So me and my girlfriend were at her house, we were both feeling a little horny. We went to her bedroom. We got a little bit more horny, condsidering her parents had just left and all. But we figured her room wouldnt be very good, Just in case her parents came home early. so we went to her basement. She tells me to sit down on the bed. so i do. She starts un-zipping my pants, and got them down nice and smooth. After a while she finally got to "business". and just as i get ready to finish everything off *wink-wink* there's her dad knocking on the window of her basement looking right in at us.

THE 300 STONE STEPS OF MORRIS PLAINS seem to be an enigma. Some believe the stairs were constructed by Washington’s troops during the Revolutionary War, so lookouts could signal neighboring towns with a fire to warn them of British troop movements. Others claim the steps are the handiwork of Native Americans, and were laid well before the Continental Army used the site to spot Redcoats.

One thing is certain: The steps are so mysterious, no one in the town seems to know where they are. We stopped in the Morris Plains Police Station one cold winter day to inquire about their location.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” one officer told us, “but I’ve never heard of them.” We called the local town historian from the police station, hoping that she could head us in the right direction.

“The 300 Steps?” she said. “Oh yes, I know about them. If you’d like to stop by I can show you where they are on a map. Where are you now?”

We told her we were in the parking lot of the police station.

“Well, if you’re in the parking lot, you’re looking at my house. I’m right next to it!”

We took a few giant steps and were on her porch in less than a minute. Although she said she knew where the steps were, getting to them was not so easy.

“Well, you turn here and turn there, but you can’t get to it from here because the road is blocked off, so you have to go around to there.”

We just asked her to pinpoint the location and we’d find our own way.

“They are way off into the woods, deep in the forest. Our group is planning a hike to them in the spring,” she said. But at that point we were really only half listening. In our heads we already had one foot out the door, and one foot on the first of the 300 steps.

According to the location we were given, the 300 Steps were to be found right off Mountain Way.

We pulled into a parking lot near where we thought the steps would be found. There was a park there and a sign enclosed in a glass case that described the area. There were no clear directions posted on how to get to the steps, so we decided to just take the hike into the woods and see what we could find. Not more than 200 feet along the trail, we came upon the mysterious 300 Stone Steps.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call this ‘deep in the forest,’” said Mark M.

“Good thing we didn’t wait until the hiking expedition next spring!” said I.

“Start counting,” Mark said, as he began to climb. “1,2,3,4...”

The flat stones ranged from 1-2 feet in width and ascended the mountain in a zig-zag fashion. As we climbed the mountain, we could see why Washington might want to use this spot for observation. I would imagine in the 1700s the view must have been quite impressive.

As Mark got just over the summit he yelled back down, “I only count 268!” Satisfied with his math, I decided to take his word for it, and get myself off of that freezing mountainside. My foot slipped on an ice-covered stone and I proceeded to tumble down about 20 of the 268 steps. I finally landed on my shoulder, and heard a loud “crunch” sound. Ouch! Something didn’t feel right. Especially when I couldn’t lift my arm.

“Are you alright?” Mark yelled from the top of the mountain.

“NO!” I bellowed. “I think I broke my arm, Goddamit! These are the 268 steps to hell

Like George Daynor’s Palace Depression in Vineland, The Birdsville Church of South Toms River was built by Albert P. Greim with his own two hands, and no set plans as to what it would look like when completed.

A builder of bird houses, Greim established a woodworking shop in Cedar Brook, near Camden, but moved to Toms River in 1914 because of the better quality cedar needed for constructing his bird houses. He moved into a wooden cabin, and with the money he made from his craftwork, began construction of what the local population would dub “Greim’s Dream.”

The Moorish-looking structure began with Greim making molds and pouring concrete to form his first room, the “cathedral.” Using ornamental and hand-painted religious tiles, he began to build his church as a sanctuary for humans, but mainly for birds, who he had a great affection for. He had amassed a great wealth of bird lore from personal observation and the many books that he had read. He also constructed many bird houses and baths on the property for his feathered friends, along with garden rows and flowers.

