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A Christmas ghost story … how a memory and a dream led me to the enchantment of “The Curse of The Cat People”

Journal, Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley

Simone Simon, left and Ann Carter in “The Curse of the Cat People.” Though on the surface a ghost story, set at Christmas in Sleepy Hollow, it’s also a psychological study of childhood and a young girl’s imaginary playmate.

The Curse of the Cat People, my favorite Christmas movie, is a Christmas ghost story where the ghost is the least frightening character of the film. Instead of horror, the aim of the film is enchantment, though it’s loaded with suspense as well.

I must have been ten or eleven, it was Christmas eve and I got to stay up with my two sisters to watch Scrooge on TV – the good one, with Alastair Sim. It would scare the crap out of me, thanks to the ghost of Christmas yet to come. And if you want to get technical, I’d rank that film as the best Christmas movie of all time.

Just not my favorite. Scrooge came on at midnight, and after my parents went to bed, The Curse of the Cat People came on. This is in the day when you didn’t get to choose when to start a movie. You had to be sitting down in front of the TV when it came on.

I’d never heard of The Curse of the Cat People, nor it’s predecessor, Cat People. But I remember that it kindled a sense of wonder in me, in a way I’d never felt before. Being a kid, I quickly forgot the film. And being a rather unpopular film, it didn’t pop up very often to remind me.

The three leads in “The Curse of the Cat People” remained the same as its predecessor, though the plot was almost completely different. From left, Jane Randolph and Kent Smith, Simone Simon, rear.

The next time I saw it I was eighteen, it was Christmas Day. I had a terrifying headache, and had to go lay down in a bedroom. People were making too much noise and so I turned on the TV to drown them out. There was The Curse of the Cat People. It was just as enchanting as I remembered. So much so I fell asleep, and didn’t catch the name.

The movie crawled into my psyche. I watched it in my dreams, but as time went on, and I forgot more and more details of the film, my mind filled in the blanks. It was always a treat to be dreaming a normal dream, turn on the TV in my dream world and find the film playing. I might have forgotten the details of the original movie, but in the dream it was amazingly consistent. Just that each time I dreamt it, new elements would appear.

Every Christmas I scoured the TV guide for Christmas films, but none of the listings sounded familiar. I went to libraries and scoured film guides, with no luck. But in the process, I learned about and saw some amazing Christmas films.

And then came the internet, and suddenly all this information was at my disposal. I disposed of everything available pretty quickly. Not knowing any of the stars, not even sure what the plot was, I gave up hope. Then I found myself in a discussion group on films, and took a chance and asked the question. A few minutes later I had the answer, and a few minutes after that I had the VHS tape on order.

The Curse of the Cat People came out in 1944, during the height of World War II. It was the follow up to Cat People, a psychological horror film which had appeared two years earlier. It shares some of the same characters, but it’s a few years later. And it’s a whole different story.

It’s the story of a young girl, Amy, whose parents met and fell in love in Cat People. Her father was married to another woman in that film, a marriage which was doomed and as a result, he fell in love with Amy’s mother. Amy is a shy child, lives in a fantasy world. Her dad believe she has an invisible friend. In truth, it’s the ghost of his first wife, but only she can see it.

A chilling subplot of the film comes from a cracked former actress and her daughter whom the older lady is convinced is an imposter.

On one level it’s an enchanting ghost story. On another level, it’s a perceptive look at children and their invisible playmates. And there’s the suspense. An old woman, a former actress takes a liking to Amy. The old woman is cracked, and believes her daughter is actually an imposter. This doesn’t set well with the daughter, and she takes a dislike to Amy.

Suspense ensues.

The Curse of the Cat People was likely one of my first exposures to The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The film is set in Tarrytown, New York. Walking distance to Sleepy Hollow. The old actress gives a dramatic performance of the story in the film, which is one of its creepier moments.

The Sleepy Hollow setting adds another layer of built in mood and fear to the plot.

I didn’t remember that until I saw the film again. But I had developed a life long fascination with Sleepy Hollow, both the story and the place in the interim years.

One thing I had misremembered, and that was the film isn’t just set at Christmas. It starts in the fall and goes beyond the holidays, into deep winter.

But I had actually remembered more of the film than I thought, and when I dreamt it, much of it was intact. There’s a scene for instance, only a second or two long of an arm and hand appearing from an upstairs window of an old house and dropping a ring. That was always part of my dream.

The part I had remembered most vividly was the ghost, played by Simone Simon, a French actress who never really caught on in the U.S. She had been in the states once before, didn’t find it to her liking and returned to France. She fled back to America at the onset of World War II, and found her greatest Hollywood success then with Cat People and The Curse of the Cat People.

For me, she was the original snow queen, and the scenes with her are some of the most enchanting I’ve ever watched.

The camera work and lighting in the film is extraordinary, particularly during the scenes with the ghost.

Much of the film is dated. The family’s Caribbean man servant is played by the famed Calypso singer, Sir Lancelot, who was responsible to a large degree for that music’s popularity during that era. Those who are against spanking children will find some scenes to be particularly uncomfortable as well.

But it’s a clear look into the mindset of the era, and adds other layers of complexity to the film.

Val Lewton produced The Curse of the Cat People, and many of actors come from a pool which he would draw from for horror/suspense films. Gunther von Fritsch, who had never directed a full length film, fell behind in shooting and was replaced by another first timer, Robert Wise. Wise went on to win Oscars for West Side Story and The Sound of Music, and was nominated for Citizen Kane and others. In addition, he went on to direct my favorite horror film, The Haunting.

I had long known my favorite Christmas film wasn’t my favorite because of the merits, but because of a personal history. I was at an age where ghosts were part of my life, and it gave me a new way of thinking about them, which while it didn’t take away the fear, it did take the edge off.

So it was with great pleasure that I learned that my favorite Christmas film is also a great film, even without the personal connection.

The perfect Christmas eve for me, is still staying up late with The Curse of the Cat People and Scrooge. Though I seldom make it to the end of Scrooge in the marathon now, for a little while, the ghosts in this house are quiet and watching along with me.

Return to Sleepy Hollow, from an essay by Washington Irving

Haunted Towns and Cities, Historic Towns and Villages, Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley, The History Trekker

Sunnyside, formerly Wolfert’s Roost, Home of Washington Irving, Irvington, Westchester County, New York

Sleepy Hollow, a remembrance by Washington Irving is a short article which first appeared in the Knickerbocker Magazine in 1839. Unlike Irving’s more well-known short story, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Sleepy Hollow is autobiographical in tone. He explored the area as a teenager – a valley of the Pocantico River near Tarrytown, New York, and eventually settled and spent the remainder of his years nearby.

Writing in an introduction from a reprinting of the story in 1996, Henry Steiner, Village Historian of Sleepy Hollow states that “At the close of his narrative, Irving anticipates a time when change will have so completely altered Sleepy Hollow that cramped historians will doubt that it once existed at all.” Irving need not have worried. While it’s sometimes hard to see it beneath the asphalt, the signs and the traffic, the threads of history still bubble up from time to time to the surface.

“In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.”

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.”

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

From the Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

I believe it was the very peculiarity of the name, and the idea of something mystic and dreamy connected with it, that first led me, in my boyish ramblings, into Sleepy Hollow. The character of the valley seemed to answer to the name; the slumber of past ages apparently reigned over it; it had not awakened to the stir of improvement, which had put all the rest of the world in a bustle. Here reigned good old long-forgotten fashions; the men were in homespun garbs, evidently the product of their own farms, and the manufacture of their own wives; the women were in primitive short gowns and petticoats, with the venerable sun-bonnets of Holland origin. Each small farm had its prolific little mansion, teeming with children; with an old hat nailed against the wall for the house-keeping wren; a motherly hen, under a coop on the grass-plot, clucking to keep around her a brood of vagrant chickens; a cool stone well, with the moss-covered bucket suspended to the long balancing pole, according to the antediluvian idea of hydraulics; and its spinning-wheel humming within doors, the patriarchal music of home manufacture.

“His greatest treasure of historic lore, however, was discovered in an old goblin-looking mill, situated among rocks and water-falls, with clanking wheels, and rushing streams, and all kinds of uncouth noises. A horse-shoe, nailed to the door to keep off witches and evil spirits, showed that this mill was subject to awful visitations. As we approached it, an old negro thrust his head, all dabbled with flour, out of a hole above the water-wheel, and grinned, and rolled his eyes, and looked like the very hobgoblin of the place. The illustrious Diedrich fixed upon him, at once, as the very one to give him that invaluable kind of information, never to be acquired from books. He beckoned him from his nest, sat with him by the hour on a broken mill-stone, by the side of the waterfall, heedless of the noise of the water, and the clatter of the mill; and I verily believe it was to his conference with his African sage, and the precious revelations of the good dame of the spinning wheel, that we are indebted for the surprising though true history ofIchabod Crane and the headless horseman, which has since astounded and edified the world.”

“But I have said enough of the good old times of my youthful days; let me speak of the Hollow as I found it, after an absence of many years, when it was kindly given me once more to revisit the haunts of my boyhood.”

“Contrary to my apprehensions, I found it but little changed. Perhaps the wizard spell of ancient days still reigned over the place, binding up the faculties of the inhabitants in happy contentment with things as they had been handed down to them from yore. There were the same little farms and farm-houses, with their old hats for the house-keeping wren; their stone wells, moss-covered buckets, and long balancing poles. There were the same little rills, whimpering down to pay their tributes to the Pocantico; while that wizard stream still kept on its course, as of old, through solemn woodlands and fresh green meadows: nor were there wanting joyous holiday boys, to loiter along its banks, as I had done; throw their pin-hooks in the stream, or launch their mimic barks. I watched them with a kind of melancholy pleasure, wondering whether they were under the same spell of the fancy, that once rendered this valley a fairy land to me. Alas! alas! to me every thing now stood revealed in its simple reality. The echoes no longer answered with wizard tongues; the dream of youth was at an end; the spell of Sleepy Hollow was broken!”

From Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

The area now known as Sleepy Hollow was first inhabited by native Americans, called quite simply Americans by the earliest Dutch settlers. According to Indian lore, the region was considered haunted even then. The first Europeans here were of course from Holland, and according to some theories, the name Sleepy Hollow originally came from the Dutch for “quiet harbor,” referring to its location on the Hudson River. It’s entirely possible however, that the publication of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow first gave this more famous name to the region. Certainly the first recorded mention of the name is in Irving’s story.

When you turn onto Route 9, traffic thins out for a bit before hitting Tarrytown, which though still retaining the village feel you would expect, is often congested and incredibly noisy. The border between Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow isn’t immediately obvious, as Sleepy Hollow was until just a few years ago simply called North Tarrytown. A keen eye will pick out the Headless Horseman on the street signs, as well as a few other more commercial usages of Sleepy Hollow’s most famous denizen of the night.

Eventually the road splits, just as it did in Irving’s tale and you find yourself crossing the Pocantico, and there on the right, as ominous as you’d imagine is the Old Dutch Church, and the magic begins to take over.

Irving’s story doesn’t really delineate the boundaries of Sleepy Hollow, and you never really know when you’re entering or leaving it today. Beyond the church the landscape turns more rural, dominated in part by the Rockefeller Preserve, with it’s miles of trails which allows you once again to be swallowed up by the magic that once was Sleepy Hollow.

Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow and Burying Ground, c. 1685, in the Snow. Sleepy Hollow, Tarrytown, Westchester County, New York

The great gathering place of Sleepy Hollow, in those days, was the church. It stood outside of the Hollow, near the great highway; on a green bank, shaded by trees, with the Pocantico sweeping round it, and emptying itself into a spacious mill-pond. At that time, the Sleepy Hollow church was the only place of worship for a wide neighborhood. It was a venerable edifice, partly of stone and partly of brick, the latter having been brought from Holland, in the early days of the province, before the arts in the New Netherlands could aspire to such a fabrication. On a stone above the porch, were inscribed the names of the founders, Frederick Filipsen, a mighty patroon of the olden time, who reigned over a wide extent of this neighborhood, and held his seat of power at Yonkers; and his wife, Katrina Van Courtlandt, of the no less potent line of the Van Courtlandts of Croton, who lorded it over a great part of the Highlands.”

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees.

