TERRIBLE EXPLOSION.
(From the Special Correspondent of the "New York Tribune.")
Newburgh, June 3, 1868.

Dwellers along the Hudson River for a distance of 30 miles north and south of
this city were startled at six o'clock this morning by the shaking of their houses, the
rattling of windows, and two distinct, heavy, rumbling reports. Many supposed that two
shocks of an earthquake had taken place, and rushed from their houses in excitement.
The cause of the excitement was the explosion of 10,000 pounds of powder, and the
blowing up of two powder mills, owned by Messrs. Smith and Rand, about four miles
west of this city, on the South Plank Road, leading to Walden, Orange County. A visit to
the spot revealed the following facts: The graining mill, where the first explosion
occurred, was a sort of double building, 20 by 16 feet, built of stone, with wooden sides
and one story high. It stood about one hundred feet from the main road, separated from
the latter by a clump of trees. In it at the time of the explosion was five tons of powder,
the most of it being in the grain. The glazing mill was situated across a dam, about one
hundred feet from the graining mill, and was about fifteen feet in diameter, octagonal in
form, and was in no way connected with the graining mill. In it at the time of the
explosion was about a ton of powder.

At exactly six o'clock this morning the graining mill blew up, the fire shooting with
great violence across the dam to the glazing mill, and in five seconds thereafter that
was also blown to fragments. The scene is described as being fearfully grand. The
foundation of the graining mill was scooped out as though with a shovel. Huge sticks of
timber were thrown through the air for a quarter of a mile, small trees were uprooted,
and hurled a long distance; while larger and older trees were entirely stripped of leaves
and branches; and their trunks blackened and charred. At the foot of trees numbers of
dead birds were found, having been instantly killed by the powerful shock. A large iron
shaft four inches in diameter, led from the graining mill to another building on the south
side of the road. It was seventy-five feet long. The end nearest to the building which
exploded was bent almost double; while a portion of the shaft fifteen feet long was
broken off and hurled over 400 yards from the scene. For more than a quarter of mile
the ground is strewn with the debris. Huge timbers, blackened and splintered with
powder, heavy and long limbs of trees, and in many instances whole trees, ragged and
torn, block the paths and roads leading to spot. A storage building on the south side of
the road, distant all of 150 yards from the graining mill, was badly shattered. It
contained three tons of powder in kegs. The large door at the main entrance was blown
off, the sides of the building crushed in, and the roof greatly damaged. Fortunately, the
powder in the building did not ignite.

Of course, as soon as the danger consequent upon the terrific explosion had
passed away, there was a rush to ascertain if anyone was killed. At the time of the
occurrence there, there was only one man in the graining-mill and none in the others.
His name was Adam Schosser [?], a German. He was employed as Messrs. Smith and 
Rand's service for several years, and was considered perfectly trust-worthy. He had
often asserted that he knew his business too well to be blown up. He was undoubtedly
blown high in air, some suppose 1000 feet. His head and shoulders were found at a
distance of 500-yards from the spot where the explosion occurred, mangled and torn
beyond recognition. An arm was found, lodged in the crutch of a tree, while for a
distance of a quarter of a mile pieces of flesh and parts of his limbs were found strewn
along the ground and hanging to limbs of trees. All the parts found were collected and
placed in a barrel. Coroner Thomas Bingham of Newburgh, who arrived soon after the
occurrence, empannelled a jury, and an inquest was held over about two-thirds of the
body, the jury returning a verdict in accordance with the facts.

The shock in this city was terrific. Houses were shaken to their foundation and in
many places windows were shattered. Standing in one of the streets and looking
toward the spot where the explosion occurred a huge column of smoke and dust was
seen to shoot upward fully 1000 feet into the heavens, presenting a scene grand
beyond description. A vast ring of smoke whirled far up and gradually widening in area,
was a sight never witnessed before in this vicinity. The concussion started persons who
were thus slumbering, in many cases arose trembling and anxious to know the cause.
For a distance of ten miles back, on the opposite side of the river, the explosion was
distinctly heard, while West Point, Peekskill, Sing Sing and Poughkeepsie the report
was also noticed. Three years ago a similar explosion took place at the same spot;
when one man was killed. Had the explosion of this morning occurred one hour later,
the loss of life would have been fearful, as at 7 a.m. the twenty men employed at the
works commence labor, when, in all probability, every one of them would have been
blown to pieces.-"Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser" (Queensland, Australia.), September 22, 1868

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? 