Subsequently more rooms, domes and vaulted archways were added to the strange temple. Oriental rugs were hung, and large concrete candelabras were placed alongside the altar. Greim, who was Episcopalian, and a “high churchman,” placed

Although Greim built his dream for sanctuary, he also lived in this concrete shelter. The building had a kitchen and bedroom off the main chapel. Not being an engineer, his one great mistake was finding out that a concrete home could not be properly heated. The roofs (also poured concrete) had to be taken down and insulated.

Greim planned on building another 14 rooms to his church. The additions were to have been three stories tall, with set back balconies. He said he wanted it to look futuristic, in the manner of the Century of Progress structures, but in harmony with what he had already constructed.

Greim died on April 27, 1930 before he could see his dream completed. Never being married, the property and his entire holdings were given to a local resident, Stanley Grover, who often assisted Greim with work around the church. Changing hands over the years, the church had become a sewing machine shop and electrical repair store. Today it is all but in ruins, a mere shell of what was once a quiet, but odd retreat for a religious bird lovercrucifixes, figures of the Madonna and wooden figures of Christ all around his concrete shrine. Above the doorway to the chapel, in tile is the name “Oratory Bethlehem.” He even had a pipe organ installed and two pews. The church became fully sanctioned in the 1920s, and seven couples had taken their marriage vows before the altar.

 am a seasonal employee with the state Division of Parks and Forestry at Ringwood State Park (which has jurisdiction over Norvin Green Forest, Ramapo Forest, Ringwood/Skylands/Longpond Ironworks State Parks, Jungle Habitat, much of Clinton Road, and MORE) and a longtime resident of Bloomingdale. I would like to let you know about some strange happenings within the park boundaries that you may not know about. As you know, Jungle Habitat is under Parks jurisdiction. Over the summer, on a regular patrol of the Jungle Habitat area, myself and a co-worker stumbled upon a telephone pole in the Jungle Habitat parking lot that had the words "RAPE HILL" written on it with an arrow pointing in the opposite direction.

Curious, we followed the arrow and drove around the Jungle Habitat roads for about 25 minutes. After entering Jungle Habitat, if one makes a left turn and follows the roads as far as you can go to the top of the mountain, you will see a large chain link fence running up and over the mountain with a piece of sheet-metal in it. This was used to keep animals inside the park when it was in operation and is near the "Bone Yard,” or animal graveyard. We reached this fence by accident during our search for "RAPE HILL.” On the sheet metal part of the fence, the words "Welcome to Rape Hill" could be seen as we approached it, and an arrow pointed up the side of the hill. We parked the car and followed the arrow up the side of the fence. Along this fence there are narrations and graphic pictures drawn of a woman being tied up and brutally raped. It is extremely disturbing. At the top of the hill is the woman's name I believe, and it says "Rape Hill" again, indicating that the woman in the drawings was raped there.

Another thing in Jungle Habitat that is of interest are the junk altars. There are rock formations on the ground in deliberate circular and pentagram patterns all over the different roadways that wind in and out of the woods. Near each rock pattern is a monolithic altar of rusted chairs and metal junk that is placed there for worshipping purposes. It gives you chills just to see these things. As if this isn't enough, while on duty over the summer of 2000, I was informed that one of the park rangers made an horrific discovery in the parking lot of Ramapo State Forest early one morning.

The carcasses of dozens of sacrificed and blood-drained goats and chickens were found in a giant pile on one side of the lot. This wasn't the first time this kind of incident has happened, but it was thought to have slowed down in recent years. When I asked about it, I was told that Ringwood, West Milford, Oakland, Wanaque and Bloomingdale are home to many sects of secret animal worshipping and sacrificing religions such as Santeria. However, this pile was very unusual to see dumped in the park and it has since led me to believe there is a connection between the Jungle Habitat junk altars and stone formations and the sacrificed animal bodies found down the road at the Ramapo Forest parking lot.
- God Vomit

