The Meadowlands: Wilderness Adventures at the Edge of a City


Imagine a grunge nort Jersey version of John McPhee's classic The Pine Barrens and you'll get some idea of the idiosyncratic, fact-filled, and highly original work that is Robert Sullivan's The Meadowlands.  Just five miles west of New York City, this vilified, half-developed, half-untamed, much dumped-on, and sometimes odiferous tract of swampland is home to rare birds and missing bodies, tranquil marshes and a major sports arena, burning garbage dumps and corporate headquarters, the remains of the ...

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Imagine a grunge nort Jersey version of John McPhee's classic The Pine Barrens and you'll get some idea of the idiosyncratic, fact-filled, and highly original work that is Robert Sullivan's The Meadowlands.  Just five miles west of New York City, this vilified, half-developed, half-untamed, much dumped-on, and sometimes odiferous tract of swampland is home to rare birds and missing bodies, tranquil marshes and a major sports arena, burning garbage dumps and corporate headquarters, the remains of the original Penn Station—and maybe, just ,maybe, of the late Jimmy Hoffa.  Robert Sullivan proves himself to be this fragile yet amazingly resilient region's perfect expolorer, historian, archaeologist, and comic bard.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Provocative, audacious . . . by looking observantly, without trite moralizing, at the natural world . . . this book suggest a challenging new model for how we ought to pay attention." —Robert Pinsky, The New York Times Book Review

"It's full of add, compelling stories and is often hilarious.  In short, it's a delight." —Men's Journal

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Just five short, swampy miles from Manhattan, the New Jersey Meadowlands are awash in refuse of all sorts, from toxic waste and landfill to tangled heaps of abortive real-estate developmentand perhaps even Jimmy Hoffa's remains. A freelance journalist and unapologetic enthusiast for his chosen tract, Sullivan in his first book marvels at the Meadowlands' history and that of the people who continue to explore it, fish it and even swim it. The author hikes, boats and drives through environs that have over the years offered refuge to pig farms, eccentrics, schemers and even pirates. He marvels at the volume of refuse and sheer toxicity of some of the land, explaining that when one notorious landfill caught fire, it burned for 15 years because the local fire department, fearing for its health in the face of toxic fumes, refused to put out the smoldering heap. Today, under the care of the EPA and other environmental groups, the area is showing signs of rebounding. But such reports, even coupled with Sullivan's zeal, cannot fully brighten this sad if intriguing tale of industrial carnage. (Apr.)
Library Journal
Amazingly, life still survives in the New Jersey Meadowlands, a lowland rendered foul by years of abuse. Almost an antinatural history, Sullivan's book suggests that we can learn to respect nature more by getting closer to some of the places that we have sullied the most. (LJ 7/98)
NY Times Book Review
Cool, alert ecological excursions into the abused yet still beautiful and interesting terrain of the New Jersey Meadowlands.
Robert Pinsky
Sullivan's account of the Meadowlands is anecdotal and genial, but his book, covertly ambitious, takes up serious matters. By looking observantly, without trite moralizing, at the natural world as well as at the disposable world we build, and at the great overlap between the two, this book suggests a challenging new model for how we ought to pay attention. -- Robert Pinsky, New York Times Book Review
Kirkus Reviews
Outlandish, implausibly captivating explorations of New Jersey's untamed and godawful Meadowlands from freelance journalist Sullivan. If there's an environmental equivalent of the Inferno's sub-basement, it is the Meadowlands, the skanky place with the pretty name. Pestilence, poison, murder, mayhem—the Meadowlands are home to them all, in abundance. Come a free day, Sullivan enjoys nosing about, "like a bad habit," in the toxic farrago of swamp, bog, and saltwater marsh, encountering things you would rather not know about. Bring on the Superfund cleanup sites and state remediation areas; the smoldering hills of garbage, laced with mercury and chromium, leaching their brown juices into the waterways; the obscene swarms of mosquitoes hatching in water the color of antifreeze; serve them forth, Sullivan wants a look-see. But the story isn't all vile, for there is a history here to consider, of real meadows that once supported arum and saxiflage and cedar forests, native populations and European settlers who didn't rape the terrain, and there is the host of characters smitten by the Meadowlands, with strange and curious things to tell. And Sullivan has an appealing taste for the absurd and ridiculous, the kind of material that gives places warp and weft: He floats his canoe over the submerged remains of a radio station "thought to be the first to ever broadcast the voice of Frank Sinatra," finds the world's largest collection of foreign translations of Gone with the Wind at the Kearny Public Library, and casually observes "the morning that Dave and I set out to dig for Jimmy Hoffa was beautiful and sunny." The 20th century has done its worst by the Meadowlands, but as Sullivansuperbly demonstrates, there is life in the old landscape yet, a friskiness that shakes off into the clayey muck the hellspawn of progress.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780385495080
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 7/28/1999
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 224
  • Sales rank: 342,871
  • Product dimensions: 5.19 (w) x 8.03 (h) x 0.50 (d)

Meet the Author

Robert Sullivan

Robert Sullivan has written for The New York Times Magazine, The New Republic, Rolling Stone, Outside, Condé Nast Traveler, and Vogue, where he is a contributing editor.  He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife and two children.

