Just in time for leaf-peeping season, New England and upstate New York have been slammed by Hurricane Irene. I have seen plenty of photos of the Passaic River roiling and have heard that Irene was a bust, little has been said about what happened after the hurricane turned tropical storm and swept northwards past the large population centers.
Normally picturesque towns have been swept off their foundations. Bridges have buckled. Souvenirs are swimming in mud. Antiques are scattered across main street. Cattle drowned.
This picture is repeated across the upper reaches of New England and New York, but is barely reported outside of the region. With the heavy fall foliage travel season coming, the devastation could be a real factor on whether planned vacations happen. Of course the leaf colors will change but will bridges be rebuilt, will villages be tidied up and where are visitors going to stay.
Here is a riveting first-person tale of the once-hurricane-now-tropical-storm’s path of destruction through the Catskills written by a friend-of-a-friend, Stephen Foreman.
We’ve seen many a Catskill mountain thunderstorm, tyrannical things with sheets and bolts of lightning coming from both earth and sky, an awesome show of force. But they don’t last very long. Then came Irene: no thunder, no lightning, not even much wind, just relentless rain. Twelve straight and constant hours of it. It was like being trapped in a room as the water rises above your neck. A Poe story. The Titanic.
Our house survived with no damage but a flood in the basement, but the river in front of the house slammed at a harsh angle into our stream emptying into it, and the road basically buckled and blew.
Move over, sucka! Road never had a chance. Mind-blowing destruction everywhere. A farmer nearby watched 200 of his cows drown when the river took out his pasture.
Prattsville, where I often find myself, was destroyed. Victory Market took in four feet of water. Agway pushed off its foundation and filled with mud, friends stuck on the roof watching the water rise as the Nat’l Guard sent for more boats. It’s transfixing to watch big maples and ash trees churn by at high speed as boulders grind along the bottom. Power and phone were (and are) out in Spruceton Valley. Friends stranded up the valley walked out to where they could be evacuated by the Nat’l Guard.
I opted to stay, figuring I had enough food and water for a week which was the estimate we were given. There would be others within walking distance, and, anyway, I had to find a way to the auto mechanic to have my brakes fixed at 8am next.
I hear of a possible route, so, fingers crossed, I drive down the valley astonished at the destruction, cross the final bridge past a sign I ignored, and take a bunch of back roads (cf: Robert Mitchum, Thunder Road, ca. 1953) which eventually get me to Haines Falls Auto.
OK. Got the brakes fixed, bought food and dog food, and headed back over the mountains, reach bridge #1 — remember the sign I ignored? — am stopped by a roadblock of state police, Nat’l Guard, and highway guys who tell me that if I go in I can’t get out for a week… plus I had to leave my car and walk. Not one more vehicle was going over that bridge.
Four miles up through a flood zone? With shopping bags in one hand and my ancient, crippled dachshund under the arm opposite? “Come on, Brad!” (I know the fellow. His father used to have a dairy farm on Jenkins Flats). The bridge had a one-foot tear in it since I crossed that morning and was twisting counterclockwise.
A plan developed. There was a government truck on the other side of the bridge. He’d give me a ride up and leave me there, or he’d wait fifteen minutes for me to pack my bag. “Twenty minutes, ” I said to Brad.
“Fifteen.” “Come on!” “Just go!” Twenty minutes later, after packing a bag and turning off all the power switches, I’m in a truck being evacuated from my own home.
So now I’m safe in Boston with the kids. I’m the fortunate one. A man in his eighties watched from his garage as his wife drowned in the kitchen. They’d been married a lifetime, and she had been a Holocaust survivor.
It’s not over. Thousands of residents across New York, Vermont and New Hampshire are still without power. Villages have only rudimentary communications with larger towns. Mud still covers swaths of hamlets. But, the cleanup while, perhaps, not-so-fast is furious. Restauranteurs, hoteliers, bakeries, shopkeepers and the townfolk get ready for their big touristic rite of autumn that is coming soon.
If you or clients have plans to visit the area for the fall foliage season, make sure to call ahead and get the facts about your destination. This is not the time to cancel your trip, but rather, a time to commit yourself to the trip. This is the time when hearty New Englanders can use the tourism love. There may be some rough edges, but after living there for the past decade, they will be ready for a few visitors other than construction folk.
And, when you hear, “You can’t get there from here,” it just might be true.
Photo: from www.timeshareresaleblogs.com
Charlie Leocha is the President of Travelers United. He has been working in Washington, DC, for the past 14 years with Congress, the Department of Transportation, and industry stakeholders on travel issues. He was the first consumer representative to the Advisory Committee for Aviation Consumer Protections appointed by the Secretary of Transportation from 2012 through 2018.
