On Saturday, May 19, 1928, in the early afternoon of a beautiful spring day, a collision occurred off Rondout Lighthouse between the ferryboat “Transport” and the steamer “Benjamin B. Odell” of the Central Hudson Line.
           
At the time, I was deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line, helping to get her ready for the new season after her winter lay up at the Sunflower Dock at Sleightsburgh. On Saturdays, we knocked off work at 11:30 a.m. As I rowed up the creek in my rowboat to go home, the big “Odell” was still at her dock at the foot of Hasbrouck Avenue at Rondout.
           
At 12:25 p.m. the “Odell” blew the customary three long melodious blasts on her big whistle, high on her stack, as the signal she was ready to depart.
           
At home, eating lunch, I heard her blow one short blast promptly at 12:30 p.m. as the signal to cast off her stern line.

From the Porch
Following a habit of mine from a young boy, I went out on our front porch to watch her glide down the creek at a very slow pace past the Cornell shops, Donovan’s and Feeney’s boat yards, and the freshly painter [sic] “Albany.”  The “Odell” looked to me like a great white bird slowly passing down the creek. At the time, I thought how in less than two weeks we would probably pass her on the “Albany” on the lower Hudson on Decoration Day, both steamers loaded with happy excursionists on the first big holiday of the new season.
           
As the “Odell” passed Gill’s dock at Ponckhockie, I went back in the house to finish lunch. A few minutes later I heard the “Odell” blow one blast on her whistle, which was answered by the “Transport” on her way over to Rhinecliff, indicating a port to port passing. Hearing steam whistles so often in the long ago day along Rondout Creek was something one took for granted, assuming they would be heard forever. Then I heard the danger signal on the whistle of the “Transport” followed by three short blasts from the “Odell’s” whistle, indicating her engine was going full speed astern. Shortly thereafter, I could hear the “Transport” blowing the five whistle signal of the Cornell Steamboat Company of 2 short, 2 short, 1 short, meaning we need help immediately.
           
I ran down to my rowboat tied up at the old Baisden shipyard, and looked down the creek. I could see the “Transport” limping in the creek very slowly, her bow down in the water, and her whistle blowing continuously for help. I also noticed several automobiles on her deck.
           
Looking over the old D. & H. canal boats that were deteriorating on the Sleightsburgh flats, I could see the top of the “Odell” stopped out in the river. After a few minutes, she slowly got underway and proceeded on down the river, her big black stack belching smoke, so I figured she was not hurt. 
​

Decision to Beach
           
As the “Transport” approached the Cornell coal pocket, her captain, Rol Saulpaugh, decided to beach her on the Sleightsburgh shore. Nelson Sleight, a member of her crew, asked me to run a line over to the dock a the shipyard in the event she started to slide off the bank.
           
I took the line and ran it from where the “Transport” grounded to the dock. In the meantime, the Cornell tugboat “Rob” came down the creek, from where she had been lying at the rear of the Cornell office at the foot of Broadway, and pushed the ferry a little higher on the bank.
           
After taking the line ashore, I went back and asked if there was anything else I could do. Captain Saulpaugh asked me if I would row up to the ferry slip and get Joseph Butler, the ferry superintendent, and bring him over to the “Transport,” which I did. On the way over, Butler told me he had already called the Poughkeepsie and Highland Ferry Company to see if he could get one of its ferries to run in the “Transport’s” place. The afternoon about 5 p.m., the Poughkeepsie ferryboat “Brinckerhoff” arrived in the creek and began running on the Rhinecliff route.
           
When we got back to the “Transport,” mattresses and blankets had been stuffed in the hole the “Odell” had slicked in the over-hanging guard and part of the hull. When she was patched, the “Transport,” with the “Rob’s” help, backed off the mud and entered the Roundout slip stern first - and the cars on deck were backed off. Then, the “Rob” assisted the ferry to make her way up to the C. Hiltebrandt shipyard at Connelley for repairs. There she was placed in drydock, the damage repaired, and in a week she was back in service on her old run.

A Flood Tide
           
The cause of the mishap at the mouth of the creek was a combination of a strong flood tide, a south wind and a large tow. Out in the river, the big tugboat “Osceola” of the Cornell Steamboat Company was headed down river with a large tow.
           