When I was seventeen, my friends and I got drunk on Rheingold and started talking about ghosts and weird stuff. My friend Bill asked me if I wanted to see The Chapel of the Dead Nun. With half a bag on we drove to Morristown to see it. I was told she was encased in glass with a blue light shining on her. It was dark, and it was a creepy one-lane road. Bill pulled over in front of this little chapel on the side of the road and told me, “There she is!” We got out of the car to look, and being drunk, we got all freaked out and started screaming. We tore-ass out of there as quick as we could. I can’t even remember whether she was in there or not.  –Rusty Dooley

Take the Nun and Run

I am familiar with the Dead Nun on display on Western Avenue at the old icehouse on the estate of what is now the Fillipini Nunnery. She was, I believe, the founder of the order. I haven’t peeked in lately but I think they moved her inside because of possible vandalism.  –Merrill H.

Goin’ to the Chapel and We’re Gonna Get Weird

I grew up in the Livingston area and now live in Whippany and am in my mid-50s. When I was in my late teens and still dating, there was some kind of a religious estate in Morristown. I think that it was a convent for nuns. There was a two-lane country road going past the convent and a roadside chapel that was built into the side of a hill. The front of the chapel faced the road and, since a hill sloped up and away from the road, the one-story building actually went into the hillside. This resulted in it always being cold and damp inside of the chapel.

When I first started dating in this particular crowd, a girl suggested that they take me to see the Dead Nun. Not knowing exactly what it was, I agreed. From the road you really couldn't see any other buildings of the convent except the roadside chapel. We walked up to the door and they seemed to be wrought iron with stained glass. We pushed them open and went in. It was really dimly lit by religious candles. As we approached the front of the chapel, I could see what appeared to be a small altar and, going closer, saw that there was a glass partition or something, evidently to keep on-lookers away from what was going on at this altar.

As I looked through the glass, I could see a body lying in some kind of a coffin, which was open. Inside the coffin there was a human figure that seemed to be covered in a thin whitish substance, maybe wax or something–no one really knew.

Anyway, the story that I was told was that this was a nun that had founded the convent and, apparently, had done some type of special work. I'm sure that she wasn't a saint of even in the process of being beatified, but there was something special about her and, certainly, a special reason for her being displayed like this.

As I stood there, I guess that the coldness and dampness got the best of me, because I was suddenly really aware of how spooky and weird this whole thing was and I decided to wait outside by the car. Several years after this, I heard that the body of the Dead Nun was missing, either stolen or removed. –Al Evans

More stories on the Chapel of the Dead Nun can be found in Weird NJ issues #6, 8, 21, and the Roadside Guide special edition.

The Legend of the Mysterious Jackson Whites

FOR MANY YEARS NOW THERE HAVE BEEN STORIES of a degenerate race of people who live an isolated existence in the Ramapo Mountains.  As far back as the Revolutionary War, New Jerseyans have heard tales of a group of outcasts who take refuge in the northeastern hills of the state and inbreed to the point of mutation. The group has come to be known as the Jackson Whites.

Most commonly associated with the Ramapo Mountain peoples of Mahwah, Ringwood, and the southern New York state towns of Hillburn and Suffern, the moniker “Jackson Whites” has always been used as a derogatory name.  Who the term refers to, and how it has endured until the present, is most likely due to some less than scholarly texts that have transcribed legends as fact.

The document that was probably responsible for solidifying the Jackson Whites’ legend was a 1936 book entitled The Origins of the Jackson Whites of the Ramapo Mountains by John C. Storms.  Relying more heavily upon the day’s prevailing mythology than on personal investigation, Storms, a newspaper editor, exercised his penchant toward over embellishment and romanticism.  It was Storms’ contention that Tuscarora Indians were the first ingredient in a racial stew of people that would come to be known as Jackson Whites.

The second strain in the Jackson Whites’ bloodline, according to Storms, was contributed by Hessian mercenaries fighting for the British during America’s Revolutionary War.

“With no interest in the outcome of the military struggle, unfamiliar with the theory of ‘liberty’ for which the Americans were fighting, it is not to be wondered at that they proved unfaithful, and deserted the army at every opportunity.