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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. 

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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.

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Need a break from the snow and cold? Take a virtual tour of the Hudson River in 1949!

Featuring the historic Hudson River steamboat Robert Fulton, this 1949 film by the The Reorientation Branch Office of the Undersecretary Department of the Army, discusses the reorganization of the Hudson River Day Line Company briefly, before diving into a film version of what a trip up the Hudson would have looked like at that time. Lots of beautiful shots of the boats themselves as well as the Hudson River Day Line Pier in Manhattan. Sights seen include the New York skyline, George Washington Bridge, Palisades, the Ghost Fleet, a visit to Bear Mountain State Park, Sugar Loaf Mountain, West Point, Storm King Mountain, Bannerman's Island, Newburgh, Poughkeepsie, taking the bus to FDR's home in Hyde Park, Sunnyside, and back again.

The Robert Fulton was built in 1909 in Camden, New Jersey by the New York Shipbuilding Co. for Hudson River Day Line. It operated from 1909-1954. In 1956 it was sold for conversion to a community center in the Bahamas.

Many thanks to the Town of Clinton Historical Society for sharing this wonderful film. 

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Newburgh was the shipbuilding center of the mid-Hudson for well over a century and a half. Although the earliest accomplishments of local shipwrights are clouded by the passage of time, sailing vessels were constructed during the colonial days by such men as George Gardner, Jason Rogers, Richard Hill and William Seymour along the village’s waterfront, which extended approximately from the foot of present day Washington Street north to South Street.
 
Strategically well placed at the southernmost point before one entered the Hudson Highlands, Newburgh became the river transportation center, serving the inland towns and villages to the north and west. The Highlands form a magnificent scenic delight in the mid-Hudson region, but in the pre-railroad era they were decidedly unfriendly to the movement of goods and people. In short, the Hudson became a marine highway which connected upstate regions to the Metropolis at its mouth. A significant freighting business therefore developed at Newburgh, and, in addition, the village became one of the region’s bases for the whaling industry. Both of these undertakings required sailing vessels, and with forests of suitable timber nearby, the local shipbuilders were well placed to support the burgeoning commerce on the river.

​Much of this changed with the introduction of the steamboat in the summer of 1807, when Robert Fulton’s North River Steamboat made her first trip to Albany. It was inevitable that steam should be adopted almost universally on America’s waterways. The earliest steamboat built at Newburgh is reputed to have been the side-wheel ferry Gold Hunter, constructed in 1836 for the ferry between Newburgh and Fishkill Landing. We are not certain of the identity of her builder, but her appearance coincided with the start of local shipbuilding by the dynasty which dominated that industry for 110 years - Thomas S. Marvel; his son of the same name; and his grandson, Harry A. Marvel.
 
The shipbuilding activities of these three generations of the Marvel family encompassed the period from 1836 until 1946, when Harry Marvel retired from business. Although their activity was not continuous throughout this period, the reputations of these men as master shipbuilders survived the periodic and all too frequent ups and downs that have always plagued this industry.
 
The senior Thomas Marvel, born in Newport, Rhode Island in 1808, served his apprenticeship as a shipwright with Isaac Webb, a well-known shipbuilder in New York. Around 1836, he moved to Newburgh and commenced building small wooden sailing vessels, sloops, schooners and the occasional brig or half-brig, near the foot of Little Ann Street, later moving to the foot of Kemp Street (no longer in existence). Among the vessels he built was a Hudson River sloop launched in the spring of 1847 for Hiram Travis, of Peekskill. Travis elected to name his vessel Thomas S. Marvel, a name she carried at least until she was converted to a barge in 1890.
 