From the Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

Behind the church, and sloping up a gentle acclivity, was its capacious burying-ground, in which slept the earliest fathers of this rural neighborhood. Here were tombstones of the rudest sculpture; on which were inscribed, in Dutch, the names and virtues of many of the first settlers, with their portraitures curiously carved in similitude of cherubs. Long rows of grave-stones, side by side, of similar names, but various dates, showed that generation after generation of the same families had followed each other, and been garnered together in this last gathering place of kindred.”

From Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

The Old Dutch Church, was financed by the treasure of Frederick Philipse I, Lord of Philipse Manor, who owned all the lands stretching from Spuyten Duyvil, now in present-day Riverdale in the Bronx to the Croton River. Spuyten Duyvil likely meant “spinning devil” or “devil’s whirlpool” in the old Dutch language, though it’s hard to say with any certainty as various spellings have been used over the years. There is an old tale of how Peter Stuyvesant, the peg-legged governor of New Amsterdam received intelligence that the British were set to invade Manhattan. He sent for Anthony Von Corlaer to spread the word to the northern part of the island and give warning. At the edge of the island on the banks of the Harlem River, Anthony called for the ferryman on the other side, but received no answer. Undeterred, Anthony plunged into the river and began to swim. About halfway across, according to legend, the Devil pulled him under, who Anthony fought and eventually escaped his grasp. Despite having broken free, he was worn out from the effort and drowned there.

Fredrick was from the Friesland region of Netherlands, and settled first in Flatbush on Long Island, becoming a tavern owner after working his way up from nail salesman. Fredrick’s most astute move though was marrying a rich widow, which allowed him to purchase land on the mainland, in what is now Westchester county, and brought several of his friends from Long Island with him, lured by the promise of free land and low taxes.

Frederick Philipse built a plantation on the shores of the Hudson at Sleepy Hollow, turning it into a major stop for sea trade and the center of his world-wide shipping operation. Philipse’s Westchester empire was built on the backs of slaves from Africa, and the manor was one of the largest slave-holders in the northern colonies. In 1750, some twenty-three slaves worked the house and lands.

Today Philipsburg Manor marks the beginning of the still mystical area of Sleepy Hollow. Restored and operated by costumed tour guides, a visit takes one into the world of colonial America. With a working farm, animals unique to that period of history, a 300 year old manor house and working grist mill, slave garden and quarters and 18th century barn, it’s as close as we’re likely to come to stepping into the world of Baltus and Katrina Van Tassel.

Manor House. Philipsburg Manor, Sleepy Hollow, North Tarrytown, Westchester County, New York

Fredrick’s workers finished construction on the Old Dutch Church in 1685, which sits on a high knoll almost directly across from the mill pond where Ichabod Crane courted his sweethearts in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. It’s thought that construction took quite some time, and for some time the structure stood unfinished. The dam which held the mill pond in check had become a problem, as several times the Pocantico overran its banks in flood and caused the dam to burst. Legend has it that one of Fredrick’s slaves came to him and told him of a dream he had, in which the church was finished and no more did the dam burst. Inspired, Fredrick had the church finished without delay, and true to prediction, the dam suffered no more problems.

The walls of the Old Dutch Church are roughly two feet thick, and constructed of local field stone, and in many ways, the church has been unaltered over time. The tiny church bell was cast in Holland in 1685 and richly decorated with bands of gargoyles, birds and animals, and still rings out over the surrounding area.

Early members of the congregation are buried in the Old Dutch Burying Ground, which is adjacent to but not a part of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, the final resting place of many notables such as Andrew Carnegie, Walter Chrysler and Washington Irving himself.

The Old Dutch Burying Ground is a tranquil treasure of early American and colonial era history. The tombstones found there are not only historical records of some of the earliest families of the area, but curious works of art as well. Most of the early stones are of red sandstone, and typically carved with the names and dates, an epitaph and quite frequently, winged effigies. Several are inscribed in Dutch, reflecting the language common to the area until about 1800. The earliest stones date to the mid 18th century, though field stones mark the location of earlier graves, and quite likely there were many 17th century graves here as well, their markers long gone as they were likely carved from wood.

One famous tombstone found in the Old Dutch Burying Ground itself, is that of Abraham Martling, believed to be the inspiration for Brom Bones, Ichabod Crane’s nemesis in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Brom is of course short for Abraham, and Martling lived on Beaver Hill which overlooks the Sawmill River valley. He was born about 1763, and was a member of the militia and later the Continental line in the American Revolution. In November, 1777, he and several other men of the neighborhood executed a daring raid on the residence of General Oliver Delancey in New York City, using British guard boats which they managed to steal from the landing near Wolfert’s Roost, the original Van Tassel house in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. He continued to serve throughout the war, and was at Yorktown when Cornwallis surrended, ending the conflict.

Martling was a strong, muscular man who rode a black stallion which was said to be faster than any other in Sleepy Hollow. So in essence, not only was Martling presumed to be the inspiration for Brom Bones, his horse was the inspiration for Brom’ horse, Daredevil. Martling was a blacksmith, who frequently did work for Irving. His son, also named Abraham was Irving’s cobbler. It is reported that when Irving published the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and Martling heard that he was the inspiration for Brom Bones, he threatened to thrash Irving if ever he came across him.

Fans of the old television series Dark Shadows will note, that in the film version of the same name, the crypt of Barnabus Collins was the receiving crypt in Sleepy Hollow cemetery, where corpses were once held when the ground was too frozen to dig graves. Collinswood in the same film was set in Lyndhurst Castle, which you pass on Route 9 just south of Tarrytown.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, Cotton Mather’s “History of New England Witchcraft, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,–the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost.

The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

From the Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

Raven's Rock, Sleepy Hollow, New York. — Raven Rock. Rockefeller State Park Preserve, Sleepy Hollow, Pleasantville, Westchester County, New York

Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow it is true, is steeped in ghost stories and fantastic tales. One such legend is of the white lady of Raven’s Rock. I spent a long afternoon trying to navigate the back trails of Rockefeller Preserve in search of this landmark, to get a shot for Jonathan Kruck’s forthcoming book on the legends of Sleepy Hollow and environs, and in doing so, found out how frightening Ichabod’s nightly walks must have been. The forest is thick, the ground hilly and even in the twentieth century, there is a fair amount of wildlife scampering about.

The legend takes many forms, but the one that sticks with me is of a woman, engaged to be married to a local boy, who was out on her way to meet the young fellow. The gentleman was accosted by British soldiers, one of whom secretly wanted to enjoy the affections of the young lady. For one reason or another, it became known that the young man was on his way to meet her, and he was dispatched from this earth by the jealous redcoat. His killer and the other soldiers went searching for the young lady, found her and informed her of her young lover’s fate. She fled from the soldiers and deeper into the forest. Meanwhile, night was coming on, and with it a raging snow storm. Eventually she escaped, but found herself far from home, and according to legend, dressed only in a white dress. Seeking shelter she descended the slopes of Kykuit hill, till she found herself at Raven Rock, a rock formation which overlooks the Sawmill River below. Huddling against the rocks, she eventually died of exposure. It is said that on snowy nights, she can still be seen wandering the slopes of the hillside or atop Raven Rock, calling out for her young lover.

On a whim I decided to take the biker’s and jogging trail which skirts the Sawmill River. After a bit of a walk, I realized that Raven’s Rock must be somewhere above me. Now I love the past and antiquities in general, but I’m not too ashamed to admit that with the help of the iPhone’s GPS and a photocopied map and the written account of the arrest and transportation of the British Spy, Major Andre, I soon realized that I was no more than twenty or so yards below Raven’s Rock. A short climb up the hills, a few slices to the legs from briars and a really impressive case of poison ivy later, I found myself sitting beside the brook at Raven’s Rock, no doubt very close to where the young lady of legend had perished.

There is a magic to finding a place of legend, seemingly long lost. I sat in the silence for a long time, thinking of the legend, and wondering how a spot which was known to every resident of the vicinity a little over 200 years ago, had managed to get itself lost, especially when scores of bikers and joggers pass each day, along with probably tens of thousands of cars. Probably because in this day and age, people forget to look up.

Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart,–sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.”

Sunnyside, the home of Washington Irving, and the fictional home of Baltus and Katrina Van Tassel, Irvington, New York.

It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high- ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock- oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

Wolfert Ecker was the grandfather of Catriena Van Tessel. Formerly of New York City, Wolfert moved to Tarrytown and built a house on the banks overlooking the Hudson, hoping to escape from the noise and commotion of the world. According to Irving, “He was a worthy, but ill-starred man, whose aim through life had been to live in peace and quiet. For this he had emigrated from Holland, driven abroad by family feuds and wrangling neighbors. It was his doom, in fact, to meet a head wind at every turn, and be kept in a constant fume and fret by the perverseness of mankind. At the time when the province of the New Netherlands was wrested from the domination of their High Mightinesses by the combined forces of Old and New England, Wolfert retired in high dudgeon to this fastness in the wilderness, with the bitter determination to bury himself from the world, and live here for the rest of his days in peace and quiet. In token of that fixed purpose he inscribed over his door (his teeth clenched at the time) his favorite Dutch motto, “Lust in Rust,” (pleasure in quiet). The mansion was thence called Wolfert’s Rust–(Wolfert’s Rest), but by the uneducated, who did not understand Dutch, Wolfert’s Roost; probably from its quaint cock-loft look, and from its having a weather-cock perched on every gable.

Wolfert’s luck followed him into retirement. He had shut himself up from the world, but he had brought with him a wife, and it soon passed into a proverb throughout the neighborhood that the cock of the Roost was the most henpecked bird in the country. His house too was reputed to be harassed by Yankee witchcraft. When the weather was quiet every where else, the wind, it was said, would howl and whistle about the gables; witches and warlocks would whirl about upon the weather-cocks, and scream down the chimneys; nay it was even hinted that Wolfert’s wife was in league with the enemy, and used to ride on a broomstick to a witches’ sabbath in Sleepy Hollow. This, however, was all mere scandal, founded perhaps on her occasionally flourishing a broomstick in the course of a curtain lecture, or raising a storm within doors, as termagant wives are apt to do, and against which sorcery horse shoes are of no avail. Wolfert Acker died and was buried, but found no quiet even in the grave: for if popular gossip be true, his ghost has occasionally been seen walking by moonlight among the old gray moss-grown trees of his apple orchard … from Wolfert’s Roost, by Washington Irving.

Wolfert’s Roost, in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow became Katrina’s father’s farm, the Van Tassel residence. In reality, it was the residence of Jacob Van Tassel during the American Revolution. The area around Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow was bitterly contested, and was the subject of frequent raids, on both sides. According to Irving, “Jacob Van Tassel was a prominent man in these belligerent operations; but he was prone moreover, to carry on a petty warfare of his own for his individual recreation and refreshment. On a row of hooks above the fireplace of the Roost, reposed his great piece of ordnance; a duck, or rather goose gun of unparalleled longitude, with which it was said he could kill a wild goose half way across the Tappan Sea.”

Van Tassel’s orneryness landed him in trouble with the British, and he soon found himself locked away in a New York dungeon for most of the war, his house a shell of its former self after a infamous raid, which left the Roost a smoldering ruin. Once again, according to Irving writing in Wolfert’s Roost , “in the mean time the Roost remained a melancholy ruin, its stone walls and brick chimneys alone standing, the resorts of bats and owls. Superstitious notions prevailed about it. None of the country people would venture alone at night down the rambling lane which led to it, overhung with trees and crossed here and there by a wild wandering brook. The story went that one of the victims of Jacob Van Tassel’s great goose-gun had been buried there in unconsecrated ground.”

Wolfert’s Roost was rebuilt after the war, and it was here that Irving’s fictional narrator of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. Diedrich Knickerbocker (also based on a real life character, from the family of Abraham Martling), came across the stories which were to make Irving famous. “Here then did old Diedrich Knickerbocker take up his abode for a time,” wrote Irving, “and set to work with antiquarian zeal to decipher these precious documents, which, like the lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former historians; and it is the facts drawn from these sources which give his work the preference, in point of accuracy, over every other history. Momentoes of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker are still cherished at the Roost. His elbow chair and antique writing-desk maintain their place in the room he occupied, and his old cocked hat still hangs on a peg against the wall.”

And it is here that the story of Wolfert’s Roost takes perhaps a veiled, autobiographical turn. Irving continues, “Reader, the Roost still exists. Time, which changes all things, is slow in it operations on a Dutchman’s dwelling. The stout Jacob Van Tassel, it is true, sleeps with his fathers; and his great goose-gun with him: yet his strong-hold still bears the impress of its Dutch origin. Odd rumors have gathered about it, as they are apt to do about old mansions, like moss and weather stains. The shade of Wolfert Acker still walks his unquiet rounds at night in the orchard; and a white figure has now and then been seen seated at a window and gazing at the moon, from a room in which a young lady is said to have died of love and green apples.”

