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Here was the first post by this title. I’ve been back for a few days, but it’s been hard to transition from my jaunt in Utah areas of wilderness back to the densely settled areas in and around the sixth boro of NYC. I didn’t take the foto below of Binghamton, but her time is clearly running out. If you notice human/mechanical demolition (as opposed to destruction by natural erosion . . . as in the desert) happening, please get in touch or send me fotos? This was taken Friday during the rain by Allan and Sally, whose sweet vessel you’ll see later. I did three posts early October 2011 about Binghamton, then ravaged by Hurricane Irene.
I caught this foto of Miller Boys yesterday when it seemed the winds were blowing more rain in.
Ellen McAllister was moving this “unmarked” McAllister tug (anyone recognize it?) around the yard. Info follows, thanks to Birk Thomas. That’s Cashman’s Lynx in the background.
Also in Mariner’s Harbor, it’s Mark McAllister, not typically a sixth boro boat.
Potomac stands off with Lower Manhattan in the background after an assist.
Over in North Cove, expedition yacht Copasetic costs more than twice any of the tugs appearing in this post; that bow is inspired by much larger ships.
And finally, my host vessel for a jaunt and great conversation . . . the Lord Nelson Victory tug Sally W, operated by
Allan and Sally, who’ve kept this blog during their recent jaunt up to Ottawa. By the way, has anyone seen Chase, the long distance padleboarder?
Binghamton fotos by Sally. All others by Will Van Dorp.
In case you were not able (like me) to identify the tug alongside Ellen McAllister, it’s none other than Winslow C. Kelsey.
I gather from this article sent along by Jim McCrea that the death knell has rung for ferry Binghamton. See my posts here, here, and here. Alas, and all while being listed on the NJ and US Register of Historic Places . . . so much for that. Thanks, Jim.
An end comes for everything. Of course, false ends can be confusing. When Binghamton reached the end of its ferry life, she turned night spot. Here’s a 1926 Buick turned locomotive to run mail and passengers up into the mountains.
locomotive to run mail and passengers up into the mountains
along the Utah/Colorado border.
Note the people off to the left. Water, wind, and time scour away softer parts, making strange shapes with the more resistant, and scouring
the rest. That’s the Colorado in the distance looking
to continue its sculpting of the Canyonlands into buttes and mesas.
Click here on more of the surviving galloping geese.
Some of you asked what became of the faux sidewheeler that had been beside Binghamton. Here’s a foto I took in June. In July it was still this way.
Note the row of clerestory windows above the coverings on the top deck of the real Binghamton. They serve to backlight
the above ovoid on some old google maps and lots of shoreside constructs with (to newcomers) an implusible Binghamton in the name: Binghamton Raquetball, Binghaton Deli, Binghamton Plaza, Binghamton Estates . . . .
No phantasmagoria today, just the cold hard facts, or in this case . . . the wet, crumbling ones: exploring Binghamton felt like visiting a hospice. Hopes to see what remained in the engine room were dashed halfway down the companionway below the main deck. Nasty cafe au lait post-Irene river water, at least five feet of it at this point, barred the way. It didn’t seem a heathy or productive place to snorkel.
In this section of the menu, I love the last sentence of the fifth paragraph: ”She took the population of the eastern United States eight times around the world,” and she did so without leaving that section of the river between Barclay Street pier (now no more) and Hoboken. Fotos of Binghamton at work can be found in Railroad Ferries of the Hudson: and stories of a deckhand by Baxter and Adams, which I highly recommend.
The craziness of the internet where nothing dies is illustrated by this restaurant review of Binghamton. Wonder what would happen if you called that number to make a reservation.
name I’ve heard, I can’t recall it. (Note: thanks to Les, pantograph gates, they are.)
On the floor of the main deck . . . lay this 3′ x 4′ foto of an unidentified happy couple from maybe not even that long ago who chose this vehicle to take them to “that other side . . ,” a foto soon to be obliterated by . . . the river and time.
I walk into this bar . . . on the river across from Manhattan. It’s to be a day of revelry with the veiled but elegant woman on my arm. I don’t know her myself, but this happens to be that kind of day.
The ceiling is wood and festooned with pine boughs, the finest plastic to be sure, but I fancy greenery of any carbon form. The refined joinery is so palpable . . . I feel light-headed . . a good thing because the wine
(Hear the quoted section with a French accent) ”Monsieur et madame . . . we are currently hoping to refurbish our establishment. Maybe I can
At this very moment, my lunch partner begins to remove her veil. Then she stands and walks toward the river side of the restaurant.
The waiter, by now trembling, shouts, “Madame . . . do not go through that door! Stop!