An unidentified 160-foot steamboat was built at the Marvel yard in 1853. She was described by the local press as a “new and splendid propeller built for parties in New York.” Possibly the first steamboat built by Thomas Marvel, this vessel was important for another reason- she was propelled by a double-cylinder oscillating engine built on the Wolff, or high-and-low pressure principle. Ernest Wolff had patented his design in 1834, utilizing the multiple expansion of steam to improve the efficiency of the engine. The Wolff engine was a rudimentary forerunner of the compound engine, which did not appear for another two decades.
 
The younger Thomas joined his father in 1847, at the age of 13. The young man, who was born in 1834 at New York, was entrusted with building a steamboat hull in 1854. This was a classic case of on-the-job training, for the boat was entirely young Tom’s responsibility. She is believed to have been Mohawk Chief, for service on the eastern end of the Erie Canal. The 85-3/95 ton Mohawk Chief, 86 feet in length, was described in her first enrollment document as a “square-sterner steam propeller, round tuck, no galleries and no figurehead.” The dry, archaic language of vessel documentation was hardly accurate, for her builder’s half model, still in existence, proves that she was a handsomely crafted little ship with a graceful bow and fine lines aft.
 
The elder Thomas Marvel retired from shipbuilding at Newburgh sometime around 1860. He later built some additional vessels elsewhere, including the schooner Amos Briggs at Cornwall. He may have commanded sailing vessels on the river in his later years, for he was referred to from time to time as “Captain Marvel.”
 
By the mid-1850s, the younger Thomas Marvel had become a thoroughly professional shipwright, and undertook the management of the yard’s operation, at first as the sole owner and later in partnership with George F. Riley, a local shipwright. The partnership continued until Marvel volunteered for service in the Union Army almost immediately after the start of the Civil War in April 1861. He served as Captain of Company A of the 56th Regiment until he was mustered out due to illness in August 1862.
 
He returned to Newburgh, but shortly afterwards moved to Port Richmond, Staten Island, where he built sailing vessels and at least one steamboat. A two-year period in the late 1860s saw him constructing sailing craft on the Choptank River at Denton, Maryland, after which he returned to Port Richmond.
 
During the Civil War and for a few years afterwards, George Riley continued a modest shipbuilding business at Newburgh, later with Adam Bulman as a partner. They went their separate ways in the late 1860s, and Bulman teamed with Joel M. Brown in 1871, doing business as Bulman & Brown. For the next eight years, they built ships in a yard south of the foot of Washington Street, where they turned out tugs, schooners and barges. Their output of tugs consisted of James Bigler, Manhattan, A.C. Cheney and George Garlick, and their most prominent sailing vessels were the schooners Peter C. Schultz (332 tons) and Henry P. Havens (300 tons), both launched in 1874.
 
Another source of business was the brick-making industry, which required deck barges to move its products to the New York market. Nearly all of 19th century New York City was built of Hudson River brick, and the brick yards on both shores of Newburgh Bay contributed to this enormous undertaking. In 1872 alone, Bulman & Brown built at least five brick barges for various local manufacturers.
 
Vessel repair went hand in hand with construction. Bulman & Brown built and operated what might have been the first floating dry dock at Newburgh. In 1879, the firm moved to Jersey City, New Jersey, and Newburgh lost a valuable asset. This prompted Homer Ramsdell, the local entrepreneurial steamboat owner, to finance construction of a marine railway located at the foot of South William Street. Ramsdell, whose interests included the ferry to Fishkill Landing and the Newburgh and New York Railroad, as well as his line of steamboats to New York, wanted to be sure that his fleet could be hauled out and repaired locally without the need for a trip to a New York repair yard.
 
The mid-1870s, which marked the end of the wooden ship era at Newburgh and the start of the age of iron and steel, brings us to the close of this portion of the sketch of the area’s shipbuilding. From this time onward, the local scene would change radically. The firm of Ward, Stanton & Company, successors to Stanton & Mallery, a local manufacturer of machinery for sugar mills and other shoreside activities, entered shipbuilding and persuaded Thomas S. Marvel to join the company in 1877 to manage its shipyard. Newburgh, which had been incorporated as a city in 1865, was about to enter the major leagues in ship construction.

