No more Hancock

As soon as I opened the door of the car, I followed my husband down to the river, adjusting collar in the cold wind.

The upper reaches of the shallow Delaware River are simply a calmness and tranquility. My husband, who was picking up a stone, said, "I caught it," showing a thick finger-sized gauze. It lives only in the first-class water.

A young woman passed by and asked, "You're not from this town?" "I'm from Greenpoint, Brooklyn." She said in a fit of amazement, "I'm from the same neighborhood.

"She's tired of living a small apartment, so she bought a house here a few years ago. She takes a train to come and repair it every weekend. The artists came in three or four, but more people would come in and hope that the neighborhood would survive. If you're willing to buy a house, I'll give you some information." she kindly said and showing us her home.

In late summer more than a decade ago, while staying at a nearby lodging while canoeing on the Delaware River, I climbed up the road up the 97th in curiosity about "Where is the beginning of the river? The river, which had surrounded the mountain and flowed beneath the cliff, passed by like a bolt right next to me, and then drifted away again.

It was Hancock in Upstate, New York that stopped after being distracted by the beautiful scenery. A romantic town with a bleak dark side of the mountain, once a historic place that flourished by digging out Bluestone. Now, however, it is rare for people to look backward as there are no alternative industries. It's also a place where I have to go for more than three hours from New York.

With the river between, the forest on the other side of the bridge in Pennsylvania was chilling. There is an unpaved trail that can barely drive a car when slip into the side road of a golf course near Hancock on Route 97. If go all the way to the end of the road, it will take a turn around Hancock Village and come back to Main Street. In midsummer, the trail in the dense forest is a deep recording paradise where no sun can be seen. The whole mountain is red in autumn days like these days. We used to visit the lonely stream beside the road as if it were waiting for us.

One day when I was wandering there, a house directly connected to the river came up for sale. The name on the sign in front of the house where the owner sells it himself is familiar with. Sure enough, I searched the Yellow Book and found out that a person living in my neighborhood, where there are many Poland people, put out the house. "How did you go so far there and find my own house and call me?" he said. The meeting with Hancock was also a long, slender web-like relationship with Greenpoint, Brooklyn

Hancock, though a little better than the past, still retains the lonesome, desolate side of the drizzly landscape. The river with a clear bottom was filled with red mountains with colored leaves and flowed silently like a lake. Fall colors fall, frost falls and winter comes. Will the village buried in the white snow be engraved on my chest with a cold look?

"I'm not coming here anymore. It's too far."