A small compilation of my last pass through the US.
Firstly, a starter of what happened in nyc:
The Hell Gate. A name alone which conjours powerful images and sentiments suited to a monolith of stone and red steel. Originally the name, a corruption of the dutch phrase Hellegat or hell's hole, referred to the treacherous East River which claimed hundreds of ships before military blasting cleared the way in the 1880s using 300,000+ lbs of explosives. Over this piece of water a bridge opened in 1916 which naturally took on the same name. So well constructed was the bridge that the last piece fitted into place required little more than 1cm of adjustment to fit. An article published in 2005 claimed the Hell Gate would survive at least 1000 years if we all vanished tomorrow. If you're ever motivated enough to see it in person you'll believe it.
The Hell Gate is quite similar to the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in fact inspiring its design, so given some limited familiarity with the subject matter it was natural to check the enormous stone pylons for possible access since that always looked quite doable before SHB went into Terminator security mode. Alas, as our hosts had already said, the viaduct is the key.
Much like our adventures with the Forth Bridge, Hell Gate is a rail only bridge and provides little coverage for those inclined to getting up close and personal. Railway personal naturally have no need to secret themselves from the passing stock. Late at night the trains are infrequent though and it's quiet enough to hear them coming so we took virtual free roam of the place. Standing on the deck below the castle like pillars is far more imposing than it is from the grassy field below. A few late trains came and went while we went about relaxing, taking photos and perhaps most amusingly of all, letting Shane get on with shooting nudes of a model friend who he'd roped into the adventure. To her credit she took it all in stride, faltering not a step of the way and still managing to look good reclined naked against the red painted steel. That's more than I can say for any of us.
It occured to me standing with Snappel atop the apex of the arch near the glaring red channel marker that being on the road again wasn't so bad after all, that each step away was a step closer if you're taking the long road back.
Eagle River
South of NYC we met with an old friend of mine, Yaggy, and went to have a peek at his baby - the incredible Eagle River powerplant. All shot on a Broncia SQ-AI 6x6 medium format camera.
Freedom Tunnel
I don't feel much need to cover the details of the Freedom Tunnel since I've done so before and snappel has written about our trip there already and further, the removal of the graffiti which coated the tunnel.
One small excerpt:
From above could be heard the sounds of people in the park, the distant mumur broken suddenly by a young child's voice descending into the tunnel: "Mmomm! Mom! I can see two tracks!". The mother humoured her son, who continued his observations:
"Mom! There's a bike down there!"
"Really? Down in the tunnel?"
"Yes!! Look! How did it get down there Mom?!"
"Maybe someone lives down there?"
"You think so?"
"Why don't you shout down and see if anyone replies?"
By now I was trying not to laugh, just out of view in the shadows. And then the boy shouted down as loudly as he could: "Is anyone down there??!". I was in stitches and looked at dsankt who was nearly doubled-up - what should we say? Then ds composed himself, mustered the most gravelly creepy voice he could and boomed: "Ye-esssssss...."
All was silent. Mother no doubt in more surprise than her boy, himself probably to remember the time the voices in the tunnel spoke to him for as long as he lives. About half a minute later he called down again, but not wanting to spoil the illusion the pair of us crept around the edge of the sunlit ballast and silently continued along the tunnel.
With a flurry of movement and shimmer we dropped from the platform and were absorbed into the murky dimness of the tunnel. Unlike in Paris those departing the land of the commuter for that of the living should be adequately prepared in NYC so over the rails, around the rubbish and through the pillars we trudged with a demeanour suiting our clothes but not our purpose. Dressed as those revered we feared less the usual curtain twitchers but why take chances in a city where suspicion always rides shotgun? Credibility stretches only so far, one accented word enough to crash the facade. Trains rolled past, their white eyes casting thick shifting shafts of light through the pillars around us. We kept moving.
We snaked further through the tunnels, deeply inhaling that thick pungent subway atmosphere and finally reaching a junction where the regular Lexington Avenue track splits into the a looptrack which shoots the trains back northbound. This oneway, zero clearance loop track held our prize for the evening - a long abandoned subway station built as the showpiece station of a new system. As a train veered into the loop we bounded after it, hurtling along the tunnel, leaping the rails, hugging the wall and listening for any sound to warn us of following trains. After what felt an eternity the outside of the corner opened up into a long wide platform curving sharply around out of sight. Great yellow lights reflected off the polished tiles which arched overhead. Halfway down the platform stood an arched doorway framing a set of stairs leading upwards, below the bold green letters CITY HALL.
