New York City, New York State //
Through the supply line
NYC's Croton Aqueduct and High Bridge
Date September 2009
Posted January 2011
Posted January 2011
After enduring NYC's worst subway services (G and L) and crossing most of the boroughs I arrived way up in The Bronx at 145th Street. The big damaged, weighty bag with questionable contents attracted only a passing glance from a group of NYPD cops standing around by the exit. At the top of the stairs the cool night air met me along with the sights and sounds expected at this hour: people hanging around on the streets, addicts hollering and drunks stumbling about, and somewhere nearby loud hip-hop beats were booming from an apartment. I reached into my pocket, found my phone and called.
An hour later our unnamed driver parked up in a shadowy part of the borough, up above the black swirling currents of the Harlem River. We got out, collected the bags from the boot and climbed over a rusty gate and into the park. Apart from a few silent and unmoving figures sat around on benches, it was deserted. Through the trees we could see the shape of the High Bridge. This mass of steelwork was built to ferry the old Croton Aqueduct across the river, carrying millions of gallons of water down into Manhattan from the Croton River. Long since disused, we sought a way in to investigate this curiosity.
The top of the bridge was once open to provide pedestrian access over the river between Manhattan and The Bronx. Now this walkway is closed, big steel gates installed to prevent access. We were prepared however - Shane had packed a rope and some slings, using which we were able to climb up, bypassing the barriers. Up on the walkway care was needed for a police station is sat down below not too far away. Keeping low Shane managed to find the manhole which would provide our way in, and together we set to work. A short while later we had managed to unseat the lid, but time was getting on. We left, happy in the knowledge that we could return the next day and jump straight in.
The following night we stood once again above the heavy cover, both leaning back grasping nylon climbing slings. Eventually the lid began to move again, allowing us to drag it clear of it's seat. Warm musty air drifted up from the darkness below, illuminated suddenly as Shane switched on a torch. Down below we could see the huge iron pipe contained within the bridge, but little else - certainly no ladder to get us down the 6 meters to the floor of the cavity. Disappointment was inevitable so we retired to some wasteland to drink malt liquor and watch amazingly long freight trains arrive from upstate.
Herein though was the fun of being a 'local', temporary as it was. This particular project was one of at least four that took multiple visits, each time journeying by subway late at night across the city, putting a few more pieces into place (or sometimes none at all) before returning home again. Such availability garnished success in the end - in this particular case the conclusion was brought about with a few rope ladders, this time Eric also in attendance.
The huge metal pipes in the pictures were built to carry water through the bridge cavity, linking the brick-lined sections of tunnel on either side of the river. Entrance to the pipe is found through a big hole cut into the riveted metalwork. Having found this we tramped over to The Bronx side of the bridge where the pipe emerges into a junction chamber. From this point the tunnel continues upstream, and is followable for some distance before becoming impassable. With other things to look at we didn't venture too far, instead turning back to take a look at the Manhattan end of the bridge. The situation here was similar, with passage possible some distance into Manhattan as walked previously by Steve Duncan, siologen and others.
For those in the know, stories about accessing the Croton Aqueduct through the High Bridge can never be complete without mention of the 'Sucide Waterslide'. This 'experience' received its name because those who participate may well be taking their own lives, inadvertently perhaps, but nonetheless stupidly. There's a mild irony to this when you consider that the aqueduct was built to supply clean water to Manhattan, combating disease epidemics and so helping the evolution of our species. To add some context, the slide itself is an egg-shaped Victorian-era overflow pipe, which would once have taken excess flow from the aqueduct and sent it down to the Harlem River. The grassy river bank gives a good idea of the gradient - it's steep. Really steep.
Prepared (for a change) we had brought with us a little blue plastic sled, which would comfortably negate the coefficient of friction and allow a fast downward descend. Shane stepped up first, and didn't seem to be worried that things in the tunnel might have changed since his last visit. For example, there may be fallen bricks, a complete collapse, or the tunnel (which levels off for a short while before reachiing a dead-end) may be back-filled to some depth with freezing cold rainwater. "Nah man, it'll be alright". He summarily stepped into the breach, positioned himself on the sled, and cast off.
His shouts echoing up, but quickly fading as he flew off down into the darkness, suggested a mixture of fear and excitement. About 20 seconds later, all was quiet, and then we could see the far-off glow of a torch - Shane had survived and was climbing back up the pipe. Now it was my turn. A few warnings were issued: namely, don't stick your foot out to try to slow down, it'll probably be ripped off, and keep your head back so you don't crack it on the ceiling when the tunnel levels off. Quickly I sought composure, egged on by the others (Eric was still recovering from his City Hall injury and therefore had a bulletproof excuse). Finally I agreed to do it, and so began my descent, one which words can hardly describe. It's very, very, fast.
To illustrate this, and of course for your entertainment, here's a video courtesy of No Promise Of Safety...
