In November, New York’s Department of Environmental Conservation
announced that this spring, for the first time, it will close the shad
fishery in the Hudson River. It’s no secret that shad, a fish that in
many ways defines spring in the Hudson Valley, has come upon hard
times in recent years. Its numbers have remained at historic lows, and
it continues to show the classic signs of a population in distress. As
much as anything, however, the DEC’s
decision reflects alarm at what is not known. Why has
the shad declined so, even as this river has—famously—grown so much
cleaner? We can only hope that the mystery will be resolved, and soon.
But now, as the days grow longer and new buds begin to tint the
branches, the bleakness of this milestone can be felt in the marrow: in
this ancient stream, how many hundreds of generations have passed
since the last spring when no one set a net for shad?
Writing in 1913 about his own memories of growing up beneath the
Palisades, William O. Allison observed, “There probably were few places
in this [Bergen], or any other county, where so good a living could be
obtained with so little effort. The river … teemed with fish of every
sort, and the shad fishing during some six weeks in the spring was often
profitable enough to support a family for the rest of the year.” As
recounted here by Bob and Edna Wilson (“Of
Times and Tides,” May-June 2008), shad fishing boomed along the
Palisades during the Depression years and into the 1960s. In March 1947,
National Geographic featured an article called “Shad in the
Shadow of Skyscrapers”; more recently still, people remember seeing the
shad nets along the river as they crossed over the George Washington
Bridge.

For us, in this park, it was in 1987—at
Ross Dock—that
Chris Letts, an educator for the
Hudson River Foundation, first held one of his famous public shad
bakes. He’s come back every year since, in his chef’s hat and apron,
with a cooler full of fresh shad filets. We supply bags of charcoal,
which Chris cuts open on the ground and lights. As the coals heat up, he
nails the filets with strips of bacon onto hardwood planks that have
been seasoned by dozens upon dozens of shad bakes, up and down the
river. By noon he’s standing these in front of the fire, fussing with
them, as he talks. He talks: His passion for this river—and for shad—is
boundless. With the help of some amazing volunteers, by two o’clock the
filets have come off the planks and sampler plates of smoked, pickled,
and freshly baked shad—still warm—are served up, all courtesy of the
River Foundation, to whomever is at hand.


For the past few years, we’ve had Chris set up shop at the
Kearney House at
Alpine, tying the shad bake to the “living
history” approach we’ve adopted there. It’s become the “kick-off
event” of our program year, bringing together human history—and natural
history; the living river—and the people whose lives and livelihoods
have depended upon its mysteries of life and death and renewal. Thaddeus
MacGregor, our favorite songster, has played; among other friends and
guests, Nancy Slowik of
Greenbrook
has donned period garb with us to prepare an herbal “spring tonic” in
the kitchen; Barry Keegan of
Hawk Circle has demonstrated Native American skills and crafts;
Jennifer Kleinbaum of
Tenafly Nature Center has set up an interactive table about marine
life. For 2010, to be held on Saturday, May 1, we’ve also invited our “neighbors” across the river at
the
Beczak Environmental Education Center in Yonkers to join with us,
coordinating with the legendary sloop
Clearwater for what we’ve termed a “Ship-to-Shore” event.



As this goes to the printer, however, Chris doesn’t yet know if he’ll be
able to bring any shad to this year’s “shad bake.” If not, he has told
us he will have another fish—this year—to nail to his planks, and
in that case we still intend to call our event “Shad Bake at Mrs.
Kearney’s tavern.” This year. For it seems to us—to the staff, our
volunteers—to me—that we ought to keep the tradition of a
Hudson River shad bake alive, for this one more spring at least.
And next year, if the
fishery remains closed?
For now, we will leave that to next year.