"City Hall, also known as City Hall Loop, was the original southern terminal of the first line of the New York City Subway. (...) This station is unusually elegant in architectural style, and is unique among the original IRT stations, employing Romanesque Revival architecture. The platform and mezzanine feature Guastavino tile, skylights, colored glass tilework and brass chandeliers." - wikipedia
The rumbling of a train behind chased us onto the platform and up the stairs into a grand arched room covered in more ornate tilework. We unloaded our gear from the black duffel bags and snapped a few photos of the platform, hiding from the trains rattling through the platform at irregular intervals. City Hall station operated from 1904 until 1945, when it was closed due to the introduction of longer subway cars with center doors. Draw a simple curve then a straight line between any two points on the perimeter and you'll see that the longer the line, the further the central point on the line is from the curve. With the longer subway cars the center doors were too far from the platforms and barely 600 passengers per day the station was closed. The station has never reopened since but still carries the number 6, sees the occasional legitimate visit from the Transit Musuem and of course hosts the nocturnal forays of those willing to cast those dice and commit themselves to the rollingstock steeple chase.
Reaching the station is quite the rush but returning from it is predictably no victory lap. As the tail of a train passed out the end of the station we leapt from the platform and charged counterflow into zero clearance. A yelp and crash from behind saw Eric go down clutching his ankle then rising and hobbling after as quickly as possible. Adrenaline and the thought of a head on train altercation pushed him on and with seconds to spare we swerved out of the loop track onto the Lexington Avenue line as an oncoming train swerved in. With no way to know for sure if we'd been spotted from the driver we pushed on as much as Eric's ankle could handle and climbed finally onto the platform from which we departed. Across the rails a work team prepared their own excursion into the system and we nodded in recognition and hustled on without stopping.
The shout of "taxi!" had barely echoed off the other side of the street before we were rushed into traffic and deposited outside the bar-of-bad-ideas-spwaned, The Patriot. Drinks flowed like the Johnny Cash from the jukebox and we hoisted many to a job well done and to put Eric's ballooning ankle out of his mind. After the uproar surrounding our Paris depature Snappel and I had considered taking it easy in NYC, during september no less, but decisions such as these seemed so far away and in the city that never sleeps the night had just begun. As the following nights would show the Patriot was not done with us.
From the first look I craved it but shied away with questions of consequences and repercussions. Enough was enough so finally the opportunity was made and taken. Regrets and fear were left in the dust, the gauntlet was run, the deed was done.
[/QUOTE]
Firstly, a starter of what happened in nyc:
The Hell Gate. A name alone which conjours powerful images and sentiments suited to a monolith of stone and red steel. Originally the name, a corruption of the dutch phrase Hellegat or hell's hole, referred to the treacherous East River which claimed hundreds of ships before military blasting cleared the way in the 1880s using 300,000+ lbs of explosives. Over this piece of water a bridge opened in 1916 which naturally took on the same name. So well constructed was the bridge that the last piece fitted into place required little more than 1cm of adjustment to fit. An article published in 2005 claimed the Hell Gate would survive at least 1000 years if we all vanished tomorrow. If you're ever motivated enough to see it in person you'll believe it.
The Hell Gate is quite similar to the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in fact inspiring its design, so given some limited familiarity with the subject matter it was natural to check the enormous stone pylons for possible access since that always looked quite doable before SHB went into Terminator security mode. Alas, as our hosts had already said, the viaduct is the key.
Much like our adventures with the Forth Bridge, Hell Gate is a rail only bridge and provides little coverage for those inclined to getting up close and personal. Railway personal naturally have no need to secret themselves from the passing stock. Late at night the trains are infrequent though and it's quiet enough to hear them coming so we took virtual free roam of the place. Standing on the deck below the castle like pillars is far more imposing than it is from the grassy field below. A few late trains came and went while we went about relaxing, taking photos and perhaps most amusingly of all, letting Shane get on with shooting nudes of a model friend who he'd roped into the adventure. To her credit she took it all in stride, faltering not a step of the way and still managing to look good reclined naked against the red painted steel. That's more than I can say for any of us.
It occured to me standing with Snappel atop the apex of the arch near the glaring red channel marker that being on the road again wasn't so bad after all, that each step away was a step closer if you're taking the long road back.
Eagle River
South of NYC we met with an old friend of mine, Yaggy, and went to have a peek at his baby - the incredible Eagle River powerplant. All shot on a Broncia SQ-AI 6x6 medium format camera.
Freedom Tunnel
I don't feel much need to cover the details of the Freedom Tunnel since I've done so before and snappel has written about our trip there already and further, the removal of the graffiti which coated the tunnel.
One small excerpt:
From above could be heard the sounds of people in the park, the distant mumur broken suddenly by a young child's voice descending into the tunnel: "Mmomm! Mom! I can see two tracks!". The mother humoured her son, who continued his observations:
"Mom! There's a bike down there!"