Editor's Note: This article was originally written by William duBarry Thomas and  published in the 2000 Pilot Log. Thank you to Hudson River Maritime Museum volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing the article.

​The wars of the 20th century called forth boat and ship-building efforts in the Hudson Valley to serve the needs of the country in time of peril. At Kingston, Newburgh, and other river towns, vessels of various types and sizes were built. During World War I the United States Shipping Board was organized to procure vessels to meet the needs of the war effort in this country and, after a certain point, our Allies fighting in Europe and elsewhere. Wooden minesweepers and sub-chasers were built at Hiltebrant’s on the Rondout. At Island Dock the Kingston Shipbuilding Company was set up to build four wooden freighters to carry cargo to our Allies abroad. At Newburgh the Newburgh Shipyards were set up to build a more ambitious group of ten steel freighters.
 
The World War I shipyards began their cargo ship-building efforts in mid-1917 as the United States entered the war. At Newburgh noted engineer Thomas C. Desmond acquired property just south of the city after lining up financial backing from Irving T. Bush, president of Bush Terminal in Brooklyn, and other shipping businessmen. Construction of the shipyard began in the summer of 1917 with the expansion of the property by filling in the river front. Actual building of the buildings did not begin until September 1917. Four ship building berths were constructed to build 9000 ton steel cargo ships. The first keel was not laid until March 1918 due to a severe winter. The first ship, the Newburgh, was launched on Labor Day of 1918 with thousands of people in attendance and former President Theodore Roosevelt on hand to deliver a typical rousing speech. The ship was finished at the Newburgh yard and was delivered to the U.S. Shipping Board at the end of December 1918 (after the war was officially over). Shipbuilding continued with ten ships completed in total. The needs of war-torn Europe for food and other supplies, did not end with the official end of the war, so the ships being built at Newburgh and other similar yards were still needed.

The World War I cargo ships built at Newburgh were named for local towns: Newburgh, New Windsor, Poughkeepsie, Walden, Cold Spring, Firthcliffe, Irvington, Peekskill, and the last two, Half Moon and Storm King with locally inspired but not town names.
 
At its height the Newburgh shipyards employed 4000 workers, probably a record number for the area at any time. The majority of these workers were not originally ship builders and were trained by the Newburgh Shipyards. Given that the shipyard was built from the ground up (including some of the ground,) and that the majority of workers had to be trained, the output of ten 9000 ton, 415 foot length cargo ships in two and a half years is remarkable. Among the U.S. Shipping Board Emergency Fleet Corporation shipyards established for World War I the Newburgh Shipyards was one of the more successful. Newburgh Shipyard was a source of great local pride as well as prosperity during its years of operation from September 1917 to 1921.
            
By contrast, the Kingston Shipbuilding Company established during World War I to build wooden cargo ships was less successful, though also a source of pride and jobs for the local community. Four building berths were built for wooden ships at Island Dock on the Rondout Creek. Four ships were begun, but only two were launched, and only one was actually used. The building of wooden cargo ships seems strange at that period, since iron and steel ships had been built since the 1880s. A possible shortage of steel may have been behind the idea of building in wood. The two wooden ships built at Kingston were called Esopus and Catskill, and great rejoicing attended their launchings as they were the largest vessels built in the Rondout.

This article was originally published in the 2006 issue of the Pilot Log. Thank you to Hudson River Maritime Museum volunteer Adam Kaplan for transcribing the article.

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Recorded in the summer of 1976 in Woodstock, NY Fifty Sail on Newburgh Bay: Hudson Valley Songs Old & New was released in October of that year. Designed to be a booster for the replica sloop Clearwater, as well as to tap into the national interest in history thanks to the bicentennial, the album includes a mixture of traditional songs and new songs. This album is a recording to songs relating to the Hudson River, which played a major role in the commercial life and early history of New York State, including the Revolutionary War. Folk singer Ed Renehan (born 1956), who was a member of the board of the Clearwater, sings and plays guitar along with Pete Seeger. William Gekle, who wrote the lyrics for five of the songs, also wrote the liner notes.

