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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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The Wilderness Below Your Feet - NYTimes.com http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/02/nyregion/02underground.html?_r=...

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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


6 of 9 1/20/11 1:46 AM


7/9

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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