She had just come down the East Kingston channel and at that moment was directly off the Rondout Lighthouse. When there is a strong flood tide, there is a very strong eddy at the mouth of the creek. The tide,  helped by a south wind, sets up strong and when it hits the south dike, it forms a half moon about 75-100 feet out from the south dike and then starts to set down.
           
As the “Odell” was leaving the creek and entering the river, the “Transport” was passing ahead of the tow, around the bow of the “Osceola.” The “Transport” probably hit the eddy caused by the flood tide. In any event, she didn’t answer her right rudder and took a dive right into the path of the “Odell.”  The “Odell” couldn’t stop in time and cut into the forward end of the ferry about 6 or 8 feet. No one was hurt and there was no confusion on either boat. The “transport” bore the brunt of the bout; the only damage to the “Odell” being some scratched paint on her bow.
           
I heard later from the Dan McDonald, pilot on the “Osceola,” that there would be the lawsuit as a result of the collision - and he had been served with a subpoena to appear as a witness. He never had to appear, however, as Captain Greenwood of the “Odell” later told me the case was settled out of court.

The next year the Central Hudson Line, because of the inroads made by the automobile, went out of business. The “Benjamin B. Odell”, however, continued to run on the river for another company until February 1937 when she was destroyed by fire in winter lay up at Marlboro. The “Transport” continued running on the Rhinecliff ferry route until September 1938 when she was withdrawn from service. She was later cut down and made into a stake boat for the Cornell Steamship Company for use in New York harbor. 
​

Piermont, NY was once the terminus of the longest railroad in the world - the Erie Railroad. Hampered by rules about railroads crossing state lines, the Erie RR built a pier nearly a mile long across the marshy bay at Piermont and out to the deeper parts of the Hudson River, where steamboats could pick up passengers and take them on to New York City. 

To learn more about the fascinating history of the pier, check out this short video produced by the Lamont Doherty Earth Observatory, whose Hudson River Field Station is located in Piermont. 

You can learn more about the history of Piermont Pier, especially its role in World War II from the Piermont Historical Society. 

Some of the older portions of the pier were also historical hazards, as the Tugboat "Osceola" found out in 1903.

​If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!

Today's Media Monday is a great story about being stranded on the Newburgh Beacon Ferry! When the weather gets colder, most boat traffic on the Hudson River ceases, except for commercial traffic in the shipping channel, which today is kept open by Coast Guard icebreakers. 

​Most historic boat traffic on the Hudson River was seasonal, too, mostly because the Coast Guard icebreakers are a 20th century invention. Because they traveled the same space frequently, most ferries tried to stay in service as long as possible in the days before bridges, and they were often the last vessels on the river each year. But it didn't always work out so well! Listen below for the full tale.

Brief summary: In the early 1950's, the Ferry got stuck in the ice on its 11:30 PM return trip to Beacon. Betty Carey remembers the story of one passenger who was stranded on the boat until rescued the next morning.

Have you ever gotten stranded because of snow or ice? 

If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!​

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published October 15, 1972.

Of all the steam propelled vessels that have floated upon the waters of Rondout Creek, probably the one that was best known locally in her day was the ungainly little ferry boat that used to cross the creek from the foot of Hasbrouck Avenue to Sleightsburgh. Known throughout the area as the “Skillypot,” she made her last trip from Rondout to Sleightsburgh on Oct. 14, 1922 — exactly 50 years ago yesterday.

“Skillypot” - reportedly a corruption of the Dutch word for tortoise — wasn't even her right name. It was the “Riverside,” a name that many would-be patrons often changed to where she usually was found - the “Otherside.” She may not have been loved as was the “Mary Powell” or admired as were many other steamboats, but she certainly was well known, and almost universally as the “Skillypot.”

Her fame on both sides of Rondout Creek rested securely until the opening of the 9-W highway suspension bridge in 1921 - the only way in her latter years to get across the creek, unless of course one owned or rented a rowboat or wanted to walk to Eddyville. She played an important part in the daily lives of many area residents, especially when the Rondout section of Kingston was important to the business and social life of the community. 

Wherever there has been a natural barrier such as a river or a creek, people it seems have always wanted to get to the other side. 

A Scow Was First
At Rondout, the first recorded vessel to regularly cross the creek was a small scow that was sculled across by hand from Sleightsburgh and could carry one wagon and a team of horses. This means of transportation existed until the spring of 1855 when the small steam ferryboat “J. P. Sleight” made her appearance. 

