Chapter 20 Villages and Cities
Utica - Whitestown's Port
City?
For more than 150 years Utica was the fastest growing, most prosperous
and progressive community in upstate New York. In the 1780s, that was impossible
to imagine. All this area had to offer was a deteriorated fort and a couple
of cabins next to a stretch of river that was so shallow that man or beast
could cross it with ease except during the Spring runoff. There was no
millstream: the mainstay of any significant settlement.
Indeed, Judge White's nearby settlement on Sauquoit
Creek was destined to be the "metropolis" of the Mohawk Valley.
It turns out that shallow-water crossing where Old
Fort Schuyler was built during the French & Indian War was the very
feature that fated Utica to become a major crossroads of transportation
and center of commerce.
Consider the following excerpt from the writings
of a veteran of the Revolutionary War who came to settle in the "Oneida
Woods" in 1787.
"Mr. White's place and the other settlements on the Mohawk at Old Fort Schuyler and Dean's Patent, just beyond Fort Stanwix, are about as far west as anyone in his right mind would dream of going for years. Once we get our land along the Mohawk cleared it will be fine, though, for we've got rich land near Mr. White's place on Sauquoit Creek which is just about the best mill site I ever saw. He says he thinks the location here may in time become the biggest mill center in the Mohawk Valley, and that Old Fort Schuyler below us will be our "port," for the Mohawk River above it is too shallow most of the summer for heavy boating." (From The Mohawk by Codman Hislop 1948; page 213)
Whitestown's "port" on the river became Utica. The
rest is history.
Chapter 12 - Tributaries
Starch
Factory Creek - Utica's Boundary Water
Starch Factory Creek starts on Graffenburg Hill, picks up a tributary
from Frankfort Hill and flows north through steep-sided gullies for a mile
and a half before crossing Wilson Rd. and plummeting into a deep ravine.
After exiting the ravine, the Creek crosses into the southeast corner of
the City of Utica, flows under South Park Drive at 3 miles and meanders
northward for another three miles between Culver Ave. and the City Line.
This final stretch passes by Adrean Terrace, Parkway Armory, Culver Swimming
Pool, and through both Proctor Parks---and a half-mile tunnel---before
entering the Mohawk River.
Starch Factory Creek is the nearest thing Utica
has ever had to a millstream. During the spring runoff it's formidable,
as attested by all the stone and concrete retaining walls along much of
its length within the city. The rest of the year it doesn't hold much water.
It did provide enough water for a couple of small mills in years past,
and for a gristmill and a starch factory near the mouth of the creek in
the mid 1800s.
I know Starch Factory Creek. At least as well as
any kid growing up in East Utica could know it. In the late 40s and early
50s, I lived at Adrean Terrace, a government housing development for families
with less than stable incomes. While my father went from post war job to
post war job and fretted about feeding his family, my brothers, sister
and I attended Albany Street School and, along with the neighbor kids,
explored every woods, swamp, pond and creek in the surrounding area.
Starch Factory Creek was a major route of exploration.
We walked most of its length, climbed its "cliffs" and hiked its woods.
We built huts, cut swinging vines, hunted frogs and snakes, picked berries
. . . and played Indians. No cowboys, just Indians.
I recall a summer day when two of my buddies and
I hiked way up the Creek to an old concrete dam that we called Buttermilk
Falls. We set up camp, cut some vines and "hung out" for most of the day.
My pals were both from Italian families so their summer tans were Indian
brown. My skin was white with peeling red blotches.
Brown shoe polish to the rescue. I smeared it on
my face arms, legs and upper body so I would look as much like an Indian
as my friends. It did the trick too . . . until I jumped in the creek.
The cool water solidified the wax shoe polish so my skin was white with
peeling brown blotches. I don't remember how all that polish was removed,
but I think my mother and some hot, soapy water had something to do with
it.
Fishing Contests At Proctor Park
Along with hundreds of other East Utica kids, I remember the fishing
contests at the Creek impoundment in Proctor Park. We lined up, shoulder
to shoulder on the concrete walls and tried to feed worms to the hundreds
of fish that were dumped in the day before. We even caught a few fish.
