The Walkway Over the Hudson opened in 2009 when I was a student at The Culinary Institute of America. Formerly, the Poughkeepsie-Highland Railroad Bridge built in 1889, it was at that time the longest bridge in the world spanning 1.28 miles across the Hudson River. It was considered an engineering marvel, carrying trains between the east and west banks of the Hudson River. After burning in a fire in 1974, the once admired train bridge sat in disrepair for 35 years. When the bridge reopened in 2009, it had been transformed into a into the Walkway Over the Hudson State Historic Park with more than 600,000 annual visitors from all over the world. What was once a route for freight had been reimagined into a space to walk, cycle and run, as well as remember its history and beauty.
As a Baking & Pastry student, I ran almost daily across the Walkway. Two-hundred and twelve feet up over the water, I’d look north toward the historic Vanderbilt Mansion and FDR’s Home, and to the south toward New York City, a possibility of fine foods and desserts ready to be tasted. Everything was exciting and unexplored, and the run raised over the the river felt like a victory lap, high on accomplishments I hadn’t yet achieved.
When I moved back to Poughkeepsie several years later, I continued daily visits to the bridge, but this time I had a stroller and a slower pace, my postpartum body slowly healing. It was the backdrop for walks with new mom friends and long talks with my own mother, who spent weeks at a time visiting, supporting my new role in motherhood. When friends came to visit our home near the Vassar campus, I’d proudly take them to the scenic Hudson River. Soon, walks with the stroller became walks side-by-side with my daughter who knew each sign on the railings and bump in the pavement. It was our bridge.
Eventually, after we moved away, I visited the Walkway a handful of times for occasional summer visits, or work trips. But the visits churned up feeling of grief because I could only see derailed dreams. The familiarity of the majestic view looked like loss, rather than beauty.
Today, after a long weekend of work back at The Culinary Institute of America, I decided to visit my old running route, even with some uncertainty about how I’d feel. But when I set out on the Walkway Over the Hudson, the sense of loss didn’t resurface. The things that had fallen apart and dreams that fell short had made room for beautiful, new possibilities. Sometimes what feels like ruin can become something beautiful, and a burned-up train bridge is reimagined into a State Park. I felt grateful. I feel grateful and as I remember past versions of myself who crossed the bridge, I am proud of the steps and miles they traveled because I am happy to be right here as I am.
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