For indeed Wolfert’s Roost does still exist, though no longer the charming, compact cottage it originally was. In 1835, Irving bought Wolfert’s Roost and renamed it Sunnyside, where he lived with his three nieces until his death in 1859. Writing in Wolfert’s Roost, Irving tells the tale in once more, fictional terms of how he had once visited the place with Mr. Knickerbocker, “Proud of having associated with a man who had achieved such greatness, I now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold pleasure, and sought to revisit the scenes we had trodden together. The most important of these was the mansion of the Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate Wolfert. Time, which changes all things, is but slow in its operations upon a Dutchman’s dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint little edifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich. There stood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had occupied; the old-fashioned Dutch writing-desk at which he had pored over the chronicles of the Manhattoes; there was the old wooden chest, with the archives left by Wolfert Acker, many of which, however, had been fired off as wadding from the long duck gun of the Van Tassels. The scene around the mansion was still the same; the green bank; the spring beside which I had listened to the legendary narratives of the historian; the wild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and the overshadowing locust trees, half shutting out the prospect of the great Tappan Zee.”

“As I looked round upon the scene, my heart yearned at the recollection of my departed friend, and I wistfully eyed the mansion which he had inhabited, and which was fast mouldering to decay. The thought struck me to arrest the desolating hand of Time; to rescue the historic pile from utter ruin, and to make it the closing scene of my wanderings; a quiet home, where I might enjoy “lust in rust” for the remainder of my days. It is true, the fate of the unlucky Wolfert passed across my mind; but I consoled myself with the reflection that I was a bachelor, and that I had no termagant wife to dispute the sovereignty of the Roost with me.”

“I have become possessor of the Roost! I have repaired and renovated it with religious care, in the genuine Dutch style, and have adorned and illustrated it with sundry reliques of the glorious days of the New Netherlands. My sanctum sanctorum is the chamber once honored by the illustrious Diedrich, and it is from his elbow-chair, and his identical old Dutch writing-desk, that I pen this rambling epistle. Here, then, have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recollections of early days, and the mementoes of the historian of the Manhattoes, with that glorious river before me, which flows with such majesty through his works, and which has ever been to me a river of delight.”

From Wolfert’s Roost,” by Washington Irving

By 1859, author Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. noted that Sunnyside had become “next to Mount Vernon, the best known and most cherished of all the dwellings in our land”. Though Irving never married, he was henpecked lovingly by a gaggle of nieces who lived with him, and whom he doted over, despite frequent complaints about how much they cost him. According to legend, on the night of November 28, 1859 Irving prepared for bed and told the housekeeper “Well, I must arrange my pillows for another weary night! If this could only end!?”There’s still an orchard in the back yard, and the spring still bubbles up at the foot of the house. Operated by Historic Hudson Valley, the house gives an insight into the life of Washington Irving, complete with much of its original furnishings. It is said that at times one or more of the three nieces can still be seen, tidying up the place. In addition, several female guests, whilst taking the tour of the house have reported being pinched on the bottom, which is attributed to the spirit of the writer himself, who is also seen loitering about the place from time to time.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was–a woman.”

“Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father’s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

From the Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

As a young man, Irving would often sit in the Old Dutch Church and think, and it was one of those days when he happened to look out the window and notice an interesting effect on one of tombstones. Going out to investigate, he noted that the setting sun was casting shadows on the face inscribed on one of the stones, which gave it a realistic look. The tombstone was that of Catriena Ecker Van Tessel, whose name he anglicized in his story to Katrina Van Tassel. It is thought that Irving took the actual character from Catriena’s niece, Eleanor Van Tassel Brush, or Laney as she was known, as Eleanor’s life and the description of her character seems to more closely match the fictional Katrina, and shared the same surname as Catriena.

The incident which inspired Martling and his associates to take revenge upon the British was a raid on Wolfert’s Roost, the ancestral home of the Van Tassel family. Irving wrote in the short story “Wolfert’s Roost” Eleanor’s father Jacob was away, imprisoned by the British in New York following a raid on a British vessel on the Hudson, or Tappan Zee sea as Irving was want to call it.

“The cock of the Roost being captive, there was none to garrison it but his stout-hearted spouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, and Dinah, a strapping negro wench. An armed vessel came to anchor in front; a boat full of men pulled to shore. The garrison flew to arms; that is to say, to mops, broomsticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds of domestic weapons. Above all, a vigorous defence was made with that most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never did invaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all in vain. The house was sacked and plundered, fire was set to each corner, and in a few moments its blaze shed a baleful light far over the Tappan Sea. The invaders then pounced upon the blooming Laney Van Tassel, the beauty of the Roost, and endeavored to bear her off to the boat. But here was the real tug of war. The mother, the aunt, and the strapping negro wench, all flew to the rescue. The struggle continued down to the very water’s edge; when a voice from the armed vessel at anchor, ordered the spoilers to desist; they relinquished their prize, jumped into their boats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost escaped with a mere rumpling of the feathers” … From Wolfert’s Roost, by Washington Irving.

Eleanor lived to be 97 years old, and is buried as well in the Old Dutch Burying Ground.

“The dominant spirit that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.”

From the Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

Site of the Headless Horseman’s Crossing at the Battle of White Plains. Bronx River, White Plains, Westchester County, New York

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is one of those pieces of fiction that is easy to forget it’s fiction. The problem can be compounded by the fact that the location, and in some cases, the names, if not the actual characters once existed.

One of the quests which Jonathan Kruck and I set for ourselves was to find the spot where the headless Hessian likely lost his head. Based on the historical records and some archival writings, Jonathan had sussed it out that the battle had to be the Battle of White Plains, as there were very few battles in the immediate vicinity which had both Hessian soldiers and cannons.

The Battle of White Plains was fought mainly on the highlands overlooking the village of White Plains on Chatterton Hill. Today, White Plains is a bustling little city, and the highlands are populated by houses. The British and Hessians were stretched in a line at the foot of the hill, and decided the plan would be to cross the Bronx River and outflank the Colonial Army’s right. Jonathan had found an entry that stated that after crossing the Bronx River, the British and Hessians faced withering cannon fire from the colonials, and that in addition, many of their soldiers were killed by their own cannon. So it was likely here that the Hessian and his head became two distinctly separate entities.

There are no signs saying “the British crossed here,” and very few landmarks from the battle at all. And Jonathan seemed to be getting discouraged, finally suggesting that perhaps we could just find a good spot along the river and take a photo, which would likely be as good as any. “No,” I replied. “We both know the story is fiction, and even though it’s fiction, we’re both anal retentive enough that we’re not going to be satisfied until we find the exact spot where the horseman lost his head, even if it means still finding his still steaming blood spilled upon the ground.”

And so we searched on, until we finally found the spot which just felt right, and seemed to match the historical record. And sitting by the banks of the Bronx River, which turned out to be surprisingly serene, secluded and quiet, a sense of magic descended upon us.

It’s this magic in which Irving’s story is imbued. It’s fiction, but it feels like truth.

The Van Tassels continued to suffer indignity at the hands of the invading British it seems. One day in November of 1777, the farm and residence of Cornelius and Elizabeth Van Tassel was attacked and sacked by British and Hessian regulars. The Van Tassels put up a fight, which only incensed the attackers, who set fire to the farmhouse, after capturing the inhabitants. Whilst watching the flames catch and then consume, Elizabeth in a panic, noticed that their baby girl by the name of Leah, was not with them. Grief-stricken, she ran towards the burning house, intended to enter and search for her baby. Her flight was thwarted by a Hessian soldier, who quietly escorted her to an adjacent shed, where the baby was found, wrapped up in a blanket, unharmed.

The family was so thankful to the soldier, that later, when a headless Hessian soldier was found in Sleepy Hollow, they insisted he was given a decent burial in the Old Dutch Burying Ground, on the off-chance that it was the soldier who had helped them. No headstone was allowed for the soldier, but it’s said that the open ground on the lawn without headstones is the final resting place of the headless Hessian, and the birthplace of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

The Pursuit of Ichabod Crane

Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man.

Site of Wiley's Swamp, Tarrytown, New York. — Wiley’s Swamp -Tulip Trees alongside Andre Brook in Patriots Park , Tarrytown, Westchester County, New York

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major Andre’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill- starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased whistling but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan–his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind,–the other did the same. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!–but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip; but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.

Bridge at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. — Bridge Over the Pocantico River. Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow Churchyard and Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Westchester County, New York,

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash,–he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

From the Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

Today the route of Ichabod Crane from the Van Tassel’s farm is pretty much lost, though it’s a safe bet that much of it occurred along what is now Route 9. Even the location of the famous bridge is now changed, further downstream than where it once crossed the Pocantico River. And yet enough of it remains to get a sense of distance, and when the mood is right, an oppressive sense that one is being followed. Though of course that mood is most likely to be felt more from an internal longing than outside influences. And of course, the tale is fiction – or is it? Either way, to get a feel of old Sleepy Hollow one should keep to the side roads, or dispense of roads altogether and take to the trails. Sleepy Hollow today can best be felt in the depth of the forest, when the path has grown confusing. It can also be felt at Philipsburg Manor and its living history, or at the quiet repose of Irving’s home Sunnyside. And of course, it’s easy to feel in the shadow of the Old Dutch Church, or the silence of the Old Dutch Burying Ground, or the depths of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery at twilight.

Or perhaps it’s not necessary to travel to Sleepy Hollow at all to find it. You can find it anywhere, on a lonely country lane as the fall night air bites lightly at your skin, when the breeze blows with a hint of winter, and the sounds of the night begin to close in and form shapes around you. Sleepy Hollow is a place that stirs the imagination, and perhaps it was from the mind of an antiquarian by the name of Irving, that it came to be. And a place which lives in the imagination, can never pass away.

“I have thus endeavored to give an idea of Sleepy Hollow and its church, as I recollect them to have been in the days of my boyhood. It was in my stripling days, when a few years had passed over my head, that I revisited them, in company with the venerable Diedrich. I shall never forget the antiquarian reverence with which that sage and excellent man contemplated the church. It seemed as if all his pious enthusiasm for the ancient Dutch dynasty swelled within his bosom at the sight. The tears stood in his eyes, as he regarded the pulpit and the communion-table; even the very bricks that had come from the mother country, seemed to touch a filial chord within his bosom. He almost bowed in deference to the stone above the porch, containing the names of Frederick Filipsen and Katrina Van Courtlandt, regarding it as the linking together of those patronymic names, once so famous along the banks of the Hudson; or rather as a key-stone, binding that mighty Dutch family connexion of yore, one foot of which rested on Yonkers, and the other on the Croton. Nor did he forbear to notice with admiration, the windy contest which had been carried on, since time immemorial, and with real Dutch perseverance, between the two weather-cocks; though I could easily perceive he coincided with the one which had come from Holland.”

Headless Horseman Bridge over the Pocantico River, Sleepy Hollow, New York

I had heard enough! I thanked my old playmate for his intelligence, and departed from the Sleepy Hollow church, with the sad conviction that I had beheld the last lingerings of the good old Dutch times, in this once favored region. If any thing were wanting to confirm this impression, it would be the intelligence which has just reached me, that a bank is about to be established in the aspiring little port just mentioned. The fate of the neighborhood is, therefore, sealed. I see no hope of averting it. The golden mean is at an end. The country is suddenly to be deluged with wealth. The late simple farmers are to become bank directors, and drink claret and champagne; and their wives and daughters to figure in French hats and feathers; for French wines and French fashions commonly keep pace with paper money. How can I hope that even Sleepy Hollow can escape the general inundation? In a little while, I fear the slumber of ages will be at end; the strum of the piano will succeed to the hum of the spinning wheel; the trill of the Italian opera to the nasal quaver of Ichabod Crane; and the antiquarian visitor to the Hollow, in the petulance of his disappointment, may pronounce all that I have recorded of that once favored region, a fable.”

From Sleepy Hollow,” by Washington Irving

Want to read more about the haunted Hudson Valley?