Our tired and filthy rabble sought beer and rest, but first we had to leave the bridge, which seemed an arduous effort given the relatively short distance back up to the walkway. Oh, and the lingering smoke released by half a dozen road flares, just for fun. Back up on the bridge the air was fresher, the Moon shone across a clear sky, the homeless guys in the park continued to sleep and all was quiet down below. For the hundredth time that day alone I looked down at my ragged, stained clothes and asked myself just what the hell I was doing. Over the following week it became clear that such a question would never be answered: things were about to get awfully deep.
An hour later our unnamed driver parked up in a shadowy part of the borough, up above the black swirling currents of the Harlem River. We got out, collected the bags from the boot and climbed over a rusty gate and into the park. Apart from a few silent and unmoving figures sat around on benches, it was deserted. Through the trees we could see the shape of the High Bridge. This mass of steelwork was built to ferry the old Croton Aqueduct across the river, carrying millions of gallons of water down into Manhattan from the Croton River. Long since disused, we sought a way in to investigate this curiosity.
The top of the bridge was once open to provide pedestrian access over the river between Manhattan and The Bronx. Now this walkway is closed, big steel gates installed to prevent access. We were prepared however - Shane had packed a rope and some slings, using which we were able to climb up, bypassing the barriers. Up on the walkway care was needed for a police station is sat down below not too far away. Keeping low Shane managed to find the manhole which would provide our way in, and together we set to work. A short while later we had managed to unseat the lid, but time was getting on. We left, happy in the knowledge that we could return the next day and jump straight in.
The following night we stood once again above the heavy cover, both leaning back grasping nylon climbing slings. Eventually the lid began to move again, allowing us to drag it clear of it's seat. Warm musty air drifted up from the darkness below, illuminated suddenly as Shane switched on a torch. Down below we could see the huge iron pipe contained within the bridge, but little else - certainly no ladder to get us down the 6 meters to the floor of the cavity. Disappointment was inevitable so we retired to some wasteland to drink malt liquor and watch amazingly long freight trains arrive from upstate.
Herein though was the fun of being a 'local', temporary as it was. This particular project was one of at least four that took multiple visits, each time journeying by subway late at night across the city, putting a few more pieces into place (or sometimes none at all) before returning home again. Such availability garnished success in the end - in this particular case the conclusion was brought about with a few rope ladders, this time Eric also in attendance.
The huge metal pipes in the pictures were built to carry water through the bridge cavity, linking the brick-lined sections of tunnel on either side of the river. Entrance to the pipe is found through a big hole cut into the riveted metalwork. Having found this we tramped over to The Bronx side of the bridge where the pipe emerges into a junction chamber. From this point the tunnel continues upstream, and is followable for some distance before becoming impassable. With other things to look at we didn't venture too far, instead turning back to take a look at the Manhattan end of the bridge. The situation here was similar, with passage possible some distance into Manhattan as walked previously by Steve Duncan, siologen and others.
For those in the know, stories about accessing the Croton Aqueduct through the High Bridge can never be complete without mention of the 'Sucide Waterslide'. This 'experience' received its name because those who participate may well be taking their own lives, inadvertently perhaps, but nonetheless stupidly. There's a mild irony to this when you consider that the aqueduct was built to supply clean water to Manhattan, combating disease epidemics and so helping the evolution of our species. To add some context, the slide itself is an egg-shaped Victorian-era overflow pipe, which would once have taken excess flow from the aqueduct and sent it down to the Harlem River. The grassy river bank gives a good idea of the gradient - it's steep. Really steep.
Prepared (for a change) we had brought with us a little blue plastic sled, which would comfortably negate the coefficient of friction and allow a fast downward descend. Shane stepped up first, and didn't seem to be worried that things in the tunnel might have changed since his last visit. For example, there may be fallen bricks, a complete collapse, or the tunnel (which levels off for a short while before reachiing a dead-end) may be back-filled to some depth with freezing cold rainwater. "Nah man, it'll be alright". He summarily stepped into the breach, positioned himself on the sled, and cast off.
His shouts echoing up, but quickly fading as he flew off down into the darkness, suggested a mixture of fear and excitement. About 20 seconds later, all was quiet, and then we could see the far-off glow of a torch - Shane had survived and was climbing back up the pipe. Now it was my turn. A few warnings were issued: namely, don't stick your foot out to try to slow down, it'll probably be ripped off, and keep your head back so you don't crack it on the ceiling when the tunnel levels off. Quickly I sought composure, egged on by the others (Eric was still recovering from his City Hall injury and therefore had a bulletproof excuse). Finally I agreed to do it, and so began my descent, one which words can hardly describe. It's very, very, fast.
To illustrate this, and of course for your entertainment, here's a video courtesy of No Promise Of Safety...
Our tired and filthy rabble sought beer and rest, but first we had to leave the bridge, which seemed an arduous effort given the relatively short distance back up to the walkway. Oh, and the lingering smoke released by half a dozen road flares, just for fun. Back up on the bridge the air was fresher, the Moon shone across a clear sky, the homeless guys in the park continued to sleep and all was quiet down below. For the hundredth time that day alone I looked down at my ragged, stained clothes and asked myself just what the hell I was doing. Over the following week it became clear that such a question would never be answered: things were about to get awfully deep.