Prizes were awarded for the biggest and smallest of each species and for
the most fish caught. I don't recall winning a prize, but one summer,
after the contest was over, I discovered a half-dead catfish swimming in
shallow water. I took my "catch" home and my mother baked it. Fortunately,
we had other things to eat that day.
Discovery:
Up The Creek of Childhood Memories
July 12, 2000, 9.a.m.., 60 degrees and cloudy.
We had talked of it often, so I asked my sister,
Valaine Fluty to join me on a discovery trip to Starch Factory Creek. I
parked the Jeep at the lower end of Proctor Park and we walked down to
the old fishing hole. Except for the deteriorated concrete walls and a
missing crosspiece that raised the dam so the water was deep enough for
"real" fish, it was much as we remembered.
The willows, split-leaf maples and grapevines
seemed a lot older and bigger. On the opposite bank where high water had
washed away a big chunk of soil, an array of bright red roots caught
our eye. I had seen such arrays on other streams but never knew what they
were. Valaine correctly surmised they were the roots of a nearby willow.
Just downstream we re-discovered the opening
to the tunnel that passes under about a half-mile of this corner of the
city. The arched concrete opening was dated 1906. As a youngster I had
no idea where that dark tunnel went and didn't care to find out. As a seasoned
adult, I know where the tunnel ends and that's good enough for me.
Valaine and I walked up the Creek until we came
to private property. After walking back to the car along the Hike and Bike
Trail, we drove to the parking lot behind Culver Pool and continued our
exploration. A spinner cast into the pool below the Albany Street Bridge
produced two chubs.
We walked along the Hike and Bike Trail opposite
the Armory and Adrean Terrace. This area was completely different from
what we remembered. When we lived nearby this side of the creek was grass
right down to the bank. Today, it's covered with thick brush and small
trees, much of it honeysuckle. Wherever there was a trail through the brush,
we walked down to the creek. We discovered a series of low concrete dams,
cement walls at bends in the stream, small waterfalls and a long stretch
of shale streambed. We also discovered deer tracks in the sand and mud.
There were no deer in this area 50 years ago.
Cascade Glen
The hills south of the City of Utica are composed of deep deposits of shale overlaid with soil. These layers of shale are evident along most of the streams that flow into the Mohawk Valley in this area. One of the streams runs along the bottom of a mile-long ravine called Cascade Glen. Fifty years ago this area was mostly farmland and woodlots. Housing developments have replaced most of the farms. A few homes are right next to the ravine.
Lessons Learned at Cascade Glen
It was a dumb thing to do. I had climbed a big red pine to get a close
look at the huge nest that straddled a couple of the topmost branches.
When I couldn't tell what it was I knocked it down and watched it bounce
from branch to branch before it settled at the feet of my three buddies.
"Heh there are bees coming out of this thing!"
they yelled in unison and ran as fast as their 12 year old legs could carry
them.
At the same time their warning reached me I could
hear buzzing all around. I never in my life, then or now, moved so fast.
I was down and out of that tree and gaining on my friends in mere seconds.
I didn't get stung once, but I learned another lesson at Cascade Glen.
Every outdoor person, especially if he or she got
started early in life, has a special place in their minds and in their
hearts where they learned the basics, mostly by doing stupid things. To
me that place is Cascade Glen.
My father lived near Cascade Glen . . . we never
called it just the Glen . . . when he was a boy. His relatives had a farm
that bordered it. When I was around 10 years old he took me there. As we
walked along the shale escarpment, he shared some of his boyhood adventures.
He and his cousin had searched for ginseng, trapped skunks and had encounters
with pastured bulls in the woods and fields near Cascade Glen.
A couple of years later when we moved to Adrean
Terrace in east Utica, I hiked the two miles to this "wilderness paradise"
every chance I got. Most of the time I shared such adventures with boyhood
buddies Larry Roach, Butch Miller, Mike Nole and Tony Hathaway. On occasion,
I dragged my younger brothers and sister up Tilden Ave and through woods
and fields to Cascade Glen. Sometimes I went alone, so I could scout locations
for campsites and forts or to cut vines for swinging over creeks and ravines.