Built by the sons of John P. Sleight and named for their father, the new ferryboat had two slide valve steam engines connected by cog wheels to two large steel drums. The drums were connected to a chain which was secured to both sides of the creek, a distance of about 440 feet. The drums would rotate and pull the ferry back and forth across the creek on the chain. The chain was of sufficient length to rest on the creek bottom except where it passed around the drums. 

In March 1870, a severe freshet caused by melting snow and rain caused the ice in the upper creek to let go. The ice coming down the creek carried the “J. P. Sleight” right along with it. At the mouth of the creek, the “Sleight” smashed into the lighthouse that then stood on the south dike. Mrs. Murdock, the keeper of the light, caught a line from the ferry, but it parted and away went the “J. P. Sleight," drifting with the ice floes down the river. 

In a few hours, the Cornell ice breaking towboat “Norwich” got underway and, breaking her way through the heavy ice fields off Esopus Meadows lighthouse, spotted the “J. P. Sleight” in another ice field down off Esopus Island. The “Norwich” brought the “Sleight” back to Port Ewen, where it was found her light hull had been damaged beyond repair. Her owners decided to build a new ferryboat which became the “Riverside.”

Contract to Washburn
Abraham and Isaac Sleight gave a contract for the new ferryboat to Hiram and John Washburn. When she was launched, the “Riverside” measured 55 feet long and 20 feet wide. Her engines came from the old “J. P Sleight" and were installed by John Dillon of Rondout. 

The new “Riverside” was a success from the start. Upon the death of Isaac Sleight, ownership of the ferry passed to Herbert A. Starkey, and then in 1903 to Albert Norris who operated her until 1906 when Josiah Hasbrouck became the owner. It is not known at what, point in time the “Riverside” became better known as the latter name by which she was known far and wide in Ulster County. 

As time went by and the automobile came along, new highways were being built along the banks of the Hudson. It soon became evident a bridge was badly needed across Rondout Creek. As a matter of fact, it was long overdue. After World War I on summer weekends, automobiles would be lined up on the Sleightsburgh side almost to the middle of Port Ewen and on the Kingston side to the top of Hasbrouck Avenue. Then, the “Riverside” really was a “Skillypot."

On summer weekends when automobiles were backed up on both sides of the creek, enterprising Sleightsburgh boys would earn money by showing unknowing motorists how to get across the creek by going across the bridge at Eddyville.

​Pilots for a Fee
For a fee, they would get in a waiting car and “pilot” the motorist through New Salem and Eddyville to Rondout. There, they would reverse the process by taking a motorist from Hasbrouck Avenue through Eddyville to Port Ewen. 

At times in some winters the “Skillypot” would be the only steamboat in operation on the upper Hudson. To keep her operating, men would cut a channel through the ice using ice saws and pike poles to shove the cakes of ice under the solid ice or, if it seemed easier, pull them up on top of the ice. During the summer, when the ferry “Transport” would come over from Rhinecliff, the swells from her paddle wheels would carry up the creek. Then how the “Skillypot“ would rock back and forth sideways and cause concern to some of the passengers. 

The “Skillypot” always made her last trip of the day at 10:30 p.m. She would land at her Sleightsburgh slip and blow one blast on her small, clear, shrill whistle, signifying her toils were over for that day. Then if people still wanted to get across the creek, they would have to take a small scow, sculled by a single oar by Lyman Perrine.

Finally, the long awaited day came when the new bridge was open to traffic. The “Skillypot” still continued to operate for a period, but foot passengers even took to walking over the new bridge to save the two cents fare. So on Saturday night, Oct. 14, 1922, a Saturday then as it was this year — the “Skillypot” at 10:30 p.m. blew her final one long shrill whistle. As the echo died, so did she “Riverside.”

The ferry crossing between Newburgh, NY and Beacon, NY was one of the longest running on the Hudson River. Three ferries served the crossing in later years, the "Orange," the "Beacon," and the "Dutchess." The Newburgh-Beacon Bridge would not be built until 1963, so the ferries were the only way passengers and automobilists could cross the river between the two cities. Two of the ferries would be in service, one for each city and passing each other in the middle, with a third ferry kept in reserve. The ferries would rotate duties. 

