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Beneath the City
Urban Spelunking
The Wilderness Below Your Feet
Steve Duncan
URBAN FRONTIER Erling Kagge led an expedition that revealed an entirely new way of understanding the city. It includeda hike in Tibbetts Brook, which runs through a Bronx sewer. More Photos
By ALAN FEUER
Published: December 31, 2010
IT must have been the third or fourth day time, by that point, had
started to dissolve when I stood in camping gear on Fifth Avenue,
waiting as my companions went to purchase waterproof waders at the
Orvis store. We had already hiked through sewers in the Bronx, slept
in a basement boiler room, passed a dusty evening in a train tunnel;
we were soiled and sleep-deprived, and we smelled of rotting socks.
Yet no one on that sidewalk seemed to notice. As I stood among the
businessmen and fashionable women, it dawned on me that New
Yorkers an ostensibly perceptive lot sometimes see only whats
directly in front of their eyes.
I suppose thats not a bad way to think
about the urban expedition we were on: a taxing, baffling,
five-day journey into New Yorks underground, the purpose
of which, its planners said, was to expose the citys
skeleton, to render visible its invisible marvels. The tripsconceiver, Erling Kagge, a 47-year-old Norwegian
adventurer, had ascended Mount Everest and trekked on
foot to both the North and South poles. His partner, Steve
Duncan, a 32-year-old student of public history, had logged
more than a decade exploring subways, sewers and storm
drains. Last month, the two of them forged a new frontier:
an extended exploration of the subterranean city, during
which they lived inside the subsurface infrastructure,
sleeping on the trail, as it were.
The opportunity to see New York in a way no one else has,
from the inside out, is, for me, as inspiring as walking to the
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Enlarge This Image
Michael Appleton for The New York Times
DOWNWARD Steve Duncan, left, and
Will Hunt, subway bound. More Photos
Enlarge This Image
Andrew Wonder
Sunlight pouring through a tunnel
opening leading to Jamaica Bay, near
the end of the journey. More Photos
poles and climbing Everest, Mr. Kagge wrote in an e-mail
inviting me along as the expeditions chronicler.
If the excursion, with a little imagination, could join in a
tradition that reached back to Amundsen and Admiral
Byrd, then it certainly needed chronicling.
Monday, 8:53 p.m.
Second Avenue and 77th Street
At Figaro Pizza, we eat as Erling Kagge, the
outdoorsman, puts it our Last Supper: cheese slices and
fountain drinks. The expeditioners are in a buoyant mood.
Erling describes what he expects to see en route, a
negative beauty formed by the absence of color, light,
natural order. We will travel, he says, beneath the cultureof congestion. A fascinating man. Hes a philosophical
adventurer or perhaps an adventurous philosopher. Reads
Hegel and tells tales of shooting polar bears in the Arctic.
His comrade, Steve Duncan, meanwhile, is rebellious, with
the wired energy of a perpetual undergrad. Smart, sarcastic, physically gifted (he looks like
Owen Wilson). Our plan for tonight, he says, is to hike the Bronx sewers: Were going to
be swallowed by the maw of the city. One of Steves friends, a dude named Shane, will
drive us to the drop site. I notice his T-shirt. It reads, Trust me I do this all the time.
10:19 p.m.
East 172nd Street
Driving to the Bronx, Steve consults his laptop, checking our route on old sewer maps. We
will descend with backpacks, headlamps, waders and a QRae II confined-space gas
detector. Underground air is sometimes poisoned by carbon monoxide, hydrogen sulfide
and explosive gases. Other dangers include sudden flooding. Because New York lacks
absorptive earth, it can take as little as a half-inch of runoff, Steve explains, to cause a
deluge. He doesnt like that its snowing windy bursts that skitter over the ground.
Hopefully, he says, it wont melt.
Tuesday, 12:36 a.m.
Exterior Street, the Bronx
We inspect our exit point a manhole in the middle of the road. Will Hunt, a bespectacled
26-year-old who is writing a book about the underground (The last frontier, he says, in
an over-mapped, Google-Earthed world.) will serve as our spotter. Wills job is to watch
for traffic: ascending from the hole, we do not wish to be hit by a car. We are to
communicate by walkie-talkie. Will ties a long pink ribbon to the inside of the manhole
cover. Dangling downward, this will be our signal we have reached the end.
1:20 a.m.