In the fighting that took place in the vicinity of New York City, from the camps scattered throughout this region, and at the marches across New Jersey, these men, known by the general name of Hessians, fled to the nearest place of safety – the Ramapo Mountains. There was no possibility of escape, no opportunity to return to their native land, so they made for themselves homes in their retreat, mated with those they found already there, and reared families.”

The third supposed element in the Jackson Whites’ lineage was derived from English and West Indian Women who were forcibly brought to New York to serve as concubines for British soldiers. In 1783, the stockade of women was evacuated and the prisoners beat a hasty retreat along with British soldiers and Tories.

“Across the Hackensack Meadows, up the Saddle River valley, these derelicts made their way on foot....Pillaging of orchards and deliberate raids on fields and gardens provoked the farmers, who drove the wanderers on with hard words and often with harder blows, all of which was retaliated.  No one wanted these unfortunates...

At last, with Oakland past, the crowd entered the Ramapo Pass and soon found itself in a country that, while wild and inhospitable in character, yet offered the boon of peace; there was no one to drive them away.”

It would be escaped slaves, who, according to Storms, would contribute the final piece to the Jackson Whites’ ancestral puzzle.

“…it frequently happened that these escaped slaves would seek their own freedom, and the most accessible place and most secure was the fastness of the Ramapos...These people carried with them names of former masters, white acquaintances, or those that they had adopted.  Thus we sometimes find family names among them that are borne by prominent and socially acceptable white persons.”

Subsequent literary references to the Jackson Whites only reinforced the mythology.  The famous canine story writer Albert Payson Terhune of Pompton Lakes vilified his mountain dwelling neighbors in his 1925 book, Treasure.  And in his epic 1947 poem, "Paterson," William Carlos Williams concocted his own version of the Jackson Whites legacy, drawing obvious inspiration from the Storms history.

The Ramapough Mountain people will tell you a variety of stories to explain their own ancestry, intertwining elements of the Dutch, Hessian, and Tuscarora Indian sagas into their legacy. Most insist they are members of the Ramapough Lenape Indian Nation. They have been petitioning the Federal Government to be recognized as a legitimate American Indian tribe.  They have been recognized by the state governments of New Jersey and New York as such, but the federal Bureau of Indian Affairs has denied their petitions.

It is almost certain that the legends of the Jackson Whites were started by the white neighbors of the Ramapos to stereotype the mountain people.  While the Ramapough show a fierce pride in their unique identity, you would be hard pressed to find a person in Mahwah, Ringwood, or Hewitt that would call him or herself a Jackson Whites.  “Those people,” it would seem, are always to be found just over the next mountain.

From a Friend of the Jackson Whites

You may hear a lot of legends but if you were to meet some of these people they'd share their food and drink and they'd make you part of a friendship, which is deep and will always be there for you.  They don't take you and make you disappear deep in the woods.  They're not kidnappers.  They don't rape or kill people.

Their men are tall, big and strong. They provide for their families and the women love their children.  The kids grow up together and it’s a shame because of all this kind of publicity they get cornered out.  They don’t belong.  That's how they grow and feel about the outside world.  You probably work with one and don't even know it.  All they are are mixed breeds just like us.  None of us are really American.  At least they have the American Indian blood in their veins despite how it got there.

I know because I date a Jackson White.  My boyfriend worked for nine years in the same place.  Takes  care of my two girls from my previous ex and expects nothing back.  He's never hit or yelled at me for anything in the past fiveyears. He's honest and trust worthy and doesn't go out cheating and is always home helping with cooking, cleaning, etc.  And I'm NOT MISSING in the woods. This man can fix, build, paint, figure out anything and shouldn't be hurt over an article subjecting Jackson Whites as ghouls.