Haunted Travels in Washington Irving's Hudson Valley

Haunted Travels in the Hudson River Valley of Washington Irving … The Sketch Books Volume One

Explore The Hudson Valley

True Confessions: In which the author relates his own encounters in the land of Sleepy Hollow

Haunted Houses and Buildings, Haunted Towns and Cities, Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley, The best in haunted travel tips, True Ghost Stories

Above: The shot I was taking in Washington Irving’s Sunnyside when the lady laughed.

People are always asking me if I believe these stories, they say “Todd” … That’s neither here nor there. But I will offer up a couple of experiences I’ve had, both coming from the Sleepy Hollow area of New York.

[Read more…]

Exploring the imagination of Washington Irving and early American folklore along the Rip Van Winkle Trail in the Catskills … a photo essay

Classic Gothic Ghost Stories, Journal, Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley

WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky, but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

RIP VAN WINKLE, like The Legend of Sleepy Hollow emerges from the sludge of childhood memories, cloaked in reds and oranges, made crisp with the first cool breeze of autumn. I pity the generations born after Tim Burton got a hold of Sleepy Hollow and painted that Washington Irving story in blues and blacks. It’s a beautiful film, but he missed an essential part of the story, the autumn connection.

Luckily he didn’t get his hands on Rip Van Winkle and so I still have that direct pipeline into the feeling I got from the story as a child.

Just guessing, I likely ran across both stories in the Autumn. TV programmers also seemed to associate the two stories with that season.

Those of us who grew up in rural areas lived with a different kind of Autumn. You didn’t have to take the yearly pilgrimage to check out the fall foliage. You were surrounded by it. The cornfields turned brown and were ready for picking and the entire landscape changed to a new palette.

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View of the Catskills from Rip's Lookout Point, Rip Van Winkle Trail, near Palenville, NY — View of the Catskills from Rip’s Lookout Point, Rip Van Winkle Trail, near Palenville, NY

The Catskill, Katskill, or Cat River Mountains, derived their name in the time of the Dutch Domination, from the catamounts by which they were infested, and which, with the bear and the deer, are still found in some of their most difficult recesses. The interior of these mountains is in the highest degree wild and romantic. Here are rocky precipices mantled with primeval forests, deep gorges walled in by beetling cliffs, with torrents tumbling as it were from the sky, and savage glens rarely trodden except by the hunter. With all this internal rudeness, the aspect of these mountains towards the Hudson at times is eminently bland and beautiful, sloping down into a country softened by cultivation and bearing much of the rich character of Italian scenery about the skirts of the Appenines.

Washington Irving, Spanish Papers, and other Miscellanies hitherto unpublished or uncollected

As you wind up Interstate 87 northward through the Hudson Valley, the Catskill Escarpment rises up dramatically, forming a wall to your west, an ominous introduction to one of the country’s most mysterious regions.

This area was originally a high plateau, which over the past few million years has been carved by rivers and streams into the mountains we see today. Glaciers widened the ravines and rounded off the mountain tops, forming the Catskill’s unmistakable shapes. The process continues, so slowly we can’t see it except from repeated visits when our years pile up. But it’s hard to see the slow, steady effects of nature from the highway, where the fast moving sleight of hand of man seeks to reshape this region for it’s own, commercial purposes.

And yet the mystique clings to these peaks as surely as the mist which shrouds their summits when you time it just right and get lucky with your visit. No amount of roadside kitsch can dilute the haunted atmosphere which hangs on the valleys and dales of the Catskills.

There’s a feeling we get when mountains rise and fall so suddenly. The Catskills aren’t like much of the Appalachians, spread out lazily across the horizon. It’s more compact, tightly squeezed and the hollows seem darker, or as Irving wrote, “long blue shadows over the valleys”, the air a bit cooler and wherever you smelled wood smoke in the early years of our country, you found talked of mystery and imagination.

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Catskill Mountains from across the Hudson River at Olana. Washington Irving stayed with friends on this side of the Hudson before writing Rip Van Winkle, and most of his views of the Catskills were from a distance, like this one.

Rip Van Winkle was born on the Hudson River

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a Village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks, brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

We’re a nation of immigrants so it’s no wonder our folk tales are based on those from other lands. Much of this country was Dutch, and a European feel colored much of the early history of the area. Folklore, like people, travel along highways, and in the earliest days the highway which led from relative civilization to the Catskills was the Hudson River.

As many of us remember from childhood history class, upstate New York was explored by Henry Hudson, on his ship the Half Moon, giving that mighty river its name. Hudson made friends with the native Americans, trading with them and hearing their stories. He was searching for the northwest passage across the continent, for a shortcut to the Orient. He went as far as Albany before turning back, convinced, rightly, that the passage would not lie in that direction.

As they followed the current south, back towards New Amsterdam and fall coming on, they sailed past the Catskills. It was about midnight when Hudson heard music coming down from the mountains. Intrigued, Hudson and a few crew members went to shore, in search of the source. They climbed up into the mountains and the music got louder.

Reaching the edge of a cliff, Hudson came across a crew of men, short in stature, with long, crabby beards, dancing to the strains of this unearthly music, their eyes glowing red. Seeing Hudson and his men, the dwarves welcomed them and brought them closer to the firelight. They were treated to a strong draught, brewed in the mountains, heady and intoxicating and the men took to dancing around the fire, mingling with the dwarves while their Captain sipped a single glass and spoke to their leader, learning something of their mysterious secrets.

Hudson decided it was time to return and sail on, but when he went to call to his men, he couldn’t find them. He soon realized they had become absorbed by the dwarves, taking on the same features and looking little like they had when they left the ship. Hudson remembered being warned about these metal working residents of the Catskills, from the tales told to him by the native Americans.

The leader of the dwarves explained to Hudson it was simply the effect of the liquor, and as it wore off they’d return to their former selves. The Captain took leave of their hosts and marched the transformed crew members back down the mountainside to their ship, and true to his host’s word, they were back to the their normal features and height when they awoke, though sporting insanely nasty hangovers.

Twenty years later, Hudson was dead, set adrift by mutineers and never seen again. But on that anniversary of that night, and every twenty years after, Hudson and his crew step once more into the firelight and dance and play nine pins with the dwarves in the moonlight, the sound of falling pins like thunder across the mountains.

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The Hudson River from the Bear Mountain Overlook

The Catskill Mountains, as I have observed, maintain all the internal wildness of the labyrinth of mountains with which they are connected. Their detached position, overlooking a wide lowland region, with the majestic Hudson rolling through it, has given them a distinct character, and rendered them, at all times, a rallying point for romance and fable. Much of the fanciful associations with which they have been clothed may be owing to their being peculiarly subject to those beautiful atmospherical effects, which constitute one of the great charms of Hudson River scenery. To me they have ever been the fairy region of the Hudson. I speak, however, from early impressions, made in the happy days of boyhood, when all the world had a tinge of fairyland. I shall never forget my first view of these mountains. It was in the course of a voyage up the Hudson, in the good old times, before steamboats and railroads had driven all poetry and romance out of travel. A voyage up the Hudson in those days was equal to a voyage to Europe at present, and cost almost as much time; but we enjoyed the river then; we relished it as we did our wine, sip by sip; not as at present, gulping all down at a draught, without tasting it. My whole voyage up the Hudson was full of wonder and romance.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

How the spirit of Rip Van Winkle took over rock and roll

Well, I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, Tell where are you going?
This he told meSaid, I’m going down to Yasgur’s Farm,
Gonna join in a rock and roll band.
Got to get back to the land and set my soul free. Joni Mitchell

For many of us, the story of Rip Van Winkle is our introduction to folklore. Washington Irving was one of our first writers of renown, so it’s logical to start with him. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is more advanced, more intense. Rip Van Winkle reads like an American fairy tale, and weaves into its fabric threads of our country’s birth. It’s taught early in the year, as the history classes are still in the colonial era, merging seamlessly into autumn, the time of year when the story is set.

When we reach middle age, the strains of that story are set so far into our past that it could be in our DNA. Mention the name, or mention the Catskills and our mind turns orange and red with autumnal memories, the smell of leaves freshly fallen and the sound of our feet crunching over and through them. The landscape glows, and all the magic, all the mystery returns on those first cool breezes.

This was a pilgrimage I was destined to make from the time I was in first grade, far too long in coming. The history of the Catskills didn’t end with Irving. The Catskill’s theater scene, and horror tales of standup comedians playing the resorts wormed their way into my young mind from watching Johnny Carson. Woodstock made it a musical mecca, and over time it became harder to remember that initial feeling I got when I heard the word Catskill. It had been influenced by too many currents. I knew I had to get back to the garden if you will, back to what drew me there to begin with. And so as I hurtled up Interstate 87, I took the Saugerties exit and headed towards Woodstock.

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes: the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

This mountain zone is, in fact, the great poetical region of our country, resisting, like the tribes which once inhabited it, the taming hand of cultivation, and maintaining a hallowed ground for fancy and the Muses. It is a magnificent and all-pervading feature that might have given our country a name, and a poetical one, had not the all-controlling powers of commonplace determined otherwise.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

As I came off the interstate and approached the toll booth, I turned down my car stereo. It was a George Harrison album, and the guy in the booth lit up. He’d just bought an anthology of Harrison’s, after being without his music for years. That’s the kind of thing you expect as you approach Woodstock.

Woodstock is much more to rock and roll than the festival that borrowed its name, which wasn’t even held in Woodstock, but fifty miles away. That weekend might have taken over the name, but rock and roll took over the town even before the festival.

Dylan came here to recover from a motorcycle accident. His backing band followed and the locals started calling them The Band, which stuck.

Living in the Catskills changed The Band. They had spent years on the road, touring with Ronnie Hawkins as the Hawks, then with Dylan. It was a chance to get off the road, to live in a house rather than hotel rooms and vans. According to their keyboardist, Garth Hudson who still lives in the area, it was a chance to “get reacquainted with screen doors and dishwashers and going to the dump.”

The metamorphosis eerily reflected Henry Hudson’s crew who partied with the dwarves in the mountains and took on their characteristics. Rolling Stone wrote that when they landed in Woodstock, “They grew beards, split firewood, collected antique rifles, planted marijuana in the woods and began dressing like nineteenth-century frontier gunslingers, in wool vests and denim shirts and cowboy boots. ‘They looked unlike anyone we’d ever met,’ remembers folk musician Happy Traum, who moved to Woodstock the previous year, ‘like something from another world’”

Their music changed too. The nucleus of The Band came from Canada, supplemented by a drummer, Levon Helm, from Arkansas. Inspired by Dylan’s poetry, and the tales they heard from Levon about the American south, and from years on the road, they sang about an America disappearing and in some cases, long gone. Their music took on the flavors of America’s past, forging a new sound.

Together, Dylan and The Band recorded The Basement Tapes in the basement of a house three of the members lived in, called Big Pink, in the woods between Woodstock and West Saugerties. There they gave a big shot in the arm to the new style known as country-rock, and almost single handedly invented the sound and style of music which is now known as Americana or roots music, though it took about half a century for it to catch on.

George Harrison came for Thanksgiving to visit Dylan, and saw his days with The Beatles were nearly over. Eric Clapton came for a visit and was inspired to quit Cream. Both wanted to join The Band, so enamored were they by the sound, the lifestyle and the organic way they had of making music. Van Morrison followed and moved in nearby, and most of the New York scene at least visited. Todd Rundgren took a job engineering and producing records in nearby Bearsville, working for Dylan’s manager, Albert Grossman who had a vision of Woodstock as a mecca for artists.

The dream of Peace still hangs on in the Catskill village of Woodstock — The dream of peace still hangs on in the Catskill village of Woodstock

The Woodstock Music and Arts Fair made his dream a reality and Woodstock went from being the sleepy little Catskill village it was into what it is today. There are drum circles on Sundays in the village square, head shops abound, peace and love fills the air.

But there’s nothing worse than seeing your childhood put up for sale, which is always how I feel when I’m in a hip, rock and roll or even witchy shopping district. So after the cursory walk through town, I got back in the car and followed the main street into the countryside, and after a brief detour looking for Todd Rundgren’s psychic imprint on Mink Hollow, made my way north.

The Catskills, Mink Hollow — Mink Hollow, where Todd Rundgren holed up and recorded The Hermit of Mink Hollow. The hermit didn’t refer to Rundgren himself, but a folk tale about an escaped mental patient who terrorized the night and was believed to live in the Catskill forests of that area.