"Fifty Sail on Newburgh Bay," the album's title track, recounts the life of sailing sloops and Schooners coming in and out of Newburgh Bay, at the north end of the Hudson Highlands. The song references "Worragut," also known as "Weygat," which is Dutch for "wind gate," meaning the northern entrance to the Hudson Highlands, bound on one side by Storm King Mountain and Breakneck Ridge on the other. The stretch of river between Newburgh and Stony Point is bound on both sides by high mountains, and the river twists sharply. A difficult passage for sailors and known to contain tricky winds which required much tacking, the Hudson Highlands were best approached with caution. 

From the album liner notes, written by William Gekle, "And so it very often happened that sailing sloops, sometimes fifty or a hundred of them, anchored in Newburgh Bay just outside the passage, waiting for the right wind or the right tide - or both." 

"Fifty Sail on Newburgh Bay" Lyrics
Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
Waitin' for the wind and tide,
Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
With the anchors over the side.

The skippers all sit on the rail to yarn,
Same as farmers out by the old red barn,
​The boys in skiffs have gone ashore
To ruckus outside the village store.

Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
Waitin' for the wind and tide,
Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
With the anchors over the side.

Now the wind comes up with a mighty roar,
Whitecaps roll from shore to shore
So it's anchors up and sail away
Down the Worragut from Newburgh Bay.

Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
Waitin' for the wind and tide,
Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
With the anchors over the side.

Now the sails are full and the sloops run free,
Beatin' through the Gate to the open sea,
There's Breakneck Hill on the looward side
And Storm King Mountain makin' up the tide.

Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
Waitin' for the wind and tide,
Fifty sail on Newburgh Bay
With the anchors over the side.

Thanks to HRMM volunteer Mark Heller for sharing his knowledge of Hudson River music history for this series.

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:
Twenty years ago, four friends with an abiding love of the Hudson River and its history stepped away from their families and their work to travel up the river in a homemade strip-planked canoe to experience the river on its most intimate terms. The team set off from Liberty State Park in New Jersey and completed the adventure nine days later just below Albany where one of the paddlers lived. They began with no itinerary and no pre-arranged lodging or shore support. There were no cell phones. The journey deepened their appreciation for the river and its many moods, the people who live and work beside the river and the importance of friendship in sustaining our lives. 

Please join us vicariously on this excellent adventure. We'll be posting every Friday for the next several weeks, so stay tuned! Follow the adventure here.

Dan, our bow man, was the one who slept most soundly of all. Last night, it had been his job to keep us pointed in the right direction. The rest of us were blinded by the lantern and could only apply forward motion to the canoe. He worked harder than all of us in wrestling the bow left and right and he literally collapsed when we finally got off the river. Dan had recently graduated from college and became our poet laureate. For him, this trip was the equivalent of Homer’s Odyssey in spirit if not length. It was a test of commitment and a test of resourcefulness and loyalty to the team. Dan often reflected on meaning of our adventure and spoke often of the deep value of living in the moment. He found parallels to our experiences in the works of other poets and authors and was ever grateful to be sharing the journey with us.
 
We were up at dawn and prepared hot cocoa and oatmeal. Our host came over at 7:00 and we had a chance to catch up with him. It turned out that we had just missed the tall ships that visited here last week. One of them, a small bark, stayed at this yard. We chose to wait for the tide to change before departing and this gave us a little time to work out our kinks. I prepared a few sketches of the random deposition of old cranes, pile drivers, winches, gears, worn out boats and tilting pilothouses. We thanked our host profusely and shoved off at 9:30.

The Hudson Highlands
 
There was no wind at first and we were still sore from yesterday’s extreme struggle in Haverstraw Bay. We rounded Indian Point, entered Peekskill Bay and set our course for Dunderberg Mountain at the southern gateway to the Highlands. A tug was pushing a petroleum barge south and we adjusted our course to give the tow plenty of room. When we resumed, an easterly wind picked up and we set our sail for an assist to Iona Island.
 
