No more Hancock

As soon as I opened the car door, a cold breeze brushed past me. I pulled my collar up and followed my husband down to the river. The upper Delaware River is so clear and shallow, it looks like a polished mirror. My husband lifted a rock about the size of a bowl from the water.

“Got it,”

he said, showing me a crayfish about the size of a thick finger—something that only lives in clean, first-class water.

A young woman walking by asked,
“Hi, you’re not from around here, are you?”
“We’re from Brooklyn,” we replied.

She lit up with surprise and joy—she was from the same neighborhood. She told us she got tired of renting a small apartment in the city, so she bought a house here a few years ago. On weekends, she takes the train straight to her front door to fix it up. She even showed us the house herself.

“A few artists have moved in, but I hope more people come so the town can come alive again. If you're ever interested in buying a place, I can send you some info.”

And she kindly emailed it to us later.

About ten years ago, in late summer, we stayed near the Delaware River and went canoeing. Curious to know where the river actually began, we followed Route 97 upstream. The river, which had been flowing far below cliffs and mountains, came close beside us, then drifted away again.

The scenery was so beautiful, I wanted to capture it in my memory forever. That’s how we ended up in Hancock, a small romantic town in upstate New York. Surrounded by mountains and river mist, Hancock once thrived from its bluestone industry—the same flat stone you see in old Brooklyn sidewalks. But now, with no replacement industry, it has become run-down and sparsely populated. It’s also over three hours from New York City.

Across the river, the Pennsylvania side was so densely wooded it felt eerie to drive through. If you turn off Route 97 near a golf course close to Hancock, there’s a narrow unpaved path where only one car can barely pass. If you follow it to the end, it loops around the town and leads back to Main Street. In summer, the thick forest is so dense, sunlight barely makes it through. But in fall, with leaves blazing red and yellow, a lonely little creek beside the road feels like it’s waiting for us with quiet sympathy.

One day while wandering, we found a house for sale—connected directly to the river. A hand-painted sign in front said “For Sale by Owner,” and the name on it looked Polish and familiar. Sure enough, when I looked it up in the Yellow Pages, the owner turned out to be someone from our own Polish neighborhood in Brooklyn.
“How did you go all the way there and find my house?”
they asked in surprise.
So, our meeting with Hancock became a long, thin thread connecting it to Greenpoint, Brooklyn—like a spider’s web.

Hancock has improved a little since then, but it still carries that quiet, rainy-day loneliness. The woman who had welcomed us so warmly on our first visit—saying she lived nearby in Brooklyn—still hasn’t finished fixing her red-brick house. Old window frames are stacked here and there, waiting.

The river, so clear you can see the bottom, held the reflection of red autumn mountains as if time had stopped. Silently, it flowed like a still lake. Soon the leaves will fall, frost will come, and winter will arrive.

Why does this town, buried in white snow, remain so deeply cold and lonely in my heart?

“I don’t want to come here anymore,” I said. “It’s just too far.”