The other arts, along with Rip Van Winkle led the way to making the Catskills a tourist destination,

James Fenimore Cooper is credited with writing the first American novel, and his native Americans in The Last of the Mohicans travelled the trails of the Catskills. The poets that Washington Irving spoke of did in fact write of the region, long before the folkies and the rockers made their stamp on it. William Cullen Bryant wrote of a visit to Kaaterskill falls in winter …

Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps,
From cliffs where the wood-flower clings;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.

But when, in the forest bare and old,
The blast of December calls,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.

The Catskills have been called America’s first wilderness. Only a couple hundred miles from New York City, artists started flocking to the mountains when tourism started early in the 19th century. The Hudson River school was America’s first art movement, a collective of artists who worked in the region, and they brought the beauty of the landscape to the attention of the world. Thomas Cole kept a studio in the town of Catskill, and across the river Fredric Edwin Church built his electric home Olana overlooking the Hudson with the Catskills beyond.

The further north you go the more the signs of the sagging tourism industry jumps out at you. What was once upscale is now often in ruins. The resorts of old are increasingly boarded up, or in ruins with only the big players who can afford full service and nightly entertainment still in business.

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The Falls of Kaaterskill by Thomas Cole, one of the artists of the Hudson River School

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist—several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

Outside of Saugerties is a wilderness area known as Devil’s Kitchen, the name thought to have been inspired by the boulder infested gorge that runs through it, forming caldrons of swirling, churning water. Early settlers reported that during storms, they’d hear banging coming from below, like the sound you’d hear coming from a very large kitchen.

Like much of the Catskills, and many places with high overlooks and sheer bluffs, Devil’s Kitchen has seen its share of fatalities by unfortunate or careless hikers. Those foolhardy enough to hike the area at night, or intrepid campers spending the night in the area report seeing strange lights in the forest, swinging to and fro, like lanterns being carried by the ghosts of the miners who used to work here. Mining, particularly blue stone was once big business in the Catskills, and many miners met their fate in these hills around Devil’s Kitchen. So it would be no surprise to find their spirits still trying to find the way home, the light of their lanterns being the only sign of their continued existence here in this world.

From a science website called The Weather Dork I found what seems to be a typical encounter with the ghost lights of Devil’s Kitchen …

“There is a small campsite at the top of the cliffs above Devil’s Kitchen. This campsite is frequented by kids that live in West Saugerties looking to sneak away into the woods. I have never been to the campsite personally, however, a friend from high school did frequent the campsite and told me of a story that happened to him and three others.”

“It was late September and the four boys hiked down the path leading to the campsite above Devil’s Kitchen. My friend told me that the path was littered with downed trees and bushes that prevented a steady pace. At the campsite, they boys made a fire and began cooking dinner. Soon after dinner while the boys were talking around the fire, they began to hear moaning and whispers in the trees around them. At first they believed the wind and trees were creaking and moaning but to make sure they grabbed flashlights and began walking around the area to see if anyone was nearby. They walked down the path that led to and from the campsite. When they came around a corner they saw a light floating in the path about 40 feet in front of them. The boys called out to whoever it was standing on the trail. There was no response. Another light appeared behind the first and slowly floated toward the closest. (Mind you this path is full of trees and there is no way to hold a lantern steady while negotiating the trail.) The boys called out again but there was no sound. They put their flashlights together to try to see as far down the path as possible but there was no figure or person, just a light among the downed trees.”

“The light disappeared. At this point the boys went back to the camp to pack up to leave; however, when they got back to the camp and were putting out the fire they could hear the voices and rustling in the woods all around them. While walking as fast as they could down the path to get back to their cars they could see lights in the woods around them. Finally they made it down the trail and cliffs and went home.”

I love these places where the locals go to engage in their libations and tell their ghost stories. But I’m looking for Rip Van Winkle, and by all accounts he’s to be found a little further north and to the west. And since I wasn’t prepared to camp on the heights of Devil’s Kitchen, I pressed on.

Approaching the Catskills and Rip Van Winkle Bridge

Washington Irving and the cultural appropriation of native American folklore

“I was a lively boy, somewhat imaginative, of easy faith, and prone to relish everything that partook of the marvellous. Among the passengers on board the sloop was a veteran Indian trader, on his way to the Lakes, to traffic with the natives. He had discovered my propensity, and amused himself throughout the voyage by telling me Indian legends and grotesque stories about every noted place on the river, such as Spuyten Devil Creek, the Tappan Sea, the Devil’s Darts Kammer, and other hobgoblin places. The Catskill Mountains, especially, called forth a host of fanciful traditions. We were all day slowly tiding along in sight of them, so that he had full time to weave his whimsical narratives. In these mountains, he told me, according to Indian belief, was kept the great treasury of storm and sunshine for the region of the Hudson. An old squaw spirit had charge of it, who dwelt on the highest peak of the mountain. Here she kept day and night shut up in her wigwam, letting out only one of them at a time. She made new moons every month, and hung them up in the sky, cutting up the old ones into stars. The great Manitou or master spirit employed her to manufacture clouds. Sometimes she wove them out of cobwebs, gossamers, and morning dew, and sent them off, flake after flake, to float in the air and give light summer showers. Sometimes she would brew up black thunder-storms, and send down drenching rains, to swell the streams and sweep everything away. He had many stories, also, about mischievous spirits, who infested the mountains, in the shape of animals, and played all kinds of pranks upon Indian hunters, decoying them into quagmires and morasses, or to the brinks of torrents and precipices. All these were doled out to me as I lay on the deck, throughout a long summer’s day, gazing upon these mountains, the ever-changing shapes and bites of which appeared to realize the magical influences in question. Sometimes they seemed to approach, at others to recede; during the heat of the day they almost melted into a sultry haze; as the day declined they deepened in tone; their summits were brightened by the last rays of the sun, and later in the evening their whole outline was printed in deep purple against an amber sky. As I beheld them, thus shifting continually before my eye, and listened to the marvellous legends of the trader, a host of fanciful notions concerning them was conjured into my brain, which have haunted it ever since.”

Washington Irving, Spanish Papers, and other Miscellanies hitherto unpublished or uncollected

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What strikes me about the passage above, indeed about much of Irving’s writing in both Rip Van Winkle and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, is the wealth of native American folklore. European Americans today shy away from that, keeping it separate from their own folklore. It’s likely guilt for the horrible treatment our ancestors dished out on those people, and still do.

But folklore doesn’t have to be tied to a particular people. Folklore is ingrained into the landscape. The features that inspire the tales inspire all cultures that pass through it. Irving didn’t hesitate to bring the native American tales into his own, just as he pulled from European folklore when writing Rip Van Winkle, which is easy enough to understand. The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon Gent, which contained both stories was written whilst staying in England, and England was a melting pot thousands of years before white people set foot on North America.

The neolithic people who first started raising stones to the heavens, arranging then in circles for the most part, didn’t pass their DNA to the Britons of today. It’s believed that the neolithic people who started Stonehenge, and who built many of the monuments still in existence today first came to Britain from the area around the Aegean Sea. It’s been proposed that 90% or more of those people died out or were replaced by the stock of the Beaker culture, which was replaced by successive waves of invaders. With each wave came new stories to imprint on the landscapes they found. Folklore is tied to the land, as much or more so than it is to a people.

So Irving didn’t hesitate to use the native American tales he heard in the Hudson Valley, and integrate those with the folklore of the old Dutch culture which first settled the region. And so we gain a better understanding of the beliefs that swirled around this region during Irving’s life, and the colorful strains of folklore which ran through it.

Not that Irving knew much about the Catskills at the time he wrote Rip Van Winkle in 1819. He only saw those mountains from a boat on the Hudson as he floated by on a handful of trips north, and incorporated tales and travelogues to flesh his description.

But there was at least one occasion where Irving had set foot in the Catskills. Whilst visiting a wealthy land owner on the east side of the Hudson, across from the Catskills, he accompanied the fellow’s daughters to some land their father owned around Saugerties and Woodstock. Woodstock at the time was little more than a sawmill, but the scattered farmhouses – cabins and brick houses which he writes about in Rip Van Winkle would have been found in the Saugerties area. And like the story, the people who lived there would have spoke a combination of Dutch and English, and were well versed in the ways of local folklore and fear of witchcraft. They too would have been quite familiar with the native American tales, which would influence their own.

The Catskill tourism industry began with The Catskill Mountain House. Built by a group of merchants from the nearby town of Catskill, it was situated on a plateau with sweeping views of of the Hudson valley on one side, and two forested lakes on the other. It was already a noted viewpoint, immortalized by the artists in Hudson River School, as well as writings by John Bertram and James Fenimore Cooper.

And long before that, the native Americans has their own tales to tell of the place. Writing in Myths And Legends Of Our Own Land, first published in 1896, Charles M. Skinner told the tale of the Catskill’s most famous witch, likely lifted at least in part from Irving’s description in Rip Van Winkle.

“When the Dutch gave the name of Katzbergs to the mountains west of the Hudson, by reason of the wild-cats and panthers that ranged there, they obliterated the beautiful Indian Ontiora, “mountains of the sky.” In one tradition of the red men these hills were bones of a monster that fed on human beings until the Great Spirit turned it into stone as it was floundering toward the ocean to bathe. The two lakes near the summit were its eyes. These peaks were the home of an Indian witch, who adjusted the weather for the Hudson Valley with the certainty of a signal service bureau. It was she who let out the day and night in blessed alternation, holding back the one when the other was at large, for fear of conflict. Old moons she cut into stars as soon as she had hung new ones in the sky, and she was often seen perched on Round Top and North Mountain, spinning clouds and flinging them to the winds. Woe betide the valley residents if they showed irreverence, for then the clouds were black and heavy, and through them she poured floods of rain and launched the lightnings, causing disastrous freshets in the streams and blasting the wigwams of the mockers. In a frolic humor she would take the form of a bear or deer and lead the Indian hunters anything but a merry dance, exposing them to tire and peril, and vanishing or assuming some terrible shape when they had overtaken her. Sometimes she would lead them to the cloves and would leap into the air with a mocking “Ho, ho!” just as they stopped with a shudder at the brink of an abyss.”

Skinner also wrote of another bit of folklore, attached to the place.

“On the rock platform where the Catskill Mountain House now stands, commanding one of the fairest views in the world, old chief Shandaken set his wigwam,—for it is a mistake to suppose that barbarians are indifferent to beauty,—and there his daughter, Lotowana, was sought in marriage by his braves. She, however, kept faith to an early vow exchanged with a young chief of the Mohawks. A suitor who was particularly troublesome was Norsereddin, proud, morose, dark-featured, a stranger to the red man, a descendant, so he claimed, from Egyptian kings, and who lived by himself on Kaaterskill Creek, appearing among white settlements but rarely.”

On one of his visits to Catskill, a tavern-lounging Dutchman wagered him a thousand golden crowns that he could not win Lotowana, and, stung by avarice as well as inflamed by passion, Norsereddin laid new siege to her heart. Still the girl refused to listen, and Shandaken counselled him to be content with the smiles of others, thereby so angering the Egyptian that he assailed the chief and was driven from the camp with blows; but on the day of Lotowana’s wedding with the Mohawk he returned, and in a honeyed speech asked leave to give a jewel to the bride to show that he had stifled jealousy and ill will. The girl took the handsome box he gave her and drew the cover, when a spring flew forward, driving into her hand the poisoned tooth of a snake that had been affixed to it. The venom was strong, and in a few minutes Lotowana lay dead at her husband’s feet.”

Though the Egyptian had disappeared into the forest directly on the acceptance of his treacherous gift, twenty braves set off in pursuit, and overtaking him on the Kalkberg, they dragged him back to the rock where father and husband were bewailing the maid’s untimely fate. A pile of fagots was heaped within a few feet of the precipice edge, and tying their captive on them, they applied the torch, dancing about with cries of exultation as the shrieks of the wretch echoed from the cliffs. The dead girl was buried by the mourning tribe, while the ashes of Norsereddin were left to be blown abroad. On the day of his revenge Shandaken left his ancient dwelling-place, and his camp-fires never glimmered afterward on the front of Ontiora.”

And where you find high cliffs overlooking water and native Americans, you inevitably find folklore telling the tale of lover’s leaps. Skinner captured one here in the Catskills:

“The name of Indian Maiden’s Cliff—applied to a precipice that hangs above the wild ravine of Stony Clove, in the Catskills—commemorates the sequel to an elopement from her tribe of an Indian girl and her lover. The parents and relatives had opposed the match with that fatal fatuity that appears to be characteristic of story-book Indians, and as soon as word of her flight came to the village they set off in chase. While hurrying through the tangled wood the young couple were separated and the girl found herself on the edge of the cliff. Farther advance was impossible. Her pursuers were close behind. She must yield or die. She chose not to yield, and, with a despairing cry, flung herself into the shadows.”

