Oasis In The Sky (Eighth Leg)

With our bellies full and our feet somewhat rested, we continued down along the river walk. As we neared 145th Street, a monolith rose up on the riverbank, blocking our fairly straight stroll from the Little Red Lighthouse that pretty much hugged the shoreline all the way down. It was the "oasis in the sky" called Riverbank Park.

I knew exactly two things about this park: 1) it was built over a sewage treatment plant -- ewwww--and 2) One of two legendary NY Knicks from those amazing teams of the 1970s (either Earl Monroe or Willis Reed) had attached his name to a steakhouse that was built in this park. Maybe because some people couldn't see the appetizing aspects of dining over a sewage treatment plant, either the restaurant had closed or changed ownership and lost its celebrity status.

Bikers have to take a path on the ground that goes underneath the West Side Highway and around the plant. Those of us on two feet (instead of two wheels) could do the same, or take the rather hard-to-find entrance to a concrete slab with elevator. In no more time than two or three shakes of a lamb's tail, we were whisked skyward and the elevator's doors were opening onto this vista:

A short trot away from the elevator brought us to the door of the "former celebrity" restaurant

now called "The River Room" (situated at the end of the drive that brings cars through the 145th Street entrance to the park). Decor is minimal, but really not needed with the floor to ceiling windows offering a glorious vista west and north up the Hudson. Perusing the brunch menu, the mostly southern cuisine reads appetizingly, but our "Al Fresco" Cuban lunch blunts our desire to indulge in our favorite sport.

Speaking of sports, Manhattan athletes should be having a "field day" up here (though I have a feeling Riverbank Park is not on the radar of many city-dwellers). Among the ample foliage, park benches, manicured lawns, wide cement walkways and tree-lined boulevards, is a cornucopia of athletic facilities -- indoor pool, outdoor track and soccer field, basketball, tennis, handball courts, jungle gyms -- and even a hockey/roller rink! And, at least on this very hot day, no "odor d'sanitation." Can you say "athlete's paradise?"

My one major disappointment about Riverbank Park: When you see a delicious-looking sign like this...dare you hope for a delightful-looking dessert cafe filled with home-made treats, or at least a gourmet gelato cart?

I should have known better. What we found was a dingy counter selling Wise potato chips and stale-looking packaged cookies and muffins, with an unappealing freezer case filled with manufactured ice pops, imitation ice cream sandwiches and too-hard-to-break-through chocolate covering ice cream cones (and I was not going to waste one calorie or one point on my glucose meter for these poor imitations of my favorite dessert).

I digress here to air a major peeve...the lack of places to buy home-made ice cream or creamy gelatos in a metropolis of this size is appalling! Barcelona has a gelato cart or store, brimming with an incredible array of flavors looking fluffy (almost cloud-like) on nearly every corner. South American cities like Buenos Aires and Rio take great pride in their renditions of the cold, creamy stuff. Nearly every town you stumble upon in rural New England boasts at least one home-made or regional ice-cream. I can count on one hand the number of gelatarias in New York -- with Le Arte del Gelato and Cones (an Argentine export) the best two. GROM is overrated, especially if you're not a chocolate fan (I am not). And, all these stores are concentrated in a three-to-four block radius in the Greenwich Village. Wake up, New York, and start churning!

Did I mention the lovely patch of "community gardens" in Riverbank Park? The pictures say it so much more eloquently than I.

I haven't said much about Nature Girl (aka Sacajawea) on this part of the trip. Let me just say that when Sac decides to detour from the paved trail to make sure we're walking as close to the water as possible, be afraid...be very afraid!

We're almost at the end of the first few hours of our quest...but there were one or two more surprises in store.

Let's Talk About Food (Seventh Leg)

It's about time that I connected the dots to the name of this blog ... "Will Walk For Food..."

As anyone who knows Nature Girl and me, we will do (practically) anything for food. Now we're talking about my "real sport" ... great eating! Sure, recent medical issues have narrowed the scope of my actual intake (most of the time), but my mind is as filled with delicious thoughts of the next meal, and the one after that, and the one next Tuesday, and the ones during our next vacation...I can't remember the name of someone I met two minutes ago, but can tell you the name of the street in any given city where one of my favorite restaurants resides. What can I say...I love eating and especially eating out!

Aside from the burning question that informed this stroll -- can you actually walk from the top to the bottom of Manhattan along the Hudson River without losing sight of the river -- the second, and possibly stronger, motive had to do with an article I read at the beginning of the summer that talked about alfresco food stands and cafes near Inwood Park and down through West Harlem that seemed close to the river. Rather than just drive to each of them, I opted for a good way to keep the calorie count down, even if some of the dishes consumed were a tad on the heavy or fat-laden side.