I'll take you to meet them any day and bring your cameras.  You'll find they are proud people.  May not have a lot of money, but they have electric, cable, water, phones, etc.  You should also see the Christmas lights at Christmas time.  Does this sound like a bunch of Hillbillies hiding out in the woods to you?  –A Friend and Family Member of the Jackson Whites

As Normal As You Are

How do people get the idea that the people of the Ramapo Mountains were murderers?  These people were not murderers and they are normal like you and me.  I am a science major at Stanford.  I have studied things about New Jersey since I was a child.  The name came about when back in the 1800s slaves that were shipped here for slavery and were raped by their "masters."  These people were not inbred.  The name Jackson came about when the man who had started it all whose last name was Jackson.  These did not result in people being mentally retarded or any abnormalities. You can read all the books and articles you want but I think I would know more about them because I am a Ramapo Mountain Indian and I am as normal as you are. –Evelyn

Those Beautiful Mountain People

Growing up in Suffern and having spent much time in nearby Mahwah, my own observation of the so-called "Jackson Whites" is that they are a very peaceful and beautiful people, but living without many modern amenities.  Of course, their community had its share of alcohol and fighting incidents, but the percentage of these incidents (compared to their numbers) never seemed particularly notable.  I do remember that many of the Jackson White women were very beautiful, with slender and yet very strong bodies, strong straight shoulders, incredible slate-grey eyes which could stop you in your tracks, and a beautiful light tan skin color.

Simply due to the very different lifestyles, and to the wide difference in income level between the two groups, there was some residual animosity and fear toward the Jackson Whites from the recently-emigrated "suburban dwellers" in Mahwah, Ramsey and Suffern.  This fear created some hostile folklore about the Jackson Whites, much of it untrue.  –Vinny

Defending (?) the Jackson Whites

I went to school with these people.  They work for the Wanaque Reservoir, drive our school buses, were our lunch aides in our elementary schools, and are overall a big part of our community.  Granted they are their own people.  If you don’t bother them, they aren’t gonna bother you.  How would all of you people like it if your home and family were known as freaks of nature?  All of their lives they were looked at as dangerous or made fun of for poverty or inbreeding.

A couple of interesting facts I learned from talking to my Jackson-White schoolmate in high school was that they do in fact inbreed, or have done so in the past, but usually only with cousins.  Also, the police only go up there if someone is dead because they will be attacked under other conditions.

Most of them never finish high school, but two out of the five with whom I grew up, and who were in my grade, finished high school and one of those two is now in college!  The women are the people who usually don’t finish high school, and it’s usually because they get pregnant.

Anyway, it has really bothered me to hear that people are traveling up there and bothering them. I mean they’re human too.  Oh, and about that electricity, they have phones and cable, which is more than I have.  I have a phone and electricity, but no cable!  –Liz from Caldwell College

If someone were to hold a beauty pageant and call it "Miss Passaic River" what would the final contestant look like? 

If it were Miss Colorado River she might be a busty blonde, with long smooth legs in a skimpy bikini.  If it were Miss Delaware River she would be a gorgeous redhead, giving speeches about joining the 4-H Club.  Miss Amazon River would be the most beautiful of all; green eyes, flowing black hair and a crown of orchids across her brow.

Miss Passaic River would be a disgusting, nightmare of a woman.  Envision an animated corpse draped in a gown of sewage.  She would appear on stage as a shriveled hag, dripping with dioxin.  Imagine the sickliest; most putrid woman you have ever known and she would take the prize.

The Passaic River is disgusting.  Her 90 miles of twisted shoreline serve as a garbage dump for millions of human consumers.  We pump our sewage and throw our trash into the same river that flows back into our homes as drinking water.  We shower in a watered down version of our own excrement; filtered, but tainted just the same. 

She has been left for dead, raped by her keepers and deserted, but is there no beauty left on the Passaic?  She has been trampled, trashed and abandoned, but does that mean she is ugly? Portrait painters have shown us that beauty can be found in even the lowest of women.  Photographers will tell you that pictures of corpses tend to take on a life of their own.  Is it possible to find secret beauty intact on the Passaic?

These are the thoughts I was pondering as Mr. D and I strapped the canoe to my car.  Spring was still a week away and the ice had barely melted.  It was an unseasonably warm day, but even though we were wearing t-shirts, the water remained deathly cold.  We had to be very careful not to fall in the river.   I had been accumulating gear, learning survival techniques and planning all winter for this expedition.  In the summer of 2006 I had explored most of the upper Passaic, paddling the Nightshade from West Paterson all the way to Basking Ridge.  It took many separate trips to cover this distance and over the winter break, I itched to buy an outboard motor to extend my range.