After the success of the construction of the Bear Mountain Bridge in 1924, the state pursued the construction of other Hudson River bridges, including between Newburgh and Beacon. In anticipation of the bridge construction, the New York Bridge Authority purchased the ferry company in 1956 and operated the ferry service under the Bridge Authority name until the bridge was complete. The original two-lane span of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge opened to the public on November 2, 1963. At the end of the day on November 3, 1963, the ferries were removed from service - the last Hudson River commuter ferries in operation north of New York City were now gone.

For this Media Monday, we revisit some of the stories and sounds from the Newburgh-Beacon Ferry, recorded by the Sound and Story Project. 

​From horse powered ferries to steam boats, the Newburgh-Beacon Ferry is believed to be one of the oldest running ferries in the United States dating back to 1743. John Fasulo gives an overview of the the ferry's 250 year old history beginning with the ferrying of settlers by the Indians.

On November 3, 1963 the Newburgh-Beacon bridge opened and the ferry made its last Hudson River crossing. Mary McTamaney recalls her final trip on the historic ferry.

​On September 3, 1963 Conrad recorded the Hudson River Day Line Alexander Hamilton and the Newburgh Beacon Ferry as they passed each other and exchanged salutes. This was the last trip of the season for the Alexander Hamilton and the Newburgh Beacon ferry would soon cease to run.

In 2005, the Newburgh-Beacon ferry was revived, and now serves passenger commuter traffic between Newburgh, NY and the Metro North train station in Beacon, NY. 

If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!​

On Saturday we featured a historic wooden sign from the Newburgh Ferry Terminal. Today, for Media Monday, we're sharing some stories from the ferry.

This first story, from the Sound & Story Project, tells of what happened when the ferry encountered some ice.

To hear what the ferry might have sounded like traveling through the ice, check out this historic recording from Conrad Milster, who recorded the ferry Dutchess​ traveling through the ice. 

The Newburgh-Beacon ferry ceased operation in 1963 with the opening of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge, but was revived in 2006 as a commuter ferry for residents traveling to the Beacon train station. 

Have you ever traveled on the Newburgh-Beacon ferry, either the original or the new one? Tell us about your experiences in the comments!

The History Blog is supported by museum members and readers like you! Help keep these articles free and available to everyone. Donate or join today!

Today's Featured Artifact is this sign from the Newburgh Ferry terminal. Reading "Ferry Entrance - Pay Toll Here" with a red arrow in a red frame, this striking sign was designed to show the way for vehicles to drive onto the ferry. 

Although it is unclear when exactly the sign was created, you can see it in this photo of the Newburgh Ferry Terminal, c. 1957. The sign is on the toll booth in the lower right-hand corner. The Newburgh-Beacon Ferry departs in the background. If you look closely, you can see the words "New York State Bridge Authority" on the side of the ferry, and the name of the ferry on the pilot house - the Beacon. The Bridge Authority had purchased the ferry service in preparation for the construction of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge and operated three car ferries - the Beacon, the Orange, and the Dutchess.​

Here is a zoomed in shot of the same photo, where you can see the sign more clearly. 

The Newburgh-Beacon ferry continued to operate until November 3, 1963, when the ferry service was ceased following the opening of the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. The ferries themselves were scrapped over a series of years, and the Newburgh Ferry Terminal, which dated back to 1899, was demolished with Urban Renewal in the 1970s.

If you'd like to see the "Ferry Entrance" sign in person, come and visit it at the museum! It is on display in the East Gallery.

​The History Blog is supported by museum members and readers like you! Help keep these articles free and available to everyone. Donate or join today!

Editor's Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article written by George W. Murdock, for the Kingston (NY) Daily Freeman newspaper in the 1930s. Murdock, a veteran marine engineer, wrote a regular column. Articles transcribed by HRMM volunteer Adam Kaplan. 

No. 72- Air Line

Today we delve into the archives of Mr. Murdock’s steamboat collection to learn of the history of a ferryboat which ceased operating between Saugerties and Tivoli just 23 years ago. Many of our readers will well remember this vessel as she was somewhat of a curiosity as far as her type was concerned.

The “Air Line” was a wooden hull vessel built at Philadelphia in 1857. She was 73 feet long, breadth of beam 20 feet, depth of hold six feet, five inches, gross tonnage 71, net tonnage 52, and she was powered with a vertical engine.

