
The Tacony-Palmyra Bridge's warning siren drowns out the screams of crickets; the bridge is about to open. It's 11:30 a.m. and I've just arrived at Palmyra Cove Nature Park. Standing on the beach, I'm hoping to see the McFarland, the U.S. Army Corps. of Engineers dredging barge. I catch a glimpse of yellow at the bridge breaks apart and the two sides rise into the air. It's the McFarland, about to pass through the open bridge. I grab my video camera and zoom in on the monstrous water beast. Through the viewfinder I see the white block letters stamped onto the underbelly of the black behemoth: MCFARLAND.



As I follow the beast's tubular body into my beloved park, I am surprised to see vehicles driving on the trails and parked next to the work area. A mound of red gravel had been built on top of the black hose to allow these vehicles to drive to and from the work site over the hose. I turn my eyes to the ground and I see bulldozer tracks. It's churned up the grasslands area near the area where CAN's members have protested two weeks ago. Deep gashes, three inches deep and two inches wide, mark the bulldozer's course. Bushes are crushed beneath the basilisk's body. I straddle the hose to cross over it - it's like sitting on the back of an elephant. I approach the work site and wary workmen cautiously wave hello. The bulldozer dozes; it's the lunch hour. I say hello to the men.
"You were one of those protesters, weren't you? You had your kid with you. I was driving the bulldozers," one of the men ventures.
"Yes, I was and I remember you. I was yelling Save the Cove! at your bulldozer and you got out and told me you were 'just doing your job,'" I said. "Just so you know, we're not against the dredging, we just don't want it dumped here. This is the problem with Jersey - there are too many people and nowhere to put this stuff." Another man walked up and heard the last part of my comment.
He said, " There's nowhere to put it around here. But there are plenty of places farther south down the river, like Pedricktown. That site can hold 2400 acres. The government used to test Nike missiles there and it's owned by the U.S. government." [I have since found out this site is one of the most ecologically vibrant natural places in NJ and must be protected - the worker didn't know what he was talking about.]
I questioned him further. "Why hasn't it been used before?"
"It would take the barge 3 or 4 hours to get down there. It's too time consuming and expensive," he explained. Then he went on to talk about how he heard the the environmentalists really laid Charlie Myers, the Army Corps' project manager, at the Public Information Session on August 13. I smiled proudly and told him I was one of those people.
A minute later, I say good-bye to the workers and turn my eyes to the scene before me. What was the desert is now a cappuchino-colored mud pit. It's heartbreaking. I think I'm going to be sick. I remember my first meeting with CAN; walking across this trail with the three environmental teachers, Suzanne, Anjie and Bernie. They pointed out fox holes and footprints; the area was a rich and diverse ecosystem. Now it has been slathered with wet, contaminated mud. Picture a sandbox after a rainstorm. Trees are waist deep in water. Mud strangles their trunks. Will they survive? Where are the fox now? Elegant yellow leaves fall to the mud floor and get stuck here; the seasons march on, relentlessly.

"The sluicebox? Follow the orange fence around the bend and it's on the right," one replies.
As I follow the orange fence, I'm struck once again by the almost gothic combination of sounds - insects chirping, the stream's song, and the barge's bass. The park trembles. The muddy desert has changed into a far-reaching field of fragmites. In the distance, I see the same orange fence marking the perimeter of the 20-acre work area. When I get to the sluicebox I see a wooden walkway streatching from the trail to the framed of the sluicebox, which reminds me of an unfinished shed. Two NO TRESPASSING SIGNS warn park users to stay away. The sluicebox structure is 12-foot by 12-foot by 12-foot cube, by my estimation. The floor is covered in mud and I hear water falling. I can't see the pipes but I envision their double gaping mouths, hungry to suck up the river water. I hear the bulldozer roar to life and I feel nauseous again. I see a delicate white butterfly and hear an animal scurrying in the underbrush inside the fence. It gives me a moment of hope that the fox are still around, but then I worry that they're stuck inside the work area.
To the right of this path, near the junction of the Saw Whet trail, lives a young forest. Peering under its canopy, I see birds and insects. This thriving ecosystem gives me hope - it, at least, remains untouched. This is part of the 50 acres CAN helped save.
I decide to walk back to the worksite; as I turn to go I hear a smaller bulldozer approaching from the young forest, driving out of the Saw Whet trail. A second bulldozer. I hike back to the worksite and see a John Deere tractor and I think that modes of transportation are one of the issues that divides "us" from "them." We travel via foot and golf cart; they choose SUVs, trucks, and tractors. There's something so natural and flowing about hiking books and even quiet golf carts. But the sight of these huge, roaring, polluting machines angers me; they don't belong in a nature park.

A third bulldozer disturbs my thoughts and I have to scurry to get out of its way as it rumbles toward my perch overlooking the desert. After the bulldozer parks, I pick my way down the trail toward the last checkpoint on my surveillance session, Dragonfly Pond. I want to see for myself if Commissioner Jackson's workmen are honoring her promise to protect the wetlands. This trail has been ripped up by the bulldozers. Have you ever seen the columns icon on MS Word? That's what this trail looks like - two columns of deep wounds on either side of the trail. It's scarred.
I walk down the little hill toward the pond and I'm not prepared for what I see. The pond has swollen - it's dark brown and some strange liquids that resemble diesel fuel are floating on its surface. The path to the right, which used to lead into the desert, is submerged with the same brown liquid. Again, I wonder what's happened to the fox. Last time I was here, at least half a dozen birds were playing and bathing in the pond. Now, there are no birds in sight and I can't even hear any singing. Another SUV drives down the trail above me.