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Outside Tannersville on The Rip Van Winkle Trail

As to the Indian superstitions concerning the treasury of storms and sunshine and the cloud-weaving spirits, they may have been suggested by the atmospherical phenomena of these mountains, the clouds which gather round their summits, and the thousand aerial effects which indicate the changes of weather over a great extent of country. They are epitomes of our variable climate, and are stamped with all its vicissitudes. And here let me say a word in favor of those vicissitudes, which are too often made the subject of exclusive repining.

Washington Irving, Spanish Papers, and other Miscellanies hitherto unpublished or uncollected

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

As you approach Palenville the Rip Van Winkle connection is impossible to miss. There’s the Rip Van Winkle car wash, Rip Van Winkle Trailer Park, and countless others, all looking to cash in on the mystique Washington Irving bestowed upon the place.

For a fictional story written by person with little knowledge of the area, it’s surprising how eager the locals are in laying claim to being the actual village in the story. Along the road which led to the Catskill Mountain House, there was a house which claimed to be Rip Van Winkel’s home. The bridge connecting the towns of Catskill and Hudson was named for Rip. Catskill laid fervent claim to have being Rip Van Winkle’s village, going as far to have Rip in its official town seal. But Irving had never visited Catskill when he wrote the story. Palenville also made the claim, erecting a sign saying it was the home of Rip Van Winkle. The town does lie at the foot of the mountain where Irving describes Rip walking, the Kaaterskill flowing down, but it didn’t exist when the story was set, and was barely in existence at the time it was written.

The reality is the village where Rip Van Winkle lived was a amalgamation of several places, most likely based on Saugerties and there is some evidence that in the description of Sleepy Hollow in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Irving is actually writing based on his memories of that town as well.

Irving himself chose not to be drawn in to identifing the village he was writing about, and even hinted at its fictional nature. When answering a letter written inquiring about where Rip hailed from, Irving wrote “I can give you no other information concerning the localities of the story Rip Van Winkle, than is to be gathered from the manuscript of Mr. Knickerbocker…perhaps he left this purposely in doubt. I would advise you to defer to the opinion of the very old gentlemen with whom you say you had an argument on the subject. I think it probable he is as accurately informed as anyone on the matter”

In the 1950s, Rips Retreat sprung up in Haines Falls, between Palenville and Tannersville. Featuring Dutch cottage architecture, or rather the 1950s version of fairy tale architecture which was popular at the time, it was populated by costumed interpreters, featured colonial era arts and crafts, and even old Rip himself was there to greet visitors.

For all the arguments about the location, not much has been said about the name. Doubtless the name has a big part to play in the longevity and popularity of the story, as it positively drips fairy tale vibes. Writing for The Saugerties Times, Robert M. Place relates how a local historian tipped him off to the best theory yet.

Irving lived for a time in Haledon, New Jersey and was friends with the Van Winkle family who lived in nearby Totowa. They had a boy with a broad smile that looked like a tear, and so his nickname was Rip.

Sounds perfectly plausible.

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Catskills in the distance from The Rip Van Winkle Trail

Tales from along the Rip Van Winkle Trail

Country drives have always been a way of life for me. It started as a child, riding along with my grandma and grandpa on Sunday afternoons. He was a part time farmer and loved driving the backroads and checking out the crops. Like much of my generation who grew up near the country, we spent our high school years and beyond, cruising the country roads whilst violating a whole host of laws.

Autumn in the Hudson Valley is tailor made for drives. The scenery is gorgeous any time of the year, but especially so in the fall when the landscape is painted in reds, oranges and browns. The shade in the hollow feels otherworldly, the sound of rushing water comes through the car windows as you pass rushing streams billowing over rocks, and occasionally hurtling over small cascades.

Route 23A leaving Palenville is known as the Rip Van Winkle Trail. Originally built by convicts from Sing Sing prison in 1915, for a four mile stretch you are indeed in a wilderness which Rip Van Winkle would feel right at home.

Some claim a form of time travel is possible here, even if not intended. One person posted on the internet, where all things are true, that while driving through this part of the Catskills they noticed they were low on gas, and luckily came upon a gas station and general store. The cars outside were new looking, but dated from the 1940s. Inside the shop there were no modern products at all. The gas was only $2.85 for a full tank.

There are other mysteries along this road. Outside of Tannersville it’s said that you might see Hank, the Tannersville Brakeman. His duties included climbing out of the train to change the switches on the tracks, but one night old Hank found his arm caught on the switch. Raising his lantern to see to free himself, the engineer took that as a sign to proceed, and drove over the hapless brakeman, leaving his unfortunate arm attached to the switch. It’s said you might still see Hank wandering the wilderness, accompanied by a large white dog, shining his lantern in the darkness. In a more grisly version of the story, he attacks groups of kids attending camp, ripping off their arms. When residents of Tannersville see a faintly glowing light in the distance, they shudder in response.

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At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

Between Palenville and Tannersville there’s a parking lot off to the left, just after a hairpin turn. At one time this was Rip’s Lookout Point, which had a wishing well in front of the small building which served as a souvenir stand, luncheonette, and gas station. There were viewing glasses to peer into the forest, where you could see where Rip took his big nap, and the spot I was about to make for on foot. It also offered spectacular views of Kaaterskill Clove and off into the further distance. It was closed in the early sixties and sold to the state, and now it’s the parking area for Kaaterskill Falls.

Folklore has it that in 1942, a young couple decided to stop at the falls for a romantic tryst. Coming back to the car, they heard a loud banging, somewhat like thunder, and quickly realized it was a landslide. The man was crushed there in the car, and his lover was in a coma for several months. It’s believed that if you drive this section of the road, late at night, you might still see him alongside the road, looking for his lady. One woman told of seeing a man standing by the road, dressed all in black, and when she asked if needed assistance, he vanished. Others say he only appears to couples to warn them of one of their impending deaths.

Perhaps the most frightening part of the walk is that from the parking lot to the base of the trail which leads to the falls. You’re either on the road or the shoulder, with cars whizzing by. The hairpin turn at least slows them down, and it’s not long till you’re met with the rushing waters of Bastion Falls across the road, and below you where the overflow runs out beneath the road and off the side of the mountain.

Depending on the amount of rain, Bastian Falls can be a trickle, or it can be a cascade of small falls to the side of the larger one, fanning out and over rock ledges into a reflecting pool below. On days when the falls are flowing strong, you could be forgiven for thinking these were the falls Irving wrote about in Rip Van Winkle. And since he’d never been here when he wrote the story, it doesn’t really matter. But settling for this view is to rob yourself of a journey into the Rip Van Winkle wonderland.

Before Irving’s time, the Catskills were thought of as a wild and savage place, populated by hostile Indians, teeming with dangerous wildlife and where a person could easily find themselves lost, and either starving or eaten. The mood put off by these mountains was ominous, the rumors and tales fearsome. Farming which had always been an iffy proposition in the area rapidly became less than profitable, with cheaper crops coming in from the west now. Irving’s story helped put the Catskills on the map as a tourist destination, America’s first, albeit one with a mythical and somewhat supernatural history.

Kaaterskill Falls were believed to be the home of the Catskill witch, mentioned earlier. Another tale of the Catskill witch from Charles M. Skinner’s Myths And Legends Of Our Own Land echoed in Rip Van Winkle related that “Sometimes she would lead them to the cloves and would leap into the air with a mocking “Ho, ho!” just as they stopped with a shudder at the brink of an abyss. Garden Rock was a spot where she was often found, and at its foot a lake once spread. This was held in such awe that an Indian would never wittingly pursue his quarry there; but once a hunter lost his way and emerged from the forest at the edge of the pond. Seeing a number of gourds in crotches of the trees he took one, but fearing the spirit he turned to leave so quickly that he stumbled and it fell. As it broke, a spring welled from it in such volume that the unhappy man was gulfed in its waters, swept to the edge of Kaaterskill clove and dashed on the rocks two hundred and sixty feet below. Nor did the water ever cease to run, and in these times the stream born of the witch’s revenge is known as Catskill Creek.”

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Landscape painter at Bastion Falls on a slow flow day

On foot in the world of Rip Van Winkle

I grew up in the midwestern United States in the sixties, and our family would travel every other year to Florida for vacation. Along the way you’d spot See Rock City painted on the side of barns, and one year dad decided to make the pilgrimage up Lookout Mountain so we could in fact, see Rock City.

This was about the time Dylan and The Band were moving to Woodstock. For a child, Rock City was a magical experience. The trails wound through rock formations, going increasingly higher till you reached Lover’s Leap, where you could see seven states. Or so the story said. Along the trails were gnomes and other fairy tale statues, imported from Germany. It was the brainchild of the wife of a developer who created a housing development atop the mountain and christened it Fairyland. As he saw what his wife had created, he decided the public would pay to see it and the rest was history.

For me, that was one of my earliest introductions to fairy tales, and I’m pretty sure Rip Van Winkle was there as well, along with a rock formation in the shape of a witch. There was a hall with tableaus of famous folk tales, lit by blacklight. Yeah, it was pure kitsch, but to a five year old it was sheer magic.

That’s what I felt on the road to Kaaterskill Falls, and along the trail to the falls themselves. There were no gnomes in the forest, there didn’t need to be. There was enough of that sort of thing along the highway, be it in disarray and falling apart, or only memories. The great thing about being introduced to fairy tales and folklore at an early age is that it’s easier to believe.

Long before I was exposed to Tolkien and his dwarves, mining in the Misty Mountains, there were the dwarves high in the mountains overlooking the Hudson River, learned from Irving. And in Tennessee, I saw the real thing high upon Lookout Mountain.

Catskill Mountains, Ulster County, Upstate New York

When you believe as a child, it’s easier to remember as an adult. Along the path to Kaaterskill falls, climbing the stairs carved into the stone, I remembered believing, and realized there’s a part of me that believes still.

It’s about a half mile up the trail to Kaaterskill Falls, and you hear them before you see them. They fall in two segments, the first being a 180 foot cascade into a large clifftop pool, and then another 90 foot down to the base, where large rocks make for excellent places to sit and take it in.

I’ve been lucky in most of my trips to Kaaterskill Falls, visiting on weekdays just before or after the peak fall foliage season to minimize the crowd size. On this day, my first trip there, I had the place to myself, having only met one couple who were coming back as I went up the trail.

It seems inconceivable that Irving had never visited here when he wrote Rip Van Winkle, because Kaaterskill Falls are tailor made for the story. There needs to be the hike to the site, for if they were more accessible the crowds would be larger, the noise of humanity encroaching too much. As it is, if you can find yourself here alone, you can feel nature surround you and get a sense of the power it wields,

Kaaterskill Falls, where it’s believed Rip Van Winkle awoke from his nap

Sitting at the base of the falls, your senses come alive. Even on the hottest days it’s considerably cooler here. The mist from the rushing water cools you off further. The smell of the place … the water, the decomposition of leaves and other vegetation wafts heavily in the air. The light filtered through the trees and on the rushing water dances magically, twinkling in the shade. The sound envelops you, the roar of the falls above, the trickle of the stream around you and rustling of leaves and branches in the trees.

If you put yourself in the shoes of the early settlers, what seems beautiful now could carry a real sense of menace and terror. There are the beasts of the forest, any number of which could have killed you in the past. We haven’t always been the fearsome predator we are today. The earliest settlers would have had at best a musket to defend themselves, and with those you have one shot and you better make it count. Needing time to load and prime it seems a matter of luck, more than strategy. Bears and wildcats don’t stand idly by while you prepare to defend yourself. Rattlesnakes don’t give a lot of warning before striking. A knife against a bear might save your life, but you have the long walk back to civilization, torn to shreds which you’d likely not survive.

There are the cliffs to contend with, slippery from the spray, where people regularly fall to their deaths even now. Or maybe in that we’re in worse shape and more careless than in the past, as in 2018 four people died at Kaaterskill Falls while taking selfies here. Death by Instagram. It’s easy enough to follow the trail, but the trail in early days wasn’t clearly marked, had no steps cut into the steep sections, and it would be easy to find yourself lost in what at the time would have seemed like an endless wilderness.