Van Cortlandt Park, the Bronx
Down we go by way of sewer pipe, joined now by Andrew Wonder, a shaggy former film
student making a documentary about Steve. The change is stark, immediate: darkness,
shin-high water, a dull ammoniac funk. My eyes adjust, and I see an endless tunnel,
rounded, eight feet high and made of faded brick. The floor is scummy and perilous to
walk on. Within seconds, Steve, Erling and Andrew rip their waders: theyre taking on
water. We nonetheless progress and, after 50 feet, the entrance disappears. Forgot howmuch I hate enclosed spaces.
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1:48 a.m.
Bronx sewers
Amazing. The sounds down here are even more impressive than the sights and smells: the
Niagara-like crash of water spilling in from side drains; the rumble of the subway; the
guh-DUNK! of cars hitting manhole covers overhead, like two jabs on a heavy bag. Steve
says were only 12 feet beneath the surface, but it feels far deeper. The familiar world is
gone: only sewage now, the press of surrounding earth, the anxious dance of headlamps onthe water. Every 100 feet or so, an archway appears and we can see a parallel channel
gurgling beside us with a coffee-colored murk. I shine my headlamp down and watch a
condom and gooey scraps of toilet paper float by. I check the air meter constantly: no trace
of gas, and the oxygen level is a healthy 20.9 percent. I ask Steve how he navigates down
here; he laughs. Hey, Erling, he calls out, youre taking care of the navigation, right?
Funny.
2:45 a.m.
A raccoon! Huge, healthy and darting around a corner. No rats, though; a surprise. We
pause to take pictures. I wonder who has been here before: sewer workers, local kids, the
homeless? How does this compare to Everest? Tonight, I prefer the manmade
wilderness, Erling says.
3:27 a.m.
Doh! just fell. Soaked to the chest in muck. Hope my sleeping bag is dry.
4:14 a.m.
O.K., weve been down here for nearly three hours. Erling seems delighted, and Steve,
being Steve, only wants more. And so holy curse! The air meter: red lights and an
ear-splitting beep! I yell ahead 20 feet to Steve; he shouts back for the readings. Still no
gas, and oxygen remains at good levels. What about the battery? he shouts. I look yes,
its shutting down. Steve insists we continue without the meter. Erling frowns, quotes
Dante: Do you remember what Minos says in The Inferno? Be careful who you choose as
your guide to Hell.
5:20 a.m.
Exterior Street, the Bronx
Ha the pink ribbon! We climb a ladder, pop the manhole, emerge into snow and gas-free
air. ANational Public Radio crew following the expedition rushes to interview Steve and
Erling. Our walkie-talkies $50 a pair did not work underground; it seems we were
taken for lost. We clean up with Handi Wipes, retreat to Dunkin Donuts.
6:14 a.m.
209 West 231st Street, the Bronx
Coffee and a pint of Jamesons. We are warm. Steve recounts how the sewer we trekkedthrough follows a stream called Tibbetts Brook, which originates in Yonkers and flows
south toward the Harlem River Ship Canal. Erling says this first foray underground
exceeded his expectations. We have visited the citys subconscious, he says: that piece of
New York that underlies everything, yet no one ever thinks about.
7:57 a.m.
Southbound No. 1 train
Filthy, backpacked, smelling of the sewer, we board a rush-hour subway, headed to the
tunnels under Columbia University. To sleep.
8:55 a.m.
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2880 Broadway, Manhattan
First, breakfast at Toms Restaurant. Over eggs, I ask Steve why he loves the underground.
Because anywhere in the world, he says, people have stories about tunnels. The
universal subterranean: layers of civilization existing out of sight. Steves desire is to
explore and document these layers, to make visible the underpinnings of urbanity. As we
finish our meal, Erling gets a text message from a fellow explorer in Norway asking where
he is. Just got out of sewage in the Bronx, he writes. The response: Sounds cozy.
10:07 a.m.
Underneath Columbia
Steve (Columbia Class of 2001) leads us into Avery Hall, where we descend to the
basement and crawl through a narrow tunnel lined with steam pipes. Fifty feet on, a ladder
rises to a dirt-floored boiler room. Damp heat, clanking steel. We spread our bedrolls, say
good night. Voices overhead sounds like a French class. Ive been awake for 30 hours.
4:03 p.m.
Next morning or evening Jacki Lyden, the NPR correspondent who has joined us for
this leg of the journey, offers me a cough drop. I offer bourbon from a plastic bottle.
Underground, we share the days first meal: two Halls, two sips of whiskey.
Wednesday, 12:15 a.m.