Originally this odd ferryboat was constructed for the Air Line Railroad Company of Pennsylvania and was one of the first of the walking beam type ferryboats ever constructed in this country. Her great bar walking beam coupled with the fact that she had only one bow instead of the customary two which are the rule for ferryboats, labeled the “Air Line” as a distinct curiosity.

The “Air Line” also holds a doubtful record of having made the trip from Philadelphia to Sandy Hook via the Atlantic Ocean; her owner refusing to pay toll charges to the New Jersey canals.

A photograph in the Murdock collection shows the “Air Line” with her one bow, long narrow alleyways separated by the engine house down the center of the vessel. An octagon-shaped pilot house stands atop the engine house with the great bar walking beam directly behind and a high smokestack rising from the middle of the steamboat. Lifeboats were mounted on the roofs of the side cabins.

John N. Snyder operated the “Air Line” when she plied the waters of the Hudson river between Saugerties and Tivoli, and because of her single bow, the vessel had to be turned completely after each crossing. For this reason the fare on the “Air Line” was the largest charged on any ferryboat on the Hudson river - a situation which would make a New Jersey commuter rise up in wrath if he had to pay the of 25 cents each time he crossed the river.

​The “Air Line” served the public between the two upriver towns for almost 58 years, continuing in service until 1915, when she was deemed worn out and sold to John Fisher, who took her to Rondout and dismantled her.

Editor's Note: This article is from the November 7, 1891 issue of Harper's Weekly. The tone of the article reflects the time period in which it was written. ​

                          "Getting on Top of the Palisades by Jno. Gilmer Speed
The largest elevators for carrying passengers in the world have just been completed on the banks of the Hudson, near Weehawken. The high table-land in New Jersey, opposite New York city, and between the Hudson River and the Hackensack, has up to this time not been used as generally for purposes of pleasure and residence as it should have been. This elevated plain, known as the Palisades, is at its beginning some one hundred and fifty feet above high tide, and is over a mile wide at the same point. It stretches north for many miles up the Hudson River, and naturally rises in elevation as it proceeds. This high land has been accessible only by steep grades for wagon roads, and by means of stairways which climbed laboriously up the steep cliff. The Hudson County Railway Company, which operates the elevated road at Hoboken and controls many of the street car lines in that neighborhood, has of late years been extending these lines, and increasing the facilities for getting on top of the Palisades, and from one part of this high plateau to another. The most recent addition to the plant of this company has been the building of huge elevators at Weehawken, where the ferry-boats from Forty-second Street and Jay Street, New York city, discharge their passengers, and where also the West Shore Railway starts north and west to Albany and Buffalo. These elevators are the largest ever constructed for passengers, and in planning them the engineers have adopted new devices to secure their safety against accidents. From the elevators, which rise just from the water’s edge, there is an immense viaduct or elevated railroad which runs some eight hundred feet back to the hill, where connections will be made with the various steam and horse cars which will run in one direction and another.

In crossing the Hudson River from New York the stilt-like structure for the elevators and railroad cars looks frail and delicate, and suggest more a spider’s web than a very stable and solid structure capable of carrying immense weights and moving loads, and still having a surplus strength very much beyond the weight which could ever be placed upon it. At a distance one cannot fail to have the feeling that the structure is too light and insecure to ever do any very heavy or continuous work. This feeling is very much the same that one experiences in looking from a distance at the high curve on the New York Ninth Avenue elevated road above the Central Park. Arrived at Weehawken, however, and standing under the structure, the veriest novice in bridge-building cannot fail to be impressed with the strength and solidity of these steel piers and trusses. They do not look light now, but seem entirely sufficient to do the Titan’s work for which they were designed. What this work is may be gathered from the fact that in every hour six thousand persons can be taken each way, up and down the elevators and to and fro across the viaduct, which is 153 feet above the water. Elevators have never before been asked to do such work as this.
The elevator tower has been made for three cars, each of which will hold one hundred and thirty-five persons. They run independent of each other, and all can be going either up or down at the same time, or variously, as desired. The doors are almost as wide as the cars, and the conductor with a simple device opens and closes both doors at once. On one side the passengers are discharged, and they enter from the other end; therefore, when there is a rush of travel, the cars will empty and fill at the same moment. The elevators are designed to have a speed of 400 feet a minute, but it is not proposed to run them faster than 200 feet a minute. At this rate each elevator will take up the 153 feet from the water’s edge to the viaduct 135 persons in 45 seconds, and it is estimated that in 30 seconds more the passengers can be discharged and a new load taken on. For the ordinary traffic there would be no need for such quick work or so large a capacity as this, but within a short time places of amusement and a race-track have been started near Weehawken.  To these places and from them great and impatient crowds come and leave at the same hour, and it is necessary to handle a whole boat or train load at once.