One of these scouting trips almost caused my demise.
The wild grapevine I had cut to swing across a small
ravine was wrapped around a pair of maple trees that grew together at ground
level and formed a "V" skyward. I had climbed about 15 feet to push the
vine through the "V" when a small branch I was standing on broke. I slid
down the tree and came to a halt about five feet from the ground with one
leg wedged between the trees. I pulled up on the vine to free my leg. It
didn't budge. While hanging by my left leg, I chopped at one of the trees
as far down as I could reach with my right arm. My hatchet was plenty sharp
for cutting vines but no match for the hard maple. Five minutes of chopping
produced only a small notch. It would take hours to cut the tree down.
I
yelled, "HELP" over and over, although I knew the chances of anyone hearing
me were very slim.
Out of breath and exhausted, my imagination shifted
into high gear. How long would it take to die of thirst? What would it
feel like"? My left foot was numb and my leg seemed wedged even tighter.
I knew I would never get free.
Panic came and went. I pulled on the vine and chopped
on the tree until exhausted, then rested, panicked and tried again. I don't
know how it happened, but the toe of my boot found the small notch I had
chopped in the tree. By pushing on this toehold with my right foot and
pulling with all my strength on the vine---adrenaline was really pumping---I
pulled my leg free and fell to the ground. I limped home two hours late
on a swollen and purple leg. Another lesson learned at Cascade Glen.
Not all of my lessons were life-threatening, but
they prepared me for a lifetime of enjoying the outdoors. For instance,
I'm very careful where I pitch a tent because of the tent we pitched in
a depression filled with leaves at Cascade Glen. It was very comfortable
until a thunderstorm filled the depression during the night. I'm also very
careful how I dry socks by an open fire, because I burned holes in the
pair of wool socks my mother knitted just for me. Close seemed better on
a winter hike when we built a roaring campfire to dry our wet feet.
I shot my first crow and my first grey squirrel
at Cascade Glen. I also learned not to stand on the ejector side of a rifle
when two little .22 shells hit me in the neck while my uncle was shooting
at a grey squirrel. I had a difficult time explaining those two red spots
on my neck.
I also had a difficult time explaining why my gloves
smelled like skunk. Not nearly as difficult as it was for my buddies to
explain why their jackets smelled so bad. Our first attempt to trap rabbits
(not legal then or now, but we didn't know anything about trapping laws)
produced two cottontails and one polecat that odorized the first "trappers"
on the scene. I used a long pole to free the skunk while my partners in
crime tried to hold their breath while dancing and yelling. A leather jacket
hung on our neighbor's clothesline all winter.
Larry Roach and I built a log leanto on the side
of one of the deepest parts of the Cascade Glen. We spent most of the summer
chopping down trees and sliding them down to the secret place where we
built the strongest leanto ever made by man or boy. We learned a lot that
summer about chopping and building . . . and secret and strong. The following
spring we found our creation in ruin. Someone had cut the main beams and
caved in the roof.
It was a big deal to cook our meals at Cascade Glen.
On one memorable trip we brought along an old frying pan, a loaf of bread,
a pound of sliced American cheese and some butter to make grilled cheese
sandwiches. I ate so many my stomach rebelled. I couldn't eat a grilled
cheese sandwich for more than 20 years.
It doesn't sound like it but I had fun, lots of
fun at Cascade Glen. The years I spent there picking wild berries, searching
for ginseng, catching crayfish to sell to my cousin for her bait store,
cooking meat on a stick, watching cloud formations, climbing the shale
walls of the ravine, camping out, swinging on vines, building forts, making
tables and benches with sticks and twine, and sharing with friends and
family, were some of the best years of my life.
Once I even did something smart. As the oldest of
five, I often had the duty of entertaining my three brothers and sister.
I was 13 and my youngest brother was pushing five. While returning from
a hike to Cascade Glen, we were drenched by a thunderstorm. My sister and
two youngest brothers started crying. I changed their misery to instant
joy by jumping in a big mud puddle. We didn't miss one puddle the rest
of the way home.
Mohawk River Utica to Schuyler
