The Mighty Mohawk

Hurricane Irene has come and gone, but she has left her mark. As I watch the news coverage of the damage, I am lost in the images of my old neighborhood, the Stockade District of Schenectady. My heart goes out to the families, renters and owners, whose homes and lives have been uprooted by the flooding of the Mohawk River.

June 28th, 2011

My hands still have the faint smell of pomegranate and current, from the room freshener I just sprayed through every inch of my apartment on Ingersoll Avenue in the Stockade. Will it make a difference for the latest visitor, a prospective tenant after I leave this weekend?

Will she be overwhelmed by the scent? Or will it be so inviting, that and the fresh flower arrangement on the kitchen table, the she decides, “Yes, this will do just fine.”

That is exactly what I experienced two years ago. After entering just about every available apartment between Front and Ferry Streets, it was obvious. Listed as the “Stockade Sweetheart,” the denim blue exterior with cream trim and green ivy billowing from the second floor balcony - surely this was a place to settle for a while.

Since moving in that summer, my seasons have been captured and framed by the desolate stretch of the Mohawk River. Just four door fronts from my own, the river makes itself known with a quiet yet enduring presence.

In late June, where I find myself now, the river's surface weaves back and forth with the afterthoughts of boat waves and water skis. The bank opposite me hosts a miniature rain forest of ballooned tree branches and outstretched vegetation – casting a grey green reflection across the width of the divide.

On my last night on Ingersoll Avenue, I’ll share this backyard with a handful of locals - families and old-timers who know that the best view of the Fourth of July fireworks is not down the river at Jumpin’ Jacks. People will walk from the side streets of downtown Schenectady, with ice-filled coolers and collapsible lawn chairs, which are just starting to fray at the edges.

Others will drive, lining the narrow streets of the Stockade, many of which will be illegally parked. But on such a special night, maybe the Schenectady Police will lock up their ticket machines in their glove compartments and stand in the back of the crowd, relieved to witness a peaceful gathering and not another reckless teenage shooting.

At the end of the summer, I’ll be waiting for the leaves to change in Kentucky, not far enough south to short change autumn. Unphased by my absence, the Mohawk corridor that informed me of the seasons, will put on its burnt colored cloak and wring out the last hues of the spectrum.

And enjoy them, one must, as the winter won’t shed any sympathy for four long months. What was once a gladly rolling playground for fishing poles and kayaks will become a thick unmovable tundra. The only species brave enough to cross the sheet of ice are fur-lined foxes, who skidder from one side to another, desperate for food.

I still walk down to the green bench at the end of my street, even when a burgeoning mound of plowed-out snow stands as a body guard against the shore. I look out and wonder how one corner of the earth can exhibit such drastic sweeps of change. It’s simply unrecognizable from the fresh air water-color postcard of spring.

But the ice does break, shatters really, with cave-like groans that announce the force of nature that is the melting of the Mohawk. With an early thaw, the ice upriver will break and ride up over the stubborn solid mass in its way.

With enough build up, out from the level surface appears a crystallized beast, jagged and insurmountable. The mounts of ice coalesce and create an even more severe barrier for the newly released river to flow.

The water level rises behind the ice damn and here in the Stockade we wait. We wait for a high enough rise in temperature, which will lure the frigid water to build energy and momentum.

Eventually, the ice loses its grip and starts sailing downstream with a build-up of water at its back. Held captive for long enough, the rush of water barrels downstream, carrying iceberg-sized sheets, if they were feathers.

A few neighbors and I stand back from the water’s edge, now flush with the shore line. We are helpless and in awe. Many are used to this and bring thermoses of coffee and hot chocolate, seated front row at the annual spectacle. My landlord stands ready with a water pump and knee-high rubber boots, prepared to clear out tenants’ basements when the river finally overflows.

At the end of the day, one can't help but surrender. At once beautiful and destructive, the Mohawk calls us to accept its might, and we are remiss to think, even for a moment, that we can control this body of water, this ever flowing, always changing force of nature.