Myths have attached themselves to Iona Island and Steve experienced some of its powers on previous canoe trips. The island is largely covered by grass and scrub and includes long brick munitions sheds from its previous use as a naval depot and some rock formations, the most notable being a chimney rock at the south end. The island is connected to the west shore by a causeway but this is inaccessible to the public. There is a considerable deer herd on the island and the grass is thick with ticks. Perimeter roads and street lights are maintained for little apparent reason leading to urban legends that the island is home to strategic missile silos. Supernatural occurrences on previous trips, evidence of satanic rituals on the chimney rock and severe storms seemingly rising up out of the island have imbued this place with sinister associations among our small community of paddlers. One wonders if Native Americans or the Dutch experienced similar apprehensions. We are content to leave the island completely alone on this trip and grateful to avoid one of its storms.
 
We passed beneath the Bear Mountain Bridge at noon and struck our sail rig so that we could pass beneath a railroad trestle and enter the Popolopen Creek. The creek served as a landing in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and the remains of two schooners were gradually disintegrating here along with the ruins of an eighteenth century mill. During the Revolution, the commanding headlands immediately north and south of the mouth of this creek were fortified in the American initiative to block British passage through the Highlands. Nevertheless, forts Montgomery and Clinton were overrun. The chain boom at Fort Montgomery was breached by the British warships and the American vessels were abandoned. Although earthworks and foundations remain at the fort sites, there is no visible evidence of this history from our canoe; only the two railroads on the east and west shores. The engineers blow their horns for us as we salute oncoming trains by pumping our paddles.
 
After re-entering the river, we paddled for Sugar Loaf Mountain. West Point became visible, but a direct approach was blocked by Con Hook, a low spit of land jutting out from the west shore. After rounding this obstruction, we paddled beneath the ramparts of West Point. Surprisingly, we found sunbathers at the water’s edge beneath a rock face incised with the deeply carved letters spelling “YORKTOWN.”  The roof of one of the Academy buildings was painted with the message “BEAT AIR FORCE.” The ruins of Fort Constitution could still be seen on the east side of the river at the point where a second and more famous chain boom protected the river above here from British attack.
 
The 1917 wooden tour boat Commander approached us and her tour director engaged us in a brief conversation on the PA before wishing us well and departing. Storm King Mountain loomed over us to the west. The mountain is scarred by a road ledge cut out of live rock and shoulders burnt by a forest fire touched off by unexploded ordnance from the days when shells were fired into it from the proving grounds across the river at Cold Spring. Breakneck Mountain stood to our right, gnarled and disfigured by huge creases, veins and fractures. Steve observed that with a little imagination, one can see anguished and tortured faces all over its western face. Englishman John Maude made a similar observation from his sloop in 1800 and named this “Face Mountain” in the journal he published in 1826. It is unlikely that he was the first to see the faces.
 
At 3:00 PM, we completed our passage through the Highlands. We made a brief stop at Pollepel Island, the site of Bannerman’s Arsenal and lodge. The castle keep, a baroque concoction of brick and concrete was built between 1905 and 1918 and stood five stories high. Although burned out long ago, it retained its open and turreted walls, outlines of a moat, docks, and castellated drawbridges and was festooned with grapevines and a healthy crop of poison ivy. In addition to the unstable walls, additional hazards were said to have included concealed pits, unexploded ordnance, rattlesnakes and ticks. The island guards the northern entrance to the Highlands and is associated with a long tradition of superstition dating back to the Dutch colony if not earlier.
 
Recently installed no trespassing signs with dire threats convinced us to continue our journey even though all of us had explored the island on previous canoe trips. We were followed by a thick cloud of blood sucking flies for more than a mile up the river. Steve struck out viscously after being bled by one and broke his paddle.
 
