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A mentor in Vermont researches sasquatch legends in the ravines of the Green Mountains. Sasquatch did not come to mind last week when I espied this figure atop a Hudson cliff; rather I thought of ghosts or at least a Washington Irving mountainman of the sort that bedeviled my ancestor Rip van Winkle‘s head with fuddling rum.
Upriver a bend, I identified the figure: a painter, one of a long tradition along the Hudson. What could he possible wish to capture on his canvas?
Chesapeake and a light barge passing Storm King, and
What if the proverbial “bear” for which the bridge is named was larger than a human, very hairy, and primitive? And who was Anthony? I’ll answer that last question later.