114 Delancey Street, Manhattan
Weve eaten dinner and had a frozen hike through Central Park; now we rally at a
McDonalds on the Lower East Side, preparing to explore the subways. Steve wants Erlingto experience as much of the citys infrastructure as possible.
I am beginning to see them as surgeons of a sort, cutting open peering into New
Yorks inner organs.
But there are problems: the entourage has gotten too large. Everyone wants to go into the
subways: me and a photographer from The Times; Jacki and an NPR producer; Andrew
the videographer; even Will Hunt, the spotter. There were four of us in the sewers; now
there are eight. What, I think, has happened to the intimate expedition?
Steve senses the concern and hastily announces that he, Andrew and Erling will go ahead;
the rest of us can follow at a distance. I fail to see the point in exploring without the
explorers. I confront Steve, tell him this is useless. Is this an expedition, or a media
event? Disillusioned, I leave.
4:03 a.m.
West 181st Street, Manhattan
From home, I e-mail Steve and Erling: I understand why you guys wanted to publicize
this poetic adventure. ... Unfortunately, the thing that wanted to be publicized was slowed
down and rendered moot by the distracting number of people you brought in. I add that
its become impossible to describe two men on a journey when, in fact, a media army
with sound booms, cameras, video equipment is in tow. I wish them well, offer no hard
feelings.
3:32 p.m.
620 Eighth Avenue, Manhattan
An e-mail and an epiphany. The epiphany: When Ernest Shackleton went to the South
Pole in the early 1900s, he himself documented the journey in a diary. Not so, in 2010, inmedia-soaked New York, where, it dawns on me, the crowd of chroniclers is fitting in its
own way. Then the e-mail (from Erling): We are now down to Andrew, Steve and me.
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Everybody else disappeared soon after you. I understand there is not more you would like
to do on this, but I hope it is O.K. that I call you late today (post sleep) to see if the
opposite, in some way, could become the case. It seems I am back. ...
10:27 p.m.
Riverside Park, Manhattan
We just crossed the 125th Street off-ramp of the West Side Highway and plan to spend thenight in anAmtraktunnel in Riverside Park. Steve knows a woman who lives there a
mole person named Brooklyn. Today is Brooklyns birthday: she is 50. Erling met
Brooklyn in August, on a scouting trip with Steve, and she asked him to return for a party.
He has brought her chocolates all the way from Norway handmade by his daughters.
10:49 p.m.
We climb a fence and drop to the track bed. In the tunnel, our headlamps show graffiti,
two sets of tracks, icicles hanging from the air vents. After several blocks, we come to a
staircase in the wall; it leads to a filthy space between the masonry abutment and the siltedfloor. Steve calls Brooklyns name; she answers. We drop our packs and wedge ourselves
into a three-foot gap in the retaining wall.
11:10 p.m.
Brooklyns home is on the other side: dirt floors, concrete walls, a mattress and a
milk-crate nightstand, burning candles, a poster ofLance Armstrong. A bicycle lies at the
foot of her bed; clothing hangs from makeshift hooks. Beneath Lance Armstrong, there are
newspaper clippings marking the death of Michael Jackson. Beside the bed, a huge pile of
bottles hundreds, it appears. Brooklyn describes these as her savings account: whenmoney runs low, she redeems them for cash.
She is a wiry woman in a headband, stunned and pleased to see us. I cant believe yall
came for my birthday! Gifts are given, whiskey passed around. Once again, we are a large
group and sing Happy Birthday.
A strange news conference then ensues. Andrew, the videographer, directs: arranges
Brooklyn in the candlelight, tells the NPR producer where to place his boom. Brooklyn
tells her story to the cameras: her stint in the Marine Corps; the death of her parents; the
loss of her house upstate; how she lived in the subway and was beaten by marauding kids;how she lived in a box until it was set on fire; how she found herself alone, on a bench in
the park, and was lured to the tunnel by friendly cats. She has lived down here since 1982,
she says, with six cats and a boyfriend known as B. K.
I dont know what to make of this not her story, which is moving, but how her story has
been packaged for us media. Its Steves belief that New Yorkers need to know whats
going on beneath their city; but if this is instructive, it also feels exploitative.
Brooklyn, however, does not seem to mind. When the cameras stop, she stands, sways,
sings: We are family! I got all my people and me!
Thursday, 1 a.m.
Uh oh B. K. is home and hes not happy. Yo, whats this? he shouts from the door.
Partys over! Brooklyn complains, But this is my documentary! B.K. isnt having it. He
curses, throws us out. Can you blame him?
1:12 a.m.