The snow was still falling when I purchased the engine.  Craig’s List was good to me and I found a deal on a beautifully ancient, 3-horsepower Tecumseh outboard.  I put a little work into her, installed a mount on the Nightshade, and now we were on our way.  It was the first warm day in months and I could feel the excitement rising.  I had been looking forward to this for a long time.

One of my favorite launching spots on the Passaic is the Essex County Environmental Center in Roseland.  I went to summer camp there as a kid, and it was the first place I had ever set foot in a canoe.  The motor’s maiden voyage would be from the same riverbank where I had first canoed, more than 20 years before.  Now, in my 30th year I was returning full circle to the Passaic of my childhood, except this time I had 3 horses to push upstream instead of 2 paddles.

Mr. D, helped me load the Nightshade with survival gear:  Extra clothes, towels, fire making supplies, Bondo for patching the boat, knives, hatchet, first aid kit; everything wrapped tight in it’s own waterproof Ziploc.  I lashed the extra gasoline to the gunwales, tightened the motor clamps and off we shoved into the shimmering brown water.  Mr. D paddled out and pointed us upstream, while I choked the motor and opened the fuel line.  One pull and she started, blowing blue smoke and gurgling on her way.  I opened her up and we were cruising, smiles on our faces.  I was back on the hunt.  Searching for the elusive beauty of the secret Passaic.

The river was swollen with melting snow, but the motor propelled the Nightshade upstream like a tireless otter.  We breezed by the buzzing power plant, under the sagging train trestle, beneath the Rt. 10 Bridge and beyond.  Passing the Fernwood Golf Course, we spotted a congregation of golfers taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. 

They were putting on a green right next to the river and the 2-stroke knock of my engine interrupted their game.  I yelled up to Mr. D in the bow, “Lets give ‘em the finger!”  Mr. D turned around and smiled, but elected not to join me in flipping off the golfers.  It’s not in his nature to be disrespectful so I didn’t hold it against him.  I however used both hands, middle finger’s skyward, and Mr. D at least joined me in a laugh at their expense.

The next day wasn’t as warm, but I was impatient, and couldn’t wait to get back on the river.  This time I brought two gallons of gas and set out on a riskier mission.  Mr. D had the day off, so accompanied me again in the canoe.  We launched at the sewage treatment plant in Little Falls braving the mighty torrent of cold current, coursing toward the waterfall. 

A mile above the falls, the Pompton River pours into the Passaic, almost doubling her girth.  During the wet season, this stretch is one of the most turbulent and dangerous sections of the upper river.  In high seas, the current runs fast and deep, pulling everything towards the cliffs. 

In the summer of 2006, I braved these waters alone in the Nightshade with only a paddle and my experience to propel me.  To my surprise, it took me less than 3 minutes to float downstream, within sight of the raging falls.  I wasn’t used to moving this fast on the Passaic and I felt like I might be in trouble.  Once past the island, I crossed the river, all the while being swept downstream.  When the Nightshade finally touched shore, just above the Mill, I had to stop and catch my breath.  Paddling across the current had taken me way too close to the dam.  It felt like the river was trying to eat me.

Simple geology and the hand of man are to blame for the tremendous current in Little Falls.  Just upstream from the dam, the river bends in a heavy arc, which pushes all the water against the far shore.  Conversely, the water is also rushing along the inside bank, because gravity always seeks the easiest path.  The falls add to the speed of the current, sucking water downriver like an engine drinking gasoline. 

This scenario does not make for pleasurable canoeing, but I knew if I hugged the shore, I could probably make it back.  Luckily the bank was lined with suburban homes.  If worse came to worse, I could always pull the Nightshade onto someone’s yard and walk back to the car.  I didn’t want to abandon ship just yet though, so I hunkered down and grabbed a paddle.

