CCC Camp Tents

My first visit to the storied Beaverkill valley occurred in 1932 when we Fischers went camping at the Beaverkill state campsite. I was 13 years old. We spent several weekends there that year. My father was killed deer hunting over near Barryville in 1933, so we did not camp in 1934 or 1935. My mother, sister and I resumed camping in 1936. I passed a good part of each summer there until 1952 and I remember lying on my cot at night and listening to the N.Y.O. & W. freight trains on their way to New York City.

If memory serves, there were only 12 tent sites at the state campsite in 1932. Some time after 1932 but before 1935, the state built a second larger campsite downstream. We old timers always referred to it as “the lower campsite”. At first it was not physically connected to the “upper” campsite. There was a ranger rather than a superintendent or caretaker. I remember William Tobin of Liberty. He worked in a drug store during the winter. He was followed by Pat Walsh, a handsome, happy Irishman who, alas, had a drinking problem. Then there was Bill Morrisey, the “forest ranger”. We assumed that he patrolled the forested areas watching out for fires. Occasionally he assisted the ranger.

There was a small CCC camp located at the extreme downstream end of the “Lower” campsite. Supervisors were John Hasbrouck, a native of Ellenville, and James Minnerly of Roxbury. The camp was organized in the late 1930s and there were probably not more than 25 men in the camp. They did a lot of good conservation projects before they were disbanded in 1939. For example, they constructed the cribbing behind what used to be the ranger’s cabin, and they built the bath houses at the covered bridge swimming hole. They also built the telephone booth. John Hasbrouck designed it so it would fit his own body, and since he had such a big belly, no one else could reach the phone.

Now it turns out that there was a small, two-room officers cabin. What should be done with it? Tear it down? Burn it up? Neither. John Hasbrouck moved it on a flatbed trailer across the covered bridge to a spot on the edge of Ackerly’s hayfield. We Fischers occupied it for the next 15 summers. When the Lawrences built their house, they incorporated a section of the little green cabin into their home.

My sister and I regularly walked from the campsite to the Beaverkill post office where Mr. Vernoy was postmaster. We also walked to Frank Kinch’s farm on Ragin Rd. to buy unpasteurized milk. It was creamy rich. There was (and still is) a small spring run on the upper campsite that emptied into the Beaverkill. We dammed it up to create a small pool into which we placed perishables (in pots) to keep them cold. It worked surprisingly well. There were no insulated camp coolers in those early days. With dairy farming going out and brush invading abandoned fields and pastures, blackberries were numerous. Now, one must look hard to fill his berry pail.

Andrew J. Ackerly

Not far from the covered bridge was a boarding house named the Trout Valley Farm, owned by Mr. Frederick Banks. The Beaverkill River was the property line between the state land and Banks’s land, which was a 9-hole golf course. One section of the river along the edge of the golf course, was a long, deep pool. Mr. Banks claimed that he owned the pool and that it was for the exclusive use of his boarders. Well, early one July morning Steve Poley and I were trout fishing in the golf course pool when who comes out of the mists with a pot in his hands for gathering mushrooms but Fred Banks. He ordered us out of the pool. We retorted that the State was the owner, whereupon he threatened to cut our lines by throwing sharp stones into the water. And he did! Then we started to throw stones AT HIM. That drove him off. But that’s not the end of this narrative. We told our story to Bill Morissey and the ranger. It was not long before a state surveying crew arrived at the campsite. They surveyed the pool, and erected a fence the length of the pool. Most of the pool belonged to the state. Banks had lost his “private” pool. And the fence made diving dangerous. Fly fishermen still love that pool. Just a bit downstream of the campsite shower building there is a small stream that creates an island. On it are many pine and spruce trees. They did not just happen to arrive there and prosper. It develops that Mr. Banks was a thorn in the flesh of the DECcomplaining that his boarders were disturbed by the campers’ car headlights when they shined across the river. The DEC solved that by planting conifers.

Fred Banks was the proud owner of a Model A FORD station wagon with real wood paneling. Fred and his station wagon were a fixture on the local roads and they were the envy of many townsfolk.

The Huggins: Bill (Billy T), Gerald (Kayke), Charles and Grace Enlargement

It is too bad that Grace Huggins and her brothers have gone to their eternal rewards. THEY could tell you things about the valley we love so much! Grace was the only sister. Her brothers were Charlie, (the black sheep of the family), Gerald D. and Bill. Grace married Frank Soules and for their wedding trip, Frank Kinch lent them a buck-board and horse. This was in the late 1880’s or 1890’s. The marriage didn’t last even a year, and she came back to live with her brothers. It must have been a pretty rough year, because Gracie kept a loaded shotgun in the corner of her kitchen in case Frankie ever came back.