I believe it was just after noon as we arrived in a picnic area around 155th Street (one of the sites you can see from the West Side Highway, usually full-to-bursting with cars and people, clustered around the few picnic tables or set up around a grill with all manner of coolers and cookout accoutrement's...competing Latino music blasting from speakers at nearly every site.Hunger pangs were starting to become an issue (as I said earlier, I ate very little breakfast, which was a definite mistake) and the heat was beginning to deplete what inner resources I had stored up from last night's dinner (at a good seafood restaurant in Irvington, Westchester County, called River City Grille). It was then that we realized that we actually hadn't seen any stand or cafe at along the trek -- not even the ubiquitous city hot dog carts (my dad's favorite "dirty water dogs")! Would this mean that we'd have to "beg for food" from one of the many barbecues and picnics we were passing? Or, take a detour from the "straight and narrow" and break our own rule of losing sight of the river for some vittles on Broadway?

Just as I was calculating how much 'cue I could get from nearby happy campers in a trade for NG's services, a wonderful mirage appeared on the horizon...in the form of a food truck! Oh joy...oh rapture...oh salvation from certain starvation! As we got closer, it got even better...Though, by this time, I would have lived with cold, miserable gruel, the woman was serving what looked like manna from heaven. Puerto Rican fare...something akin to chicken empanadas, fried pork, non-sweet plantains -- and cold sodas and water. Could life be more perfect? We stopped salivating long enough to give her our orders,

took the food to nearby benches overlooking the Hudson...let the eating begin!

With a huge squirt or three of lime, that pork was singing...and doing a "happy dance" in my mouth. The pork had just the right amount of fat to keep the meat moist...and the plantains helped offset the fat with their starchy texture and almost no real flavor. Visions of a sugar rush danced in my head...but hoped the exercise from the walking would offset it a bit. Time to throw in a commercial message from the people who help keep my body and soul together. A great wine for this meal would easily have been Valentin Bianchi's Elsa or Famiglia Bianchi Malbecs...two great and inexpensive examples of this extremely "garlic and meat-friendly" red wine (so now everyone knows what I do for a living -- publicize wine). But, all promotion aside, the pork and Argentine Malbec would be a terrific pairing (so would Syrah and probably South African Pinotage, like those from Simonsig). Of course, with the temperature certainly around 90 by this time, cold water seemed more in order.

We sat there, happily munching away, and feasting on this view:

After about 15 minutes, we were fortified and back on our feet for what would soon be our next surprising discovery on the stroll...

Hidden City (Sixth Leg)

Am I the only rabid Manhattan history buff who never heard of the Little Red Lighthouse, as in "The Little Red Lighthouse and the Big Gray Bridge." It was a children's book written in the late 1950s...totally missed me. That's why NC and I were both quite taken aback when we strolled down the path that winds right under the east stanchion of the GWB, opening up to a somewhat grassy expanse leading right down to the riverbank, with a few picnic tables, and "the little red lighthouse."

Like a lot of New Yorkers, the little red lighthouse is a New Jersey transplant. Something about it being originally in Point Pleasant (or one of those Jersey Shore points) and being transferred here in 1921 -- a mere 10 years before the GWB was constructed on the exact same site. Decommissioned in 1961 (or somewhere thereabouts), the lighthouse was almost removed. But, the bridge cried and cried at the thought of losing it's little red buddy...so it was allowed to remain in the shade of it's big friend. Well--that might not be exactly how the lighthouse was spared, but it's all on the sign I rested my wearying head on.

This is also a major stop for bikers along the path to catch their breath...and below are two doing just that! Though, once again, we never got their names, they were kind enough to take the photo of NC and me that accompanies our bio on this blog.

There were tons of bikers scooting along the trail...in all shapes, sizes, genders and abilities. Considering the heat, they were all doing yeoman's duty, chugging along. Once you hit the bridge and the lighthouse (figuratively, I hope), coming down from the north country, the path stays close to the shoreline -- a bit curvy but with very few natural hills or dips. And, remarkably, few potholes. From approximately 170th Street down to 145th, the trail turns into a picture postcard worthy expanse of parkland, flanked by the river and NJ to the west and, to the east, an alternating vista of foliage, man-made stone walls sitting atop Manhattan Island "terrior" (that's a wine term for the land...my first wine reference), pseudo-wild foliage and various views (high, low and in between) of my favorite Manhattan highway -- the West Side Highway. How many people know that it's also named after "joltin' Joe" DiMaggio?