Newburgh Bay
 
Although high tide ended, the current along the east shore of the river still flowed north.  We also had a slight south breeze at our backs so we set our sail. We passed several possible campsites along the east shore including Deming Point, a large abandoned brickyard north of Beacon and Pete Seeger’s sloop club with the pine tree coming out of the roof. On the opposite shore, a few landmarks could be seen at Newburgh, but the scene was dominated by new construction and swaths of vacant land where the historic center of the town stood before so-called urban renewal. We passed beneath the two ugly I-84 spans carrying traffic across the river and eastward toward Connecticut and lamented the loss of the ferry they replaced and the views that they marred. We reached the Chelsea Yacht Club at 5:30, just as the ebb tide began to work against us. Bill, one of the club’s officers, welcomed us but sent us to the showers immediately. When we were fit to be in polite company again, he invited us to dine on crabs and camp on the club’s lawn overnight.
 
The Chelsea Yacht Club began in the first years of the twentieth century as an ice boat club. The New York Central Railroad sold the club a thin piece of made land west of its tracks and a clubhouse and boat shed were built. The social hall was loaded with burgees, models and interesting river souvenirs. A massive willow tree stood on the shore next an old iron capstan salvaged from a sloop or schooner. Many sailboats were at moorings here and the dinghies needed to reach them were stored neatly in racks along the train tracks.
 
As we watched the sailboats swing to the changing tide at slightly different angles depending upon their distance from shore, Bill explained that the ebb tide is first experienced nearest the shoreline; at the center of the river, momentum carries the flood tide current upstream for a period of time beyond high tide. He confirmed our observation that the tides were behaving a little differently over the past several days. He attributed this to a full moon and the influence of Hurricane Dennis.
 
Bill and his friends retrieved their crab traps and boiled up a mess of fresh blue crabs in our honor. The crabs thrive in the brackish water at the bottom of the bay and are baited with chicken scraps. We supplemented the impromptu feast with pasta, spaghetti sauce and fried spam. After watching a gorgeous sunset and cleaning up, we thanked our hosts, pitched our tents and turned in for the night. The generosity of river people seems unlimited.
 
Whoever said that passenger trains are dead in America? I challenge that person to spend a night in a tent at Chelsea! Our tents were less than 50 feet from the tracks. The trains shook the earth and sounded as if they were about to run all of us down. Amtrak, Metro North, they were all the same. They lit up the night in their paths and hurtled past with blaring air horns which changed pitch the moment they rushed away. The long West Shore freight trains with their laboring locomotives made almost as much noise even though they were almost a mile across the water. Dan had nightmares of awakening on the tracks just in time to be run over by speeding expresses.

Don't forget to join us again next Friday for Day 5 of the trip!

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​Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in the Hudson River Maritime Museum's 2017 issue of the Pilot Log.

​The first great wave of economic expansion gripped the new American nation within twenty-five years after the ratification of the U. S. Constitution, at first with the creation of new municipalities and a flurry in turnpike building that opened the interior’s vast farming potential to the river corridor. This was quickly followed by a burst in industrial growth and a new sense of civic improvements in the riverfront towns in the emerging manifest destiny spirit. Some of the new ideas were not new at all, except in the novelty of their application here in the Hudson River Valley.
 
Whaling was one of them. The industry already had a curious history in a New England-based community that was established at Hudson (called Claverack Landing until 1785) by Seth and Thomas Jenkins, Quaker brothers from Nantucket, an island in the Atlantic Ocean that was terrorized by the British during the American Revolution. Providence, Martha’s Vineyard and Newport were also represented among the thirty heads of families who created the new town—a city, even—that by 1786 had twenty-five whaling vessels, more than in all of New York city. Four years later and rapidly growing, Hudson was designated a United States port of entry because it stood at the head of ocean-going navigation whenever sand bars prevented river access to Albany. In 1797, one ship, the American Hero, brought in the largest cargo of sperm whale oil in American history. 

Hudson was a cosmopolitan port in these heady times, its trade including (much like today) exotic tapestries, Chinaware, English Staffordshire, French mahogany furniture—and visitors like the exiled French foreign minister Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, who stopped while en route to a visit with a French marquise living near Schenectady, to examine the making of sperm oil candles and view an exhibition of Thomas Jenkins paintings.[1] The city remained vibrant even after the whaling industry collapsed with the War of 1812.
 
