The Knowland Retribution

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The Hudson River began with a single drop of water in the wilderness. It fell from a leaf or blade of grass into Lake Tear of the Clouds, no more than a pond on the shoulders of Mt. Marcy, the highest peak in the Adirondacks. It flowed downhill, gathered speed, increased its number. Each drop joined others of its kind, first one, then another, and another, until there were many billions-trillions-a number so immense it could not be imagined.

That’s how this began, unseen and unnoticed, with something microscopic, so small no one could see it, marshalling the wicked force of nature as its ally, eager to pour down devastation upon all who touched it. Many things start long after they’ve actually begun. This was such a thing.

It started on June 25 with Pat Grath’s phone call to Wesley Pitts. Pitts was, as always, the first one awake. Grath called at five thirty in the morning New York time knowing full well Wesley Pitts had been in his office at least fifteen minutes and was already settled in for the day. From his office window, looking out into the morning darkness, Pitts could see the Hudson River three hundred miles from its obscure beginning, expanding through New York Harbor, pushing out to open sea. What he couldn’t see were the cows.

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