For two hours I fought the current, paddling at full bore.  Finally, with aching shoulders and a sore butt, I made it upstream to the landing spot.  The Passaic did everything in her power to wash me back, but I stuck to her shore and she was forced to let me pass.  I made it home that day, but others have not been so lucky.

One week later, I did my daily Google search for Passaic River news.  I was greeted with this headline:  N.J. Man Lost In River.  I scanned the article and sure enough, it was the same spot above the Mill in Little Falls.  27 year-old Joseph Rivera, his brother and two friends, were hanging out late, drinking some beers when they decided to canoe out to the island.  It seemed like a good idea, something fun to do, but shortly after launching, they realized they were in deep trouble.

While attempting to turn back, they somehow lost their paddles in the rough sea.  All four of them desperately used their hands to steer the canoe, but the makeshift rowing upset the boat, dumping them in the water.  Three guys made it back to shore.  Joseph Rivera did not.  State and local police used boats, jet skies and helicopters to try and find the body.  During the search, one of the police boats was smashed against rocks by the mighty current and two of the officers had to be saved themselves.

Two weeks later, Joseph Rivera’s body was finally found in an intake filter at the top of the Great Falls in Paterson.  The family identified him and the paper announced arrangements for his funeral.  I had been following the story very closely and I decided to attend the services.  Not only was I familiar with the power of this particular spot in the river, I had been on it just days before he died.  It was easy for me to picture the cold, black horror of those waters at night.  In my imagination, I relived Joseph Rivera’s death as if it were my own. 

I felt kind of weird, attending the funeral of a person I didn’t know, but I was strangely compelled not to miss it.  I wanted to witness the result of the river’s power.  I needed to see the reality behind the articles I had been reading.  I thought I could get a glimpse of what my own funeral might be like, but it didn’t go as expected.  The wake was very, very sad and my heart went out to his family for the suffering they were enduring.  I had always scoffed at life vests, but after attending the funeral, I put personal flotation at the top of my priority list. 

Now, on an afternoon in March, life jackets and survival gear in tow, I was returning to the same spot and the water was running high.  Even with a motor, I had learned my lesson about venturing past the island in Little Falls.  The illusion of power the motor provides is short lived when you suddenly find yourself confronted with mechanical failure.  You don’t want to be too close to those falls when the sheer pin snaps and your propeller won’t turn. 

Not to say that if you go over the falls you will definitely die, or lose your boat.  Properly outfitted with flotation devices, an experienced swimmer could easily make it to shore.  But it wasn’t the falls that killed Joseph Rivera.  The official cause of death from the coroner’s office was Hypothermia.  It was early November when the river took him, and at the time, the water was much warmer than my early March voyage.  The risk of hypothermia is real for anyone who falls into cold water and the trick is to be ready for anything.  The extra clothes and survival gear weigh down the canoe, but the boy scouts were right when they advised to “always be prepared." 

Besides, the motor made short work of the extra weight, as Mr. D and I bullied our way against the current.  The weather was in the high 40’s, which is a bit uncomfortable for humans, but the perfect temperature for running an air-cooled outboard.  Rough water and wind slapped against the hull of the Nightshade, but she made good progress upstream.  While chugging under the Pompton Avenue Bridge, the sound of the reverberating outboard upset a flock of pigeons.  We ducked our heads, narrowly missing an aerial bombardment of flying rat droppings. 

The sound of the motor attracted a more welcome form of attention when we passed Hooters.  Three waitresses on their smoke break waved to us and Mr. D turned around with a thumbs up and a smile.  It was smooth sailing ahead until we reached the bend in the river.  Suddenly we were confronted with a current so powerful, that Mr. D and I were forced to grab our respective paddles and dig in alongside the motor. 

Once past the bend, the water became manageable again and we put our paddles away.  I steered us into the quiet water along the shore, sailed underneath Rt. 46 and then Rt. 280, marveling at the sturdiness of the aging concrete.  As Two Bridges Road came into sight, the current churned in the wind, but we pushed on in the shallows.  Finally, with great relief, we made it past the Pompton River junction and emerged onto a more placid section of the Passaic…  The Great Piece Meadows.