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Read an Excerpt

Whenever I'm in New York and have a little time on my hands, I grab a backpack and some maps and a compass and maybe some lunch and I hike through Times Square and up the stairs of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where I catch a  bus out to the Meadowlands.  The bus winds down the terminal's three-story ramp and dives into the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, which surrounds the bus with darkness and thick gray exhaust until it spits it out on the other side.  As the cars around us scramble to be the first onto the highways of New Jersey, the bus struggles up the eastern side of Bergen Hill, while the skyline of New York seems to shout at the bus's back and ask it where it's going.  The leaves of the scraggly ailanthus trees wave in the wind of traffic as the bus passes through the cut in the red rocks that separate New York from New Jersey and the Meadowlands from the rest of the world.  And then, in just a few minutes, as we drop down the other side of Bergen Hill and cruise into a low, flat land of lush grays and greens and pockets of rust and more and more circles of concrete, the bus seems to genuflect at the landscape before us.  When the sky is clear, the water in the far-off creeks and rivers shines through the reeds like a sheet of aluminum foil that has been crumpled and then spread out again.  When the sky is gray, the clouds mingle with the smokestacks' clouds of steam and smoke so that it is difficult to tell which is which.

After the bus courses down through cloverleafs, passing fields of cars waiting to pay tolls, turning onto smaller and smaller ramps and roads, and finally onto little local streets, I get out at the bus stop that is in a mall which was once an old cedar swamp, or at the stop in a grove of outlet stores, or maybe at one in the center of Secaucus.  The bus can be empty or it can be crowded with people who are on their way to the discount shopping outlets in the Meadowlands or to the giant sports and entertainment complex that is also known as the Meadowlands, or even to the little towns and cities along the edges of what remains of the old swamp.  These people go to the Meadowlands for a deal on a dress or a pair of slacks or for a good time or to go home and have dinner and go to bed, while I go to the Meadowlands to explore.  When I leave the bus, I will often head for the towns around the edges of the swamp or for ancient industrial sites that are now rusting or fading away.  In the cars on the highways all around me, or in the planes that take off from Newark Airport, people have packed their trunks or their backpacks or their carry-on luggage with travel books or maybe brand-new water-repellent hiking clothes or PowerBars and polypropylene underwear, and they are heading West to travel and explore.  But I am creeping slowly back into the East, back to America's first West-making a reverse commute to the already explored land that has become, through negligence, through expoitation, and often through its own chaotic persistence, explorable again.

As often as not, when I head for the Meadowlands, I head for Snake Hill, which is a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot-tall rock that sticks up out of the very middle of the Meadowlands like a geological mistake.  To get there I walk through downtown Secaucus, where I pass neat little homes and feel as if I startle each one.  I pass some corporate headquarters and then warehouses and then a prison, at which point, with Snake Hill now before me, there is very little of anything to pass at all.

At the base of Snake Hill, the leaves of aspen trees quiver nervously in the breeze of the Hackensack River.  The landscape is like something out of Arizona or the South Dakota Badlands; in the summer, squadrons of dragonflies and mosquitoes patrol the dry land over waves of heat.  On weekends, teenagers sometimes ride motorbikes around Snake Hill, darting among the trees and climbing up its quarried carcass-their engines sound like chain saws- but on weekdays, after I pass the guards at the prison, no one is around, and the only sounds are of the wind in the reeds, and the occasional freight or passenger train, and the constant rush of traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.  Altogether, the chorus is a kind of wild industrial New Jersey sound track, which, unlike the environmental sounds of the Eastern forests and Pacific Coast whale migration routes, is not available on cassette or CD.  It takes another half hour to climb the rocks to the top of Snake Hill.  On the way up, I sneak through little dark forests and bushwhack through large wild fields of tall grass, both of which are nearly invisible from the highway.  At the top, I can see for miles.  To the north and west, a low ridge contains the area like a bowl with a lip made of little cities and towns.  To the east, I can still see the Manhattan skyline, only now it is not shouting but whispering from behind another ridge.  To the south, I can see past the refineries and their towers of smoke and flame, out past the boat-loading cranes that feed  along the cargo-containered fields of the Port of Newark lie huge dark insects, out toward the Atlantic Ocean.

Before anyone ever stood on top of Snake Hill, the Meadowlands were a giant glacial lake that began receding in 8000 B.C. and still seems to be receding to this day.  The glacier that cleared the way for what was eventually named Lake Hackensack was a mile thick, and it dumped boulders, rocks, clay, sand, and silt into what would have been a deep bay, so before the Meadowlands even became the Meadowlands it was a field of haphazardly assembled debris.  As the lake's cold freshwater drained off and seawater crept in, the bottom of the lake changed into a swamp and then a bog, and then a salt water marsh, and then, in some places, a kind of combination of all three.  It was a giant inland estuary, a brackish place where microscopic organisms rose from a stew of decomposed plants and animals and other microscopic life, whe  ethe Hackensack River and the Passaic River were cleaned and purified and restocked with life-a hydrological kidney.  When humans arrived in the Meadowlands, in about 10,000 B.C.,  they went from leaving huge piles of oyster shells to dumping increasingly poisonous wastes, from homes, then from workshops, then from factories.  At one point very recently in its history, the Meadowlands was the largest garbage dump in the world.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 16, 2001

    a must read

    this book is great.. sullivan shows how the meadowlands are beautiful, yet repulsive.. very informative.. i still can't believe he actually drank that toxic stuff! sullivan calls our attention to a very serious issue and sprinkles it with the most humorous details

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2008

    No text was provided for this review.

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