I was amazed that we found so many city denizens enjoying this lovely riverside park in so many different ways...from fishing to flirting (I just had to get that guy's tattoos -- I think it's the every-popular Spider man pattern).

There was little tree cover along our path, so I thought the sun was finally getting to me when I spied what seemed like a beach...and honest-to-sandness beach...at river's edge. Could this scene of a dog paddling out to fetch a stick, with sand and rocks all around, not have come from Sag Harbor or some other Long Island Sound beach? And, the beauty of it is that the West Side Highway is obscured at this point, so no one can see this beach from the road. In fact, from the Little Red Lighthouse, all the way down this stretch, you can't see the tennis courts, picnic tables, basketball courts...and this beach! A hidden part of the city...

"I Hear The Train A Comin'...It's Rolling Round The Bend" (Fifth Leg)

The sun beating down...the sea grass waving in the (very) occasional breeze...possible danger lurking behind every bush and around every tree! And, why didn't I eat any breakfast?

I'm feeling a bit faint...

We're not in the savanna, but on a stretch of trail hugging the Hudson River south of Dyckman Street. We left all those happy kayakers behind and are strolling along a mostly deserted path that seems to get smaller and smaller with every few steps...or is it just that the tree branches are spilling across the walkway for lack of trimming and the thicket of bramble, bushes and tall grass largely obscuring the river view (save a few clearings like this),

are starting to close in on us! No, the path really is getting smaller.

And then there are these strange side trails leading down to the river. Hmmmm...

NG had some thoughts of what they were being used for, but I am trying to keep this blog as PG as possible...and isn't it more exciting to leave such musings to the imagination? Or, as The Band's Levon Helm said in "The Last Waltz" -- "I thought you weren't supposed to talk about stuff like that."

Suddenly, a rumbling in the distance...

We are mighty close to those old Hudson River line tracks! At least there's a fence between those hurtling engines and us. But, I spoke too soon... Sacajawea has forged ahead and she

suddenly disappears from view. Rounding a bend at an accelerated clip, I see that the path has officially ended. This being New York, that means little to enterprising walkers who forged this trail before us. There's a massive hole in the fence that separated us the certain doom of being sucked into the speeding train's tailwind. Like Alice going through the looking glass, we step over the line and onto small stones that are embedding the tracks...and those tracks are now a mere five or six feet away!

We make our way gingerly over the stones, and I can swear that the tracks and the fence are getting closer and closer together.

Images of being squeezed, like those movies where the intrepid heroes are thrown into a giant trash compactor and the walls start moving towards them, are playing in my mind as we pick up the pace to make it to what we hope is going to be another hole to safety before the 10:35 comes roaring down from Yonkers.

Suddenly, we see him, like a shimmying mirage that those dying of thirst in the Sarah see just at the horizon. Can it be a guy sitting on a piling on the northbound side of the train, with a T-shirt cut up to his breast bones, reading a book? There's no view of the river, or anything save the hurtling trains, and yet, there he sits, reading a book. How had he even gotten over there?

Now, the trail is really getting narrow...I could probably touch the third rail with my big toe with not too much of a stretch (upon reflection, I actually don't think Metro North trains have a third rail -- should look it up to see exactly how much danger we were in). And, yet, no visible exit hole in the fence. I'm having fevered visions of us having to turn around and walk all the way back...approximately 1/2 hour's walk back...to Dyckman Street, then follow the bike path up a very, very steep hill to Riverside Drive. In the (starting to) sweltering heat. Time to take action.

I shout across to 'the reader,' "is there a hole in the fence down there?" He looks up, not at all startled, and just points to where the tracks are nearly touching the fence. Sacajawea is ahead...and again, she disappears.

Through what he was pointing at:

I am through this rabbit hole, quick like a bunny, and there is Sac with a smirk that says

"are we having some fun, now?"

But, who got the "last laugh" when Sac scampered up the dirt embankment and did a rather bad imitation of a much more elegant slide she took (many, many eons ago) down a mountainside with a just-cut Christmas tree (which I caught with my pre-digital camera: "all from the mind of an Minolta"). My reflexes not being what they once were, I missed the actual stumble, but caught an instant of pre-recovery. Being the much better balanced of the two of us (that last statement is debatable, in so very many ways), as well as the more cautious and gingerly, I made it to the top without stumble or incident. Back to the road more traveled...

Our 45 minutes of uncertainty, doubt and trepidation (as well as a few curses and good laughs) was now behind us as we forged down the slope to both a mighty, and a tiny, Hudson River monuments...