Whaling was revived briefly in Hudson in 1829, when a new Hudson Whaling Company was attempted (not involving any of the original proprietor families). The industry also moved south as the Hudson River continue to be viewed as an amenable venue despite the extra time it took to come upriver. In fact, the river was also visited by whales, most famously in 1652 when a sperm whale (the world’s largest of the species) became stranded and died at Cohoes Falls, yielding spermacetti oil that made the best candles that local residents had ever had—and a horrific smell in its putrefaction for miles around.[2]
 
The Jenkins brothers had first looked at Poughkeepsie before opting for Claverack Landing, but it was not until 1832 that an industry was established in Poughkeepsie, and in Newburgh, also involving Nantucket and New Bedford whalers but this time as crew, not proprietors. The Newburgh Whaling Company was established by an act of the New York state legislature on January 24, 1832, and, like the Poughkeepsie Whaling Company (created March 20), involved prominent businessmen desiring high civic accomplishments as well as profits. U. S. exports of sperm oil rose from 3,944 barrels in 1815 to more than 110,000 by 1831, leading the Poughkeepsie investors to expect as much as $6 million in profits in a scant four years.

By April, 1832, the Newburgh company purchased and outfitted the Portland for $15,250, added the Russel ($14,500) in August, and the Illinois ($12,000) in 1833—but each made only two voyages. Their future looked promising—the Portland brought in 2,100 barrels of oil and 19,000 pounds of whalebone for $40,000 in sales on its last voyage—but the industry collapsed due to falling oil prices.[3]
           
In Poughkeepsie, the new corporation raised $200,000 in stock sales within six weeks after incorporating, and a vessel (the Vermont) was purchased and sailed by the end of October. A second ship, the Siros, sailed in April of 1833, and the Elbe left that August.  A second enterprise, the Dutchess Whaling Company, was formed under newly elected U. S. Senator Nathanial P. Tallmadge that fall, and also worked with a New Bedford agent. They bought ten acres on the riverfront and leased half of it to the Poughkeepsie company.
             
 Both good and bad news followed. The Vermont was spotted by a New Bedford ship off Cape Horn, South America, heading for Peru, but the Siroc was wrecked off Cape Good Hope (Africa). Another Dutchess ship, the New England, sailed in July of 1834 and by October had killed two whales in the Azores. The Vermont returned in early 1835 with $16,000 in whale oil, having traveled around the world, losing its captain in a stabbing incident probably involving one of his sailors.
           
On its second voyage, the New England returned with $50,000 in cargo. Another ship, the Newark, returned also full and to great applause, and the Nathanial P. Tallmadge was launched in 1836. The bottom fell out of the market when the price of whale oil dropped in half as a result of a new, more severe panic that gripped the nation in 1837, the result of Andrew Jackson’s misguided banking policies. By 1841, when the Elbe lay wrecked in New Zealand, ships were being sold on their return. The Dutchess Whaling Company lost money in the sale of its land and went into receivership in 1848.[4]

​Politics played against the whalers in the clash of Democrat and Whig philosophies. Senator Tallmadge was roundly criticized by the Locofoco faction of Democrats as the tide of public opinion turned against the whole notion of speculation. A new technology was emerging, the use of gas in home and industry lighting, that would survive until the electrification era almost a century later. These local industries were too small to sustain profits amidst the vicissitudes of a changing market and the crew requirements that they faced. They had to hire expensive New England mariners because no one on the Hudson had the experience of ocean voyages. Richard Henry Dana, author of the classic whaling account Two Years before the Mast, a crew member with a New Bedford whaler that met the New England at sea, remarked about a “pretty raw” Poughkeepsie youth who was “just out of the bush” and knew nothing about sailing.
           
The great promise at the beginning of the whaling industry on the Hudson River resulted from the size of the fleet and experience of the Hudson proprietors, but the industry in general just did not have the time to mature here. Like plank roads, Hudson River whaling passed into oblivion as another great idea of the antebellum era lost in the shuffle of “a go-ahead people”—as Poughkeepsie investor Matthew Vassar (in both whaling and plank roads) described his fellow Americans—whose future lay in a newer and much broader economy to come.