A garden hose slithers through the muck toward the shoreline of the river. A sewing machine, an air conditioner and a lawn mower lie nearby, proof that even in 2006 people still think of the Hudson as nothing more than a toilet to flush away what they are tired of looking at. It took me nearly twenty minutes to find a way to get close to the river that is only two blocks from my home. But as I walk closer to the river’s edge and ignore the drone of the highway across the water, the beauty and majesty of a great river can still be sensed. The late December sun is setting on an unexpectedly warm winter day. The stench of the Hudson is not noticeable as the Hudson of my childhood. This is my lifeline, this my river. Our predecessors came up to explore and subsequently settle along a river that we have long ago turned our backs on. In this part of the river we are denied access and even a glimpse. The joke is that Henry Hudson sailed up to Troy and turned around. That punch line stings as we are pushed away from the water, a means of recreation and commerce, cut off from the Hudson River.