The power to run the elevators is hydraulic, the water being stored in compressed tanks under a pressure of 190 pounds per square inch by means of two compound condensing Worthington pumps of about 85-horse power each. Only two of these boilers, however, will be used at once, and the third will be held in reserve. The same firm which built the lifts in the Eiffel Tower has designed and constructed these enormous elevators.  F.E. Brown, Jun., of the Otis Company, designed the whole elevator plant, the engineer in charge in both instances being Mr. Joseph R. Furman, of the same company. Mr. Furman is a young man, not yet twenty-seven, and has justified the responsibility intrusted to him most admirably.

The most important feature in the construction of an elevator is the device for stopping it in case of an accident. In nearly all of the modern elevators these devices have been made to act automatically, so that nothing need depend upon the skill, courage, or presence of mind of the conductor. Were this not so, it would test the courage of any man to trust himself to the careless men in charge of the elevators in the large office buildings, the architects of which usually specify that the elevators shall have a speed of 700 feet per minute. It is true that none of them goes so fast as this, for the reason that it would be impossible for the conductors to stop accurately at the several floors to discharge or take on passengers. But it is pleasant to know that even though a conductor should lose his head, or the car break loose from its ropes, it would be stopped by the devices now in general use, and no one would be hurt. The testing of these devices is therefore most important, and the test applied by the builders to these huge cars which are to lift people to a level with the top of the Palisades was watched with interest by all concerned. The apparatus for testing consisted of a heavy timber trestle supporting the guide strips, between which a temporary cage loaded with 84,000 pounds of cast iron – equivalent to the weight of the cars and their load of people – was suspended on a trip lever, the support of which could be disengaged by pulling on a light line. The safety grips, which were the actual ones to be used in the permanent elevators, were placed under the cage, one on each side, in their proper position with relation to the guide strips. From each safety grip a light line, representing the governor ropes to be used on the elevators, was carried to and attached to the cross-head of the timber trestle.

At the signal the lanyard was pulled and the cage with its load released. It dropped freely about two inches, when the safety engaged with the guide strips, and after a further slide of one and three-quarter inches came to rest without shock. Then another test was made with 2000 pounds more of iron added, and the result was substantially the same. Then came a third test, for the personal satisfaction of the engineers who had designed the safety device. With a load of 36,000 pounds they let the car fall ten inches before the safeties were applied, and on this occasion the car dropped only eighteen inches. This was eminently satisfactory to them, as had also been the other tests.

The guide strips are of yellow pine, six inches by eight inches, built up in three pieces of two and two-thirds by six inches, strongly spiked together, and are secured to the latticed channel iron posts of the elevator tower by three-quarter-inch bolts spaced about fourteen-inch centres; the heads of these bolts are countersunk in the faces of the guide strips, so as to leave a smooth guiding surface. The safety grips consist of forgings with a rectangular notch surrounding the guide strip, the edges of the notch being beveled to form cutting edges. Below the main forging is bolted a plate with a similar notch, but having toothed edges, the whole swinging on a centre so placed that when the safety is in normal position the toothed and chisel edges are well clear of the guide strips, but when swung outward they engage and cut into the guide strip on its face and two sides. The test on the Eiffel Tower elevators loaded with 32,000 pounds was very gratifying to the French engineers. On the first elevator, when the ropes were cut, the car fell twelve feet. On the second car, when the safeties had been readjusted, and the same weight put on, the fall was only eight inches.

The largest elevator in use in New York city is that in the tower of the Produce Exchange. This will carry fifty persons.  This was also the capacity of the cars in the Eiffel Tower. It will be seen, therefore, that each of these new elevators to the top of the Palisades has a capacity more than two and half times greater than those which were popularly heretofore thought to be quite as large as lifts could be safely constructed. The Weehawken structure will be finished and thrown open about the middle of November. It will be interesting to see how easily large numbers of people can be taken up and down in this manner, for in the plans now under advisement for giving rapid transit to New York city by means of deep underground roads, the elevator for raising and lowering passengers is a very important feature of the scheme."

