper. My heart beat faster, and I yelled to my son strapped high on my back, "there it is!" We climbed the road to the monument, the one you see in the picture, and the it emerged from the waves of misty fog. I thought this was too unbelievable to be true--the stone rising from the earth, powerful and permanent, my father's presence dimmed only by the layers of thick fog the years have poured across it. It was a metaphor taken shape. Yet here I was, giddy, my own son with me, as I walked up to the war monument. Same steps. Same brass plaques. Same vista, whether the fierce blue sky exposed all things on all sides, or whether a cloud had settled on the mountain, hiding everything.
"There it is, Owen," I said as I craned to see the top of the obelisk. The rain started to come down harder, so I backed off, turning down the steps I ran up and down 34 years ago. With my road-weary son in tow, I tried to find a point where I could capture the monument in full. I walked to the bottom of the road, and stood not far from where my father stood years ago, and snapped this shot. I spared him the agony of posing him in front of it, satisfied with the moment of connection over the years, and headed back to the car.
Still I have lots of great memories from these trips, and our High Point trip in particular. I don't remember the moments in that box of slides, as much as they captured the weary mood. I do remember the terror of climbing the stairs inside that monument, and thinking that I didn't trust those steel bolts that held the stairwell to the inside of the monuments stone exoskeleton, as the whole thing shook under the shifting weight of climbers above and below us. My father stayed at the entrance. He had a heart condition, as they used to call it. Bypass surgeries, high blood pressure, heart attacks, all that. So Mike, Mom and I climbed to the top. I think. I can imagine getting up a few flights and saying, "ok, enough," so terrified of heights I was, and still am (though much less so).
It was something of a rite of passage. Visiting the monument of his youth, a bygone New Jersey place and something mystical for a family who now lived in Florida. It was when Dad was young, when Dad worked. When Dad built things. Or, actually, when he began building things--things with stone, brick, cinder block, plaster. A time when he felt a whole hell of a lot better about himself, when he wasn't broken by heart attacks and humiliated by drawing Social Security checks and reduced to building concrete walls in our front yard to keep himself from going mad. There was no more work for him, only what he remembered, houses he built on sheaves of notebook paper, and small projects around the house. Before he died at 55, he could look back on a past of building things, and High Point State Park was one of those holy places where the man was himself built.
Owen and I kept climbing the trail along the ridge, and around every turn I kept expecting the looming obelisk of the monument. I wondered if I could even see it, so thick was the fog. About 20 minutes or so up the trail, my senses got the better of me. No way would one of New Jersey's most important places be accessible from a tiny hiking trail. Then it hit me--I could use my iPhone to find the monument, get us on the right trail. The map application found us right away--must have decent cell reception here. I zoomed out a bit from the map, and right away saw the monument casting a long shadow the moment the satellite took the photo on a bright clear day. We were headed in exactly the opposite direction. The monument was on the opposite end of the parking lot--when we turned right, the monument was directly at our left. I hadn't seen it. The fog was that thick. Then I remembered the photo above. How could I miss this massive thing? We headed back, and at the trail head I strained to see the monument. Nothing.
We walked across the empty parking lot, and I kept peering up to see the monument. Still nothing. As we approached the shuttered concession stand the form of the obelisk appeared. A dark smeary smudge of charcoal on gray paper. My heart beat faster, and I yelled to my son strapped high on my back, "there it is!" We climbed the road to the monument, the one you see in the picture, and the it emerged from the waves of misty fog. I thought this was too unbelievable to be true--the stone rising from the earth, powerful and permanent, my father's presence dimmed only by the layers of thick fog the years have poured across it. It was a metaphor taken shape. Yet here I was, giddy, my own son with me, as I walked up to the war monument. Same steps. Same brass plaques. Same vista, whether the fierce blue sky exposed all things on all sides, or whether a cloud had settled on the mountain, hiding everything.
"There it is, Owen," I said as I craned to see the top of the obelisk. The rain started to come down harder, so I backed off, turning down the steps I ran up and down 34 years ago. With my road-weary son in tow, I tried to find a point where I could capture the monument in full. I walked to the bottom of the road, and stood not far from where my father stood years ago, and snapped this shot. I spared him the agony of posing him in front of it, satisfied with the moment of connection over the years, and headed back to the car.
No comments:
Post a Comment