Traveling the Hudson by Train

I am transfixed by the landscape rushing past the windows of the train. To my west is the Hudson river at eye level, to the east are edges of towns and phragmities filled wetlands. Conversation floats about me in the car; I only break my enraptured state to occasionally snap a photograph.



The Hudson river is a magical being. An estuary, it pulses with the tides, which influence the river as far north as Troy, 150 miles from its mouth. Where I grew up it is nearly a mile wide; at its widest it is an expansive three and one half miles. I don't remember the exact location of this widest point, but experience the widening of the river as we head south. Ice floes fill the river when I being my journey, but becomes sparser as I travel southwards.



Giant icicles and frozen waterfalls grace the steep rock walls of the ancient mountains that the train tracks are cut into. Now laughable by most standards, these eroded hills once towered higher than the Colorado Rockies. Humans and the train are just one small erosive force on this ancient rock.

At one point two white-tailed deer race along the road next to the train; running from this metal giant that echoes its presence loudly.

As we draw closer to the city I feel the closing in of the giant metropolis of New York. We slowly cross an arm of the river and head underground; even this giant vehicle is dwarfed and sent to ground by the density of humanity here.