Read about the current status of the elevator here.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published November 4, 1973.

Now that the early morning fogs of autumn and the duck hunting season are both with us, I recall an incident in my youth when I went duck hunting and got lost in the fog.
 
One time in my late teens in October 1927, I went down to the flats at Sleightsburgh to hunt ducks. When I got down on the shore to get my duck boat it was about 3:30 a.m., still very dark and with a heavy autumn fog. I could hear ducks quacking out around the old Rondout lighthouse, which still stood along the south dike of Rondout Creek quite a ways in from the present Creek entrance.
 
I started out over the flats planning to follow the shore and then follow the dryed up purple loose leaf weeds to the area near the old lighthouse station. However, on my way out somehow or other I got a little too smart for my own good and lost sight of the shore line. It seemed that no matter in which direction I thought I rowed, I couldn’t find the shore. Even the ducks stopped quacking.
 
I kept on rowing, figuring I had to end up some place. In the distance, I could hear some steamboat blowing its whistle periodically with one long blast. I would stop and listen, thinking I would hear something on shoe. There wasn’t a sound through the murk except that steamboat whistle which kept getting closer and closer. Obviously, I had rowed out into the middle of the river and was either in or near the channel.
 
Shortly, I began to hear the thump, thump, thump – thump, thump, thump of the steamboat’s paddle wheels. I realized it was one of the Albany night boats. I wasn’t sure as to just what I should do for I certainly didn’t relish the thought of getting run down by the Albany night liner in the middle of the fog enshrouded Hudson. So I fired my shotgun into the air so I would have an empty shell to blow like a whistle. When I fired my gun, I could hear the thumping of the paddle wheels slow right down.
 
I suppose the pilots of the steamboat knew they were close to something, but didn’t know what. I kept blowing on my empty shell, and by the sound of the steamer’s whistle. I knew they were going by me. In a few moments I could feel the steamer’s waves going by me, so I knew the danger of getting run down was past. The fog was so thick I didn’t even see the vessel’s lights.
 
I still didn’t know which way to go, so I just sat still and drifted with the tide. After a while I could hear another steamboat blowing her fog signal. By the sound of her whistle, I recognized her as the freight steamer Storm King of the Catskill Evening Line. Her whistle, however, was quite a ways off so I knew there was no danger. About five minutes later, her little swells passed by me and I could hear both boats getting further away as they went on up river.
 
After daylight broke I was still drifting with the ebb tide. Finally I drifted into shore alongside the remains of the old towboat Norwich, which was being broken up at lower Port Ewen. That incident taught me a lesson – never try to go out in a fog without a compass. It can be a very lonely and unnerving experience.
 
Some years later in October of the middle 1930’s, I was pilot on the tugboat Lion of the Cornell Steamboat Company and coming down the upper Hudson with a good sized tow. It set in foggy at New Baltimore and the fog continued heavy all the way to Athens.
 
When opposite Coxsackie at about 8 a.m. the fog was particularly dense. All of a sudden I could hear people talking and a bell ringing out in the middle of the river. So I took the megaphone and asked what it was. The reply came back it was the Queen Mary.
 
Now, lest you think the former giant Cunarder of that name had sailed right by New York and somehow got to the upper Hudson, there was also a small diesel ferryboat – not much bigger than the old Skillypot – that carried the rather improbable name of Queen Mary. At that time, she was running back and forth between Coxsackie and Newton Hook.
 
After the ferryboat identified herself, the voice in the fog said they were anchored on the middle ground off Coxsackie. The voice further said. “Be careful. You are going up inside Coxsackie Island.”
 
Now, if I were to be going up inside Coxsackie Island I would have to be going in the opposite direction I was headed. I certainly knew my compass course was south and my whistle echoes were all in good order. It wasn’t me who was mixed up, it was the ferryboat. Obviously, anchored in the thick fog they had swung around with the tide and didn’t realize in what direction they were heading. I continued on and eventually ran out of the fog off Athens.
 
I often wondered who it could have been on that ferryboat who was so balled up in his directions he was 180 degrees off in the direction he thought he was headed. But, that’s the way one can easily find himself in heavy foggy weather. Intuition is no substitute for a good compass.