Grace and brothers originally lived up by the pond that now bears their name. Some time before 1935 they moved to a plot adjacent to the Frank Regan farm. Later they relocated on the Berry Brook Road close to what is now Petruska’s airplane landing strip. It was approximately 1938 when I met the Hugginses. They were destitute and living on welfare. My mother sent them warm clothing each year at Christmas time. The house and grounds were infested with rats. The mailman used to buy and deliver their food and Grace always referred to any deliveries as ’something from the stage.”

Well-hidden at the top of Ragin Road Enlargement

Grace and her brothers are buried on a wooded slope above Ragin Road, facing south towards the Beaverkill Valley.

I should say something about young Oscar Hollenbeck. Huckleberry Finn, my mother called him. Well, Oscar, Oscar senior, and Uncle Rudy ran a roofing business in Newburg, N. Y. They would arrive at the campsite in their truck on Friday just before dark. After quickly setting up camp, they assailed the Beaverkill. They were dedicated worm fishermen and masters of their craft. They’d fish until around 2 A.M. and after eating something, would go to bed, but not for long. Up at the crack of dawn, they fished hard all day Saturday. Sunday was a repeat of Saturday except that they departed for home in the afternoon. What did they do with all the trout they caught? They took them home in ice-filled camp coolers.

During the high school and college years that I passed in and around the state campsite with my mother, I had abundant time for trout fishing (using flies or worms depending on conditions). My fellow campers and I spent many carefree hours ”soaking a worm” in that wonderful covered bridge pool.

The Ackerly barn Enlargement

In the summer of 1936 or 1937 some fellow campers told me that they knew where I could see some bats. They took me to an unused silo on the Ackerly farm where I heard a strange gritty, grinding sound. Tracing the sound to its source, I discovered a small cluster of nestling chimney swifts. This was my first close-up encounter with swifts. Later I was to spend a span of 14 summers researching the species for my doctoral dissertation.

Those 14 summers were filled with discovery and fascinating experiences. I constructed blinds and other hiding places in order to observe the swifts close-up. A press camera hung from barn rafters and tripped by remote control recording the birds’ activities—I was able to witness mating, nest building, hatching of the eggs and development of the young. More about my experiences and discoveries can be found in New York State Museum Bulletin number 368.

Andrew J. Ackerly was originally of Union Grove, one of those charming little hamlets destroyed when the City of New York flooded the valley of the East Branch of the Delaware River to build a reservoir. Andrew was an entrepreneur—always ready to enter a transaction that might net him a few dollars. He built the store at the campsite and leased it. With his Model A Ford, he took milk, eggs and butter to sell at the campsite. He always kept the heavy cream to give to my mother when we lived in the cabin up in his hayfield. She paid him with a big slice of her special cake.

In 1939, Mother said she would be interested in running Ackerly’s store, which she did. However, Mrs. Ackerly wasn’t very happy with this arrangement and accused Mother of trying to run off with her husband. I didn’t think that was the case. Andrew was a nice man, but there never was a swarm of women around him. Andrew was a better entrepreneur than farmer. No one could persuade him to cut the hay when it was in peak bloom and therefore most nutritious. By delaying mowing until July, he did get more hay but it was of lower quality. But it was wonderful watching him in his Model A Ford pulling the cutter behind him as he cut the hay.

One summer, when Jack Obecny and I were helping Mr. Ackerly put hay in his barn. I ran a hayfork through Jack’s hand. This was the beginning of a long and happy friendship.
Mention should be made of Wilbur Miner, who lived close by the intersection of Campsite Road and the Lew Beach Road. Came a beautiful Beaverkill summer day when Wilber decided to go down to the back 40 and pick some blackberries—right near Andrew Ackerly’s hay field. At the same time Andrew’s nephew and a friend decided to engage in target shooting with a .22 caliber rifle. The boys had no idea that anyone was near them. They opened fire. One of the bullets went clean through Wilbur’s berry bucket, severely frightening the old man. He left the berry patch and headed to Ackerly’s to complain about the close call he’d had.

“THEY SHOT ME THROUGH MY BERRY PAIL!” Wilbur shouted.

This set Andrew Ackerly to loud and prolonged laughing. From that moment on, the two men never spoke to one another.

These were wonderful days. Raising a family while discharging the duties of a professor at Cornell University kept me in Ithaca until the mid 1970s but my roots go deep in that Beaverkill soil.

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