Journal from Berry’s Creek Tidal Study: 24 hours in.

9:00 1.75, 14,13,13 jk

Hour twenty-four. My brain pickled by caffeine. Paul talking of amphetamines. The dilemma of having Don's rescue craft in addition to the normal overhead of equipment. Don Smith whistling out of tune to "That'll Be The Day" by Linda Rondstadt while Paul plays the bass on his belt and an imaginary connective fret near his left shoulder.

What colonists saw in the New Jersey Meadowlands was a troublesome obstacle. Later it was seen as a mosquito-infested wasteland, a hole that needed filling. For decades it suffered neglect. 

That stern look greeted me as an intern at twenty, here in the cold of the control room of the Route 46 Bridge. But to remember Mattson is to hear the booming laugh, hands on hips or his howling paroxysms, arms across chest. Or a big, bad boy grin above that Lincolnesque beard. Chet Mattson, fearless leader, semicolon.

Alphonso Hernandez pulled the van off the road and we parked. "Now we walk." We grabbed the canvas bag out of the back, pulled some sampling tubes and set out into the reeds.

We had very little warning. The cops came from every direction.

Our team had assembled before dawn. Everything had to be in place at the appointed hour. We could not miss it, or all of our work would be wasted. We hit the bridge first.

Come across the GW Bridge and take Route 46 west. Pass through Fort Lee to Palisades Park, over Overpeck Creek and you'll come to lift bridge with turrets. Years ago, on the other side of the bridge was a small traffic circle, and facing the bridge stood Rosie's Diner.

We were in a pitched battle.

The garbage men were uniting. The Holland Tunnel was our stakeout. I sat in a New Jersey State Police car watching the garbage trucks flow out of the tunnel into Jersey and to the immense landfill known as 1C. After the truck we followed turned into its entrance off Route 7, the officer I was with pulled it over and issued the driver a summons.

Some battles had been won, but the garbage wars of the 70's and early 80's were still going on. The politics of local control had been suspended. That caused a lot of resentment with the 14 towns in the Meadowlands District. Payoffs were ending and business as usual wouldn't be usual for long.

1976

Out on Route 7 in summer the reeds get thick and wild. The Phragmites are higher than the cars and vans that ply this short stretch bumped over by a couple of bridges. The reeds frame the horizon. Glimpses into the marsh come sporadically, of radio towers and open water. No one walks this stretch.

1979

If the dozer moves you move.

Don Smith and I were were sitting in the Commission's orange Dodge pickup as the yellow monster bore down on us. But Don was non-chalant, sipping the cup of coffee from the truck at the base of this hill, pickup in gear and engine off. The packers had their tails up and the sounds of hydraulics filled the air as they reversed out their loads. T

The warnings were out. She was coming and it wasn't going to be pretty. It was blowing pretty hard already.

On Meadowlands Parkway, we were abandoning ship. Everyone said get out and so we were. The condos across the street were new but were right on the river.

1980

I can see in by looking out into the night.

This florescent lit diner is mirrored in the window by the darkness. The scalloped stainless steel panels and railroad car shape are classic. No Greek-deco artifice, no brick-face interior, real stainless steel and real formica and real naugahyde booths.

1979

The canoe went into the Kearny marsh with the help of my muddy leg. Don Smith looked at me and laughed. A veteran would have known how to push off, one leg in the canoe, body center low. Not me. We had parked behind the ballfield, unloaded the canoe, and went, unerringly through the green phrags of summer to the water's edge. What made this particular marsh marsh was probably a crushed pipe.