"Really? Down in the tunnel?"
"Yes!! Look! How did it get down there Mom?!"
"Maybe someone lives down there?"
"You think so?"
"Why don't you shout down and see if anyone replies?"
By now I was trying not to laugh, just out of view in the shadows. And then the boy shouted down as loudly as he could: "Is anyone down there??!". I was in stitches and looked at dsankt who was nearly doubled-up - what should we say? Then ds composed himself, mustered the most gravelly creepy voice he could and boomed: "Ye-esssssss...."
All was silent. Mother no doubt in more surprise than her boy, himself probably to remember the time the voices in the tunnel spoke to him for as long as he lives. About half a minute later he called down again, but not wanting to spoil the illusion the pair of us crept around the edge of the sunlit ballast and silently continued along the tunnel.
With a flurry of movement and shimmer we dropped from the platform and were absorbed into the murky dimness of the tunnel. Unlike in Paris those departing the land of the commuter for that of the living should be adequately prepared in NYC so over the rails, around the rubbish and through the pillars we trudged with a demeanour suiting our clothes but not our purpose. Dressed as those revered we feared less the usual curtain twitchers but why take chances in a city where suspicion always rides shotgun? Credibility stretches only so far, one accented word enough to crash the facade. Trains rolled past, their white eyes casting thick shifting shafts of light through the pillars around us. We kept moving.
We snaked further through the tunnels, deeply inhaling that thick pungent subway atmosphere and finally reaching a junction where the regular Lexington Avenue track splits into the a looptrack which shoots the trains back northbound. This oneway, zero clearance loop track held our prize for the evening - a long abandoned subway station built as the showpiece station of a new system. As a train veered into the loop we bounded after it, hurtling along the tunnel, leaping the rails, hugging the wall and listening for any sound to warn us of following trains. After what felt an eternity the outside of the corner opened up into a long wide platform curving sharply around out of sight. Great yellow lights reflected off the polished tiles which arched overhead. Halfway down the platform stood an arched doorway framing a set of stairs leading upwards, below the bold green letters CITY HALL.
"City Hall, also known as City Hall Loop, was the original southern terminal of the first line of the New York City Subway. (...) This station is unusually elegant in architectural style, and is unique among the original IRT stations, employing Romanesque Revival architecture. The platform and mezzanine feature Guastavino tile, skylights, colored glass tilework and brass chandeliers." - wikipedia
The rumbling of a train behind chased us onto the platform and up the stairs into a grand arched room covered in more ornate tilework. We unloaded our gear from the black duffel bags and snapped a few photos of the platform, hiding from the trains rattling through the platform at irregular intervals. City Hall station operated from 1904 until 1945, when it was closed due to the introduction of longer subway cars with center doors. Draw a simple curve then a straight line between any two points on the perimeter and you'll see that the longer the line, the further the central point on the line is from the curve. With the longer subway cars the center doors were too far from the platforms and barely 600 passengers per day the station was closed. The station has never reopened since but still carries the number 6, sees the occasional legitimate visit from the Transit Musuem and of course hosts the nocturnal forays of those willing to cast those dice and commit themselves to the rollingstock steeple chase.
Reaching the station is quite the rush but returning from it is predictably no victory lap. As the tail of a train passed out the end of the station we leapt from the platform and charged counterflow into zero clearance. A yelp and crash from behind saw Eric go down clutching his ankle then rising and hobbling after as quickly as possible. Adrenaline and the thought of a head on train altercation pushed him on and with seconds to spare we swerved out of the loop track onto the Lexington Avenue line as an oncoming train swerved in. With no way to know for sure if we'd been spotted from the driver we pushed on as much as Eric's ankle could handle and climbed finally onto the platform from which we departed. Across the rails a work team prepared their own excursion into the system and we nodded in recognition and hustled on without stopping.
The shout of "taxi!" had barely echoed off the other side of the street before we were rushed into traffic and deposited outside the bar-of-bad-ideas-spwaned, The Patriot. Drinks flowed like the Johnny Cash from the jukebox and we hoisted many to a job well done and to put Eric's ballooning ankle out of his mind. After the uproar surrounding our Paris depature Snappel and I had considered taking it easy in NYC, during september no less, but decisions such as these seemed so far away and in the city that never sleeps the night had just begun. As the following nights would show the Patriot was not done with us.
From the first look I craved it but shied away with questions of consequences and repercussions. Enough was enough so finally the opportunity was made and taken. Regrets and fear were left in the dust, the gauntlet was run, the deed was done.
[/QUOTE]