And of course in the early days there were native Americans, some friendly, some hostile to contend with. In short, there are many ways to die in nature, even in a place possessing such natural beauty. In the roar of the falls you find those reminders, of just how small we are when we we’re reduced to nothing more than another beast in the forest.

It’s easy to see why the Mohicans feared and respected the place, and believed it to be the resting place of the creator.

Asher B. Durand, Kindred Spirits

The artists of the Hudson River School loved Kaaterskill Falls, and the first one known to have painted it was Thomas Cole, in a painting dating from 1826, just seven years after Rip Van Winkle appeared on paper. Cole also painted the falls with a lone Mohican warrior looking out over the falls (shown earlier), though perhaps the most famous painting of Kaaterskill Falls was by Asher Durand. Titled Kindred Spirits, it was painted in 1849 and depicted Thomas Cole and William Cullen Bryant together in a synthesized wilderness of Catskill landmarks. The painting was meant to be a eulogy for Cole, who had recently died, merging with Bryant who had immortalized Kaaterskill in verse.

Catterskill Falls by William Cullen Bryant

Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps,
From cliffs where the wood-flower clings;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.

But when, in the forest bare and old,
The blast of December calls,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.

For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,
In the cold and cloudless night?
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
In forms so lovely, and hues so bright?
Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell
Of this wild stream and its rocky dell.

‘Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood,
A hundred winters ago,
Had wandered over the mighty wood,
When the panther’s track was fresh on the snow,
And keen were the winds that came to stir
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.

Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair,
For a child of those rugged steeps;
His home lay low in the valley where
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps;
But he wore the hunter’s frock that day,
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.

And here he paused, and against the trunk
Of a tall gray linden leant,
When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk
From his path in the frosty firmament,
And over the round dark edge of the hill
A cold green light was quivering still.

And the crescent moon, high over the green,
From a sky of crimson shone,
On that icy palace, whose towers were seen
To sparkle as if with stars of their own;
While the water fell with a hollow sound,
‘Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.

Is that a being of life, that moves
Where the crystal battlements rise?
A maiden watching the moon she loves,
At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes?
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream?

‘Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er,
In the midst of those glassy walls,
Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor
Of the rocky basin in which it falls.
‘Tis only the torrent–but why that start?
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart?

He thinks no more of his home afar,
Where his sire and sister wait.
He heeds no longer how star after star
Looks forth on the night as the hour grows late.
He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast.

His thoughts are alone of those who dwell
In the halls of frost and snow,
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell
From the alabaster floors below,
Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray,
And frost-gems scatter a silvery day.

‘And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!’
He speaks, and throughout the glen
Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine,
And take a ghastly likeness of men,
As if the slain by the wintry storms
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms.

There pass the chasers of seal and whale,
With their weapons quaint and grim,
And bands of warriors in glittering mail,
And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb.
There are naked arms, with bow and spear,
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.

There are mothers–and oh how sadly their eyes
On their children’s white brows rest!
There are youthful lovers–the maiden lies,
In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast;
There are fair wan women with moonstruck air,
The snow stars flecking their long loose hair.

They eye him not as they pass along,
But his hair stands up with dread,
When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng,
Till those icy turrets are over his head,
And the torrent’s roar as they enter seems
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.

The glittering threshold is scarcely passed,
When there gathers and wraps him round
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast,
In which there is neither form nor sound;
The phantoms, the glory, vanish all,
With the dying voice of the waterfall.

Slow passes the darkness of that trance,
And the youth now faintly sees
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees,
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung,
And rifles glitter on antlers strung.

On a couch of shaggy skins he lies;
As he strives to raise his head,
Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes,
Come round him and smooth his furry bed
And bid him rest, for the evening star
Is scarcely set and the day is far.

They had found at eve the dreaming one
By the base of that icy steep,
When over his stiffening limbs begun
The deadly slumber of frost to creep,
And they cherished the pale and breathless form,
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.

As a result of Rip Van Winkle and Washington Irving, the Hudson River painters and poets, and the close proximity to New York City and New England, the Catskills were swamped with tourism from the mid-nineteenth century onwards. Lands that had been cleared for farming were returned to wilderness which was good. But there were efforts to tame the wilderness as well, to make it more tourist friendly. Kaaterskill Falls were dammed at the top so that the flow of the falls could be regulated and made more consistent. The falls were made to perform for tourists in effect, and visitors were charged a fee to watch.

But today, the peak of tourism seems to have passed, except for the rush of traffic during fall foliage season, and it’s possible to find yourself alone in the world Washington Irving created in his imagination, which luckily enough is a world that did and does exist.

You can go further up the falls, along a stone stairway but it’s clearly marked that you’re not supposed to. Even the lower steps are slippery and wet enough that I didn’t see the need to risk life and limb climbing up. Plenty of people do, but I was here to sit and wonder, not look for the quintessential viewing platform. Had I wanted that, I would have driven to the top and took the trail to the overlook. I wanted a pilgrimage, and it’s what I got.

A ways into the woods you’ll find the remains of a luxury hotel, skeletal and a reminder of its more gloried past. You also find a plaque, halfway up the staircase of the falls themselves, speaking of Vite, the Bayard of Dogs who fell to his death jumping from the top of falls to his master at the bottom on June 19, 1868. It’s thought by many that the dog still haunts the falls, barking and howling in the woods.

Taking a long pull from the flask I had brought – not dwarfish liquor but equally effective, I laid back on the stones and let the sounds, the smell, the feel of the coolness on my skin sink in, and tried to nap like Rip Van Winkle.

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By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle, a Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

How long I sat at the falls I can’t say, as time does stand still. But it was certainly less than the 20 years Rip Van Winkle spent napping. My reverie was interrupted with the sound of a couple coming up the trail, and I thought it best to leave the spot to them for a bit, and started back down to the mundane world, where dwarves don’t party with you in the mountains, but with a part of the mountains forever inside me.

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When you awake you will remember everything …

When you awake you will remember everything …
You will be hangin’ on a string from your…
When you believe, you will relieve the only soul
That you were born with to grow old and never know

Wash my hands in lye water
I got a date with the Captain’s daughter
You can go and tell your brother
We sure gonna love one another all night
You may be right and you might be wrong
I ain’t gonna worry all day long
Snow’s gonna come and the frost gonna bite
My old car froze up last night
Ain’t no reason to hang my head
I could wake up in the mornin’ dead
And if I thought it would do any good
I’d stand on the rock where Moses stood…

Robbie Robertson and The Band

Route 23A from Kaaterskill Falls back to Palenville is marked by some incredible S turns, with equally incredible views. Even if you didn’t have to slow down to stay the effects of gravity, you’d want to just for the scenery.

I was making my way towards the town of Catskill, passing near Salisbury Manor in Leeds, a colonial era house with a long history, sometimes dark. In 1755, Anna Dorothea Swarts, a servant at the Manor fled from the house, after suffering the abuse of its owner, William Salisbury. Nobody knows much about Anna, as she’s sometimes described as being Scottish, German or a mix of African and native American. But Lord Salisbury gave chase and caught the unfortunate girl. He claimed he had simply tied her to the back of the horse for the walk home, and she had fallen and was drug to her death. He was acquitted, but it was commonly thought he’d intentionally tied the girl to back of the horse and slapped it on the ass and let it rip her to pieces as it drug her back to the house.

Regardless of exactly how she met her doom, that wasn’t the last heard of Anna. A New York City newspaper reported in 1824 that “Sometimes sighs and lamentations were heard in the air, like the plaintiveness of the soft whistling wind. … A white horse of gigantic size, with fiery eyeballs and distended nostrils, was often seen to run past the fatal spot, with the fleetness of wind, dragging a female behind, with tattered garment and streaming hair, screaming for help. At other times the horse would appear to drag a hideous skeleton, clattering after him, half enveloped in a winding sheet.”

Curiously, there’s a variant of the story, this time about a man by the name of Ralph Sutherland. The story is the same, with the exception that Sutherland is found guilty and condemned to hang. But since he was a member of the gentry, the sentence was postponed till he was 99 years old. This created an uproar, and to soothe the public he added a stipulation that Sutherland wear a noose till the time came for his execution.

Sutherland went back to his house, tossed away the noose and drank himself into a stupor. When he awoke, the noose was once more around his neck. This time he threw it in the fire but when he awoke again, it was once more tight against his throat. No matter how he tried to dispose of it, when he awoke it was back.

One night the girl appeared to him, terrifying him and he begged her forgiveness, but she would have none of it. From that point on she would appear when he least expected it scaring the living shit out of him, sometimes appearing as a skeleton, sometimes reenacting her death with the aid of a phantom horse, sometimes throwing rocks against his window or scraping her nails along the glass. He tried to drink away his curse, even tried to join the company of others, careful to wear the noose, but people wanted nothing of him.

How it ended no one is sure. Some say he carried on like this, the phantom preventing his death till he turned 99 and the sentence was carried out. Still others say he reformed and the sentence was lifted, but he continued to wear the noose voluntarily, to remember his foul deed and what he was, so he would never fall into his old ways. My favorite version said that over time he grew used to the girl’s ghost, and they became something like friends, then fell in love and the true horror was that their love couldn’t be fulfilled, because of the obvious differences between their states of consciousness, i.e. she was dead. When he turned 99, the sentence was carried out and they were finally joined together.

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Olana From The Front, Home of the Hudson River painter Frederick Edwin Church

And then I was in Catskill town. It’s a lovely old colonial town, with historical houses and buildings a plenty. Had I time I would have pulled off for a tour of the Thomas Cole National Historic Site, to see the studio of one of the most renowned of the artists of the Hudson River School. As it was, I made my way across the Hudson via the Rip Van Winkle bridge, and to Olana, the home of another of the artists, Fredric Edwin Church.

Olana is a curious home, sitting high on the hills overlooking the Hudson, the Catskills looming beyond. It’s an excellent example of Orientialist architecture, with elements of Victorian, Persian and Moorish. Across the Hudson lies the Catskills. In the other direction lies the Poconos. The house was closed for the night, but I spent some time watching the sun dip lower in the sky, the sunset washing the Catskills with pinks and reds, before heading off into the fresh Hudson Valley night.

Want to read more about the haunted Hudson Valley?

Haunted Travels in the Hudson River Valley of Washington Irving … The Sketch Books Volume One

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Tip your hat to the Imp of Donder-Berg mountain, who still haunts the highlands of the Hudson River

Journal, Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley, The Daily Marginalia

Donderberg Mountain overlooks the Hudson River just a bit above Sleepy Hollow and is in the thick of the Hudson Highlands. The legend of the Imp of Donder-Berg comes to us from the early Dutch settlers of the region, and was made somewhat famous by Washington Irving. According to the story, if the skipper of a sailing ships would fail to tip his hat to the Heer of Donder-Berg, the imp will call up a storm on the river with devastating consequences.

It’s thought, according to Jonathan Kruk in his Legends and Lore of Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson Valley, that the imp was once one of Hendrick Hudson’s sailors by the name of John Colman, who “took an arrow through the neck” and became a ghost, calling up storms and leading a troop of imps which will happily sink any ship that fails to show the proper respect with the tip of the hat.

This swarm of imps isn’t ever seen clearly in the storm, but begins with hands of mist rising from the water, until you can just make our faces and forms in the storm. The native Americans knew them as river spirits. The Dutch saw them as sailors who drowned on the Hudson. And according to Kruk, there are those who believe they’re still there and have fought the river and seen them.

So it’s no wonder that sailors on the Hudson River still tip the hat as they pass Donder-Berg mountain.

Visit Jonathan Kruk’s site and pick up a copy of Legends and Lore of Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson Valley by clicking here

Hiking Rockefeller State Park Preserve: Looking for Spook Rock, Hulda the witch and the non-headless horseman origins of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow

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Sleepy Hollow Landscapes: Rockefeller State Park Preserve in Fall, Sleepy Hollow, Pleasantville, Westchester County, New York

At last she came to a little house, and an old woman was peeping out of it, but she had such great teeth that the girl was terrified and about to run away, only the old woman called her back. “What are you afraid of, my dear child? Come and live with me, and if you do the house-work well and orderly, things shall go well with you. You must take great pains to make my bed well, and shake it up thoroughly, so that the feathers fly about, and then in the world it snows, for I am Mother Hulda.”

As the old woman spoke so kindly, the girl took courage, consented, and went to her work. She did everything to the old woman’s satisfaction, and shook the bed with such a will that the feathers flew about like snow-flakes: and so she led a good life, had never a cross word, but boiled and roast meat every day.

