The Village of Cold Spring is an exquisite find, a base camp to all sorts of adventures. It’s nestled in the Hudson Highlands, right on the Hudson River, with Storm King Mountain looming across the river. On my first paddle at Constitution Marsh, I was a complete novice. I’d gotten the scoop on how to do it from a paddler pal. I had heard that you must paddle under the railroad trestle to access the marsh, but only at high tide. And this day, time was a tickin’.
I texted my pal that I was going in, asking him to repeat his instructions. His reply popped through: “U can always swim under. Just watch your feet – there is a bit of old storm fence that’s submerged. U can also always get out and lie on the kayak and hand paddle under it like a surfboard.” Game on. I double-checked my mental list, hurling stuff in my boat: personal flotation device (PFD), sunscreen, hat, water, phone, book, lunch, car keys. Check. (Ö) Check. (Ö) Check. (Ö) And the race to get under the bridge was on.
It’s a short paddle from the launch to the trestle, and mercifully I got under and in the marsh ten minutes later with no swim required. I was now free for 4 glorious hours (that’s the window, or you can get stuck in there – in the mud with no way back under the trestle until the tide turns). It was 75 degrees, with a sunny, blue sky and a light breeze. Soooo beautiful with the Hudson Highlands and Storm King Mountain as the backdrop, as if I’d paddled into a painting.
Constitution Marsh is a 270-acre tidal wetland, sheltered from the rages and stages of the Hudson by Constitution Island, on a sharp bend in the river that sailors in the 1600s named World’s End. The United States Military Academy at West Point is directly across the river, and its Gothic steeples popped into view from time to time through the thick summer foliage like a John Constable painting, throwing me into a new reality as I daydreamed about the Half Moon and Henry Hudson.
I was the only person in the marsh that day, but definitely not the only living creature. Thousands of slimy tadpole thingies scattered as I paddled through, some jumping at my boat in their mad dash to avoid it. I wasn’t sure if they were fish or frogs but later learned they are indeed small fish called mummichogs, a very important food source for the birds and other fish. I almost jumped outta my skin twice when several HUGE striped bass, fattened by mummichogs and (hopefully) at the top of the food chain., breached right beside me. I comforted myself with the fact that there are no snakes or gators trying to do the same thing.
The marsh reminds me of flooded rice fields in my native Louisiana, and I later learned that the interconnecting channels off the main channel were indeed created to cultivate wild rice in the 1830s. The main channel is well marked with white “Water Trail” buoys guiding you to Constitution Marsh Audubon Center and Sanctuary, but I remained off the grid in hopes of finding the fabled Indian Falls.
The vegetation in the water can get thick in summer when invasive water chestnut takes over much of the marsh. I picked up several floating “devil’s heads,” the seedpod of the water chestnut, hard round cases with 3 sharp prongs, perfect for ruining your day if stepped on. I kept a small pile on my bow to use as weapons in case of (imagined) attack by strange, huge fish.
As I blazed a trail through the thick vegetation, I spied another railroad trestle on the south end of the marsh with no room underneath for exiting into the river. The trestle frames an amazing view of West Point, as incongruous as if I had just popped into the Scottish Highlands for lunch. I tarried here to dine (floating table for one, please) and was jolted by the sound of an air raid warning, high and clear, further fueling my Scottish daydream and pinpointing the time to WWII. Then, I heard the bells of the Cadet Chapel wafting across the river, followed by twelve distinct chimes to the north from St. Mary’s Episcopal in Cold Spring. Noon had arrived.
Tide and time wait for no man, and I could feel the pull of the water back to the sea strengthening, putting an end to my time-travel daydreams. The water has only two ways out – through the railroad trestle I entered and the one at which I was now dining. I realized that the preferred two-hour window before and after high tide wasn’t just for getting in and out under the railroad tracks but for navigating the marsh. Duh. So, I broke the river’s hold on me and scooted south toward the tree line to find where Indian Brook dumps into the marsh, hoping there’d be enough water to fuel the fabled falls.
At the end of the marsh, the water thins to a “water trail” that makes a dogleg turn to the left, becoming more and more narrow. The sun warmed my body while the breeze cooled it. I moved with ease from shade to sun and back again as I hugged the shore’s curve. Mummichogs water-skied down the creek; two ospreys fought over a fish and cast a shadow on my boat. One more turn to the right and I heard it, then to the left again and saw it. The waterfall. It exists.
It is the centerpiece of a lush copse in the southwest corner of the marsh, sheltered by age-old trees. I pulled my boat ashore and headed to explore, racing the tide yet again. There is a proper tree swing suspended from one of the huge trees and a cold clear pool catching the water from above. There is a path leading to the top of the falls, complete with a guide rope to pull yourself up. This was all just too good to believe! I ran up the path and back down, jumped in the pool (and yes, it’s damned cold), then dried off on the swing.
I was so enthralled that I tarried too long and had to walk my boat down the creek to deeper water to launch for my return trip. In a happy daze, I plowed on autopilot back past the tug of the outgoing tide at the southern trestle. It took 2 hours of steady, strong paddling to shake free of it and return to my exit, like a salmon swimming upstream. (Note to self: strictly adhere to the two-hour-window-on-either-side-of-high-tide rule next time.) And there most definitely will be a next time.
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