The party continues on the far side of the wall. More people arrive: Will the spotter, Willscousin and a guy named Moe. They, like Steve, are self-styled urban explorers. They talk of
climbing bridges, running in subways. At one point, Moe confesses: I really want to stop
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doing this. Im 35. I want to be married and serious. He sighs. Then again, Im saying
this in a train tunnel. ...
11:15 a.m.
Broadway and 115th Street
Topside, I ask Erling, the thinking mans adventurer, what hes learned so far about New
York. He quotes Tennyson: We are part of all that we have met. Students linger byColumbias gates; professors stroll to class. Erling adds, Im fascinated by the lack of
curiosity people have for the underground especially because everythings based on it.
Hes right. The people passing by seem utterly unaware of the vastness, the complexity, of
where weve been.
5:09 p.m.
164-1 Underhill Avenue, Queens
Steves girlfriend, Liz Rush, takes us via ZipCar to Kissena Park. We plan to explore more
sewers. On the drive, Steve continues Erlings theme: You walk around and know theresanother layer underneath, but people dont normally think about the water supply or
wastewater systems. He says theres a benefit when people realize theyre part of an
interactive ecology, when they figure out that New York exists in three dimensions, not
two.
5:22 p.m.
Down we go again. The Queens sewers are larger, cleaner than those in the Bronx. The
water is clear, not brown. We find a perch beside a constructed waterfall. We sit and listen
to its music. Erling naps; Steve smokes. Its almost as though were beside a rural brook.When youre not worried about getting caught or dying, Steve says, its really nice being
underground.
8:45 p.m.
Grand Central Parkway, Queens
Crossing back into Manhattan, it occurs to me Ive lived in New York City for 20 years but
literally only seen its surface. What this trip has revealed: a wilderness below.
Friday, 12:13 a.m.543 Canal Street, Manhattan
Tonight is the most challenging sewer walk yet, and I serve as spotter. Steve and Erling will
explore the Canal Street sewer, built in the early 1800s. It is cramped and dangerous. As
they inspect their exit, I wait with the packs. They return, having failed. A private security
guard was parked nearby.
1:20 a.m.
1 Lispenard Street
We bide time at the Nancy Whiskey Pub. A woman watches us walk in. We are filthy,
carrying backpacks. She approaches. Where are you guys coming from? she asks. Steve
says, The sewers. The woman says, Yeah, right. Steve shows photos, video clips. Now
... whats the point in that? she asks. No answer. She asks again. I think its cool, Steve
says.
2:34 a.m.
The exit point is good to go: safe and accessible.
3:32 a.m.
Greene Street
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A version of this article appeared in print on January 2, 2011, on page
MB1 of the New York edition.
Steve and Erling disappear beneath the city. They plan to walk under Greene Street, then
turn right on Canal. I am to stay on Greene, to help with traffic, in case they are forced to
turn back and need to exit here. My signal will be a pink flag rising through the cover of the
manhole into which they descended.
3:47 a.m.
Its 21 degrees outside. I try to read the newspaper the Democrats have yielded on theBush-era tax cuts but cannot concentrate. So far, nothing. No pink flag.
4:08 a.m.
Still nothing.
4:15 a.m.
I check my cellphone. Two missed calls from Steve.
4:17 a.m.
I reach them on the phone. Dude, am I glad to hear your voice! Steve shouts. They are
stuck underground. We arrange an exit closer to Canal Street.
4:46 a.m.
Still waiting. ... There are a couple of different manholes they could ascend through.
5:21 a.m.
The pink flag! They emerge and tell their story. The sewer under Greene Street was onlyfour feet high (Erling is 6 foot 3.) It got smaller and smaller, until they were forced on
hands and knees, then eventually on their bellies. Crawling through raw sewage. The
ceiling was higher on Canal Street, they report, but the floor was caked with so much feces
they sank in it like quicksand. They were turned back by an impassable mountain of waste.
I like being a spotter.
10:06 a.m.
Brookville Park, Queens
Without sleep or showers, a final trip to a storm drain near Kennedy Airport. The water is
high waist deep but the exit has a view of Thurston Basin: sunlight, marshy water
through a Romanesque colonnade.
Back on land, Andrew the videographer says: Good adventuring! Next time, you guys
should go somewhere crazy like the past. Erling says he has been to the past: the past
lives on, underground.
Driving home, Jacki Lyden sighs and says, Its over. But it isnt. Steve wants to explore
another subway or maybe a sewer hes been trying to get into for years.
You want to? he asks Erling. Erling says, I want to. These, they will do alone.
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