When she had lived a long time with Mother Hulda, she began to feel sad, not knowing herself what ailed her; at last she began to think she must be home-sick; and although she was a thousand times better off than at home where she was, yet she had a great longing to go home. At last she said to her mistress: “I am homesick, and although I am very well off here, I cannot stay any longer; I must go back to my own home.” Mother Hulda answered: “It pleases me well that you should wish to go home, and, as you have served me faithfully, I will undertake to send you there!”

She took her by the hand and led her to a large door standing open, and as she was passing through it there fell upon her a heavy shower of gold, and the gold hung all about her, so that she was covered with it. “All this is yours, because you have been so industrious,” said Mother Hulda; and, besides that, she returned to her her spindle, the very same that she had dropped in the well. And then the door was shut again, and the girl found herself back again in the world, not far from her mother’s house; and as she passed through the yard the cock stood on the top of the well and cried:

“Cock-a-doodle doo!
Our golden girl has come home too!”

Then she went in to her mother, and as she had returned covered with gold she was well received.

From Mother Hulda, a fairytale by the Brothers Grimm

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Those looking for an authentic look at the Sleepy Hollow of legend could do little better than to take a hike in Rockefeller State Park Preserve. The 1,233 acre park is bordered on one side by the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and Old Dutch Church of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow fame, as well as connecting to the Old Croton Aqueduct State Historic Park. The result is a healthy patch of wilderness in the midst of Westchester county, a stone’s throw from the Hudson River. The trails are certainly better kept than they would have been during the time of the Revolution, but otherwise it provides a glimpse of why Sleepy Hollow was named Sleepy Hollow.

“I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.”

From The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

Rockefeller Preserve in Sleepy Hollow, New York retains much of the original gloomy ambiance that Irving wrote about in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Irving makes a cryptic allusion early in his tale … “Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.”

According to the Sleepy Hollow storyteller, Jonathan Kruk, this high German doctor was none other than a thin, frail looking woman who appeared in Sleepy Hollow around 1770 by the name of Hulda. Drawing on the writings of Edgar Mayhew Bacon in the Chronicles of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow as well as other sources, Kruk names Hulda as this mysterious high German doctor. The residents of the time had another title for her … Hulda the Witch.

Hulda is in fact a German name, made popular by the Brothers Grimm in their collected fairy tales. But originally Hulda was a pagan deity of the Germanic tribes, which would have stretched into the lands of the Dutch ancestors of Sleepy Hollow. In fact, belief in Hulda was so ancient that it predated other pagan deities such as Thor and Odin. As Christianity usurped the pagan pantheon in Europe, the deities went underground as it was, continuing to live in folk tales of the region. Hulda was associated with basket making and weaving, two arts associated with witchcraft at the time, so Hulda became known as a witch, albeit often a benign one.

It’s understandable that the residents of Sleepy Hollow would cast a wary eye on the strange older woman with dark set eyes who came to settle in the wilds, particularly as Hulda was known to weave exquisite baskets, of peculiar technique. Perhaps wary is too light a term, as the minister of the Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow declared Hulda to be a witch and forbad any of his parishioners to have any dealings with her.

Some believed that Hulda had spent some time living with the Native Americans of the area, perhaps having been kidnapped by them as a child, for she was able to communicate with some in a language of a tribe long gone from that part of the country. So the only way Hulda could trade was with the Native Americans, who perhaps had more respect for the woman, for she lived in a hut just below Spook Rock, which also makes an appearance in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Spook Rock in Sleepy Hollow's Rockefeller Preserve was shrouded in folklore generations before European settlers landed on these shores. The council rock revered by Native Americans was given a mention in Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. — Spook Rock in Sleepy Hollow’s Rockefeller Preserve was shrouded in folklore generations before European settlers landed on these shores. The council rock revered by Native Americans was given a mention in Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Spook Rock was legendary from the earliest days of white settlement, a tradition which stretched into the folklore of the Native Americans. A large boulder sitting atop a hill, now graced with its own trail, Spook Rock Trail in Rockefeller Preserve, it was a gathering place for councils where leaders of the tribe would gather. Council rocks were chosen in part because they were believed to hold sacred powers, and Spook Rock was no exception.

Bacon writes of a young Indian’s experience in the area, “One night a young Indian returning late from a hunt and passing near the council rock, was surprised to see lights moving in that direction, while at the same time his ears were assailed by the sound of musical voices. Not being ignorant of the sacred character of the place and the miraculous things that had occurred there, his curiosity was at once aroused and he crept cautiously from tree to tree till he came upon a sight of extraordinary interest. A dozen girls, beautiful beyond anything that the young man had ever imagined, were dancing on the surface of the rock. Linking hands, and leaning far outward in the rapid figure, they seemed to tread on the very edge of the stone, if indeed they touched anything more solid than the air at all. To the bewildered and delighted watcher they were like a ring of forest leaves that have been caught up and whirled around by the wind.”

“Their voices were as sweet as their bodies were beautiful and graceful, and no one could have mistaken them for anything less than celestial, even if there had not been, in the centre of the circle around which they danced, a great basket, which, as every one knows, is the approved vehicle when heavenly maids pay a visit earthward.”

“The scene was lit by unearthly flambeaux that flared among the trees like Will-o’-the- wisps. The singing and the dancing grew wilder and madder and more fascinating every moment, till the solitary spectator forgot himself and gave a cry of admiration. In a moment, half frightened and half laughing, the bevy scrambled into the basket, with little screams and pretty panics, like girls that would fain go a-slumming and retreat at the first sight of a tipsy man. In they crowded, hugger-mugger, higgledy-piggledy, all but one, who lingered a moment and looked back. She was the most beautiful of them all. Then, in a moment, she took her place, or rather was dragged in by the rest and, amid a chorus of laughter, they were all whisked out of sight and the young Indian was left standing alone in the dark woods. Directly over the rock, as he followed the basket with his eyes, a large star was shining, and he knew, of course, that it must be their home.”

Now in love with the celestial maiden, the young man returns and managed to ensnare the woman, who submits to his love. They have a child and live what seems to him to be a contented life, though in truth, the woman is still called to join her sisters. A short time later, the woman answers the call of her sisters, intending to be gone and back without the husband even knowing. But time is different among her sisters than on Earth. Without the mother the baby dies. The father goes hunting and never returns. Their lodge decays and falls to nothing but a pile of sticks. The woman returns believing a few hours have passed, but in reality it has been years. Bacon continues …

“She found the empty lodge sticks with astonishment. Even the grass was growing rank where she had lain by the side of her husband and baby only a few hours before. Something must be wrong. She had mistaken the place and would search for her home.”

“Up and down the Pocantico woods — you may meet her any .spring night, for doubtless she is looking there still for the lost lodge.”

Not that Hulda shunned the Dutch residents of Sleepy Hollow. On the contrary, when one fell ill, they would find a basket of herbs at their door to help procure a cure. As doctors at the time in this place were scarcely existent, Hulda was likely the most capable physician in the area. And though the Dutch didn’t admit to it in church, they welcomed Hulda’s remedies, which usually helped afford a cure, and returned the favor by leaving gifts at the door of her hut.

Spring off of Witches Spring Trail in Rockefeller Preserve, near the site of Hulda's hut — Spring off of Witches Spring Trail in Rockefeller Preserve, near the site of Hulda’s hut

When the Revolution began, Westchester’s loyalties were split. The southern part of the county was across the river from Manhattan, which was a thriving English settlement, and were thus more likely to have loyalist or Tory sympathies. The fervent of Revolution gripped the north of the county, and in between, in the area of Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown you had the Dutch, who despite losing their territory to the English tried to walk a fine line of neutrality. As a result, the area was a frequent target of raids by both sides.

As the British first marched on Tarrytown, Hulda rushed to lend her musket and her services to the militia, who turned her away and surrendered the town without firing a shot.

But on a subsequent raid, as the militia formed a line, this time determined to stop the British, Hulda joined the ranks. The British, stopped by the ranks of militia faced off with the line, and an impasse began, with neither side seemingly willing to take the first shot.

Hulda took the honors and the lead, drawing the British into the forests of Sleepy Hollow and away from Tarrytown, which afforded time to hide ammunition and weapons, as well as stores of food which the British were intent on taking.

Rockefeller State Park Preserve, Sleepy Hollow, Pleasantville, Westchester County, New York

It’s said that Hulda’s skill as a crack shot brought the focus of the skirmish on her, and the redcoats exacted their retribution. When the British marched back to their boats on the Hudson, the militia found that their only casualty had been Hulda, whose lifeless body was found on the woods of what is now Rockefeller Preserve.

Still afraid from her reputation, at first the soldiers were hesitant about picking up her body, thinking instead to leave it for the wolves and other scavengers of Sleepy Hollow. But eventually it was decided to take her to her hut. When they arrived there, they found a Bible, proving her Christian beliefs, as well as a will, which deeded her possessions including a small amount of gold, to widows of the Revolution in the area.

Now considered a heroine, the pent up goodwill of the citizens of Sleepy Hollow poured out, and it was decided to give her a home in the Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow Burial Ground. Still the minister was hesitant to give Hulda a plot, but eventually agreed to let her be buried in an unmarked grave near the north side of the Old Dutch Church.

The Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow. Hulda the witch is believed to have been buried in an unmarked grave just to the left of the church.

Was Hulda a witch? In the beliefs of the day, one can easily say yes. The difference between an herbalist and a witch was essentially the degree of success they found in their practice. Often times it took only one failure resulting in death for a wise or cunning woman’s reputation to make the slight shift from healer to witch. As Hulda was certainly a skilled practitioner in the healing arts, made potions and pastes to enact cures, the case can be made that what separates Hulda from a whole-hearted proclamation of witch was the manner of her death. She died a hero, rather than from a noose or bonfire, and as such achieved a reputation as perhaps a white witch, worthy of her ancient namesakes.

Still, hiking Witches Spring Trail in Rockefeller Preserve endows you with a sense of mystery and wonder befitting the darkest of tales from the Brothers Grimm. The trail takes you along a meandering brook, and those who keep a close eye and wander a ways from the trail will come upon a spring that feeds the stream, and perhaps the remnant of an ancient stone wall, finding themselves in the yard of Hulda the Witch. With Spook Rock looming above you, it’s easy to find the wonder of the area which inspired Irving’s most famous tale, and the landscape where perhaps America’s most enduring urban legend was born.

Gothic Travel Ratings

Rockefeller State Park Preserve is eaten up with legend and folklore, as well as big chunks of history. So it’s no wonder that a person who bones up on the place before seeking it out, and has an advanced predisposition towards the mysterious might find a hike an almost mystical experience. At the very least, you get the ambiance that the name Sleepy Hollow has conjured for centuries. The hardy hiker, armed with a good map and an even better sense of direction can hoof it all the way to Ravens’ Rock across from the Sawmill River, also featured in the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, the site of one of the Legend’s most enduring ghost stories. The shade makes for a nice hike even in the heat of the summer, and the trails in the most frequented part of the park are well maintained and even paved much of the time. The hills are manageable and if there is a drawback, it’s the idea that your revery may be interrupted at any time by a gaggle of joggers tromping by. But that’s a small price to pay. If you want to get deeper into the experience, head for the more obscure trails but keep your wits about you, as it’s easy to get lost, and many trails lead into parts of the Rockefeller’s estate off limits to those lacking in blood that runs blue.

You get chills and a workout, so five crypts

Want to read more about the haunted Hudson Valley?

Haunted Travels in the Hudson River Valley of Washington Irving … The Sketch Books Volume One

Explore The Hudson Valley

Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley

Return to Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

Want to read more about the haunted Hudson Valley?

Haunted Travels in the Hudson River Valley of Washington Irving … The Sketch Books Volume One

Rip Van Winkle was born on the Hudson River

How the spirit of Rip Van Winkle took over rock and roll

The other arts, along with Rip Van Winkle led the way to making the Catskills a tourist destination,

Washington Irving and the cultural appropriation of native American folklore

Tales from along the Rip Van Winkle Trail

On foot in the world of Rip Van Winkle

When you awake you will remember everything …

Want to read more about the haunted Hudson Valley?

Haunted Travels in the Hudson River Valley of Washington Irving … The Sketch Books Volume One

Want to read more about the haunted Hudson Valley?

Haunted Travels in the Hudson River Valley of Washington Irving … The Sketch Books Volume One