By Richard Mabey Jr.

At the end of Mabey Lane, there once was a path in the forest that led to the old foundation of the Mabey Icehouse, that proudly stood beside the still, murky waters of the old Morris Canal. My dad loved to walk this path to the remnants of his precious childhood memories. I am pretty sure that I was six years old, the first time that I walked this path with Dad, to the tow path of the old Morris Canal.

I would hold my beloved father’s hand, while we walked among the maple, the elm, the oak, and the pine. From time to time, Dad and I would take an alternative path to the old Morris Canal. If you stand at the end of Mabey Lane, the forest that once lied straight ahead is now gone. There is a housing developing there now. However, if you look to the west, toward the left-hand side at the end of Mabey Lane, you will see a hill with a grove of pine trees atop it.

Dad and I, occasionally, would walk the narrow path to the left-hand side at the end of Mabey Lane. Within a few steps, we would come to a wondrous and magical babbling brook. The brook was once fed by the flow of water from Hook Mountain, across historical Route 202. The water would stream down Hook Mountain, flow underground across Route 202, and then run down all they way to the old Morris Canal.

I loved walking along that wonderful stream to the old canal, with my dad. The babbling brook would lead my father and I to the remains of Incline Plane Ten East. This was the very plane house where my grandfather, Watson Mabey, worked at as their Chief Engineer. The remains of the old plane house, rested in quiet solitude above a high hill.

I am sure it was the Summer of 1961, when I was just seven years old, when I first saw the majesty and wonder of that proud hill wherein stood the remains of Incline Plane Ten East. Almost immediately, something drew me to this place. My dad held my hand as we climbed the steep hill.

There, atop that hill at the Lincoln Park and Towaco border, deep into the forest, lied the remaining iron rails upon which the canal boats were drawn to the crest of the high mound. There were old, chipped red bricks. Big boulders abounded. The branches of the maple, the elm, and the oak provided a canopy of shade from the scalding hot summer sun.

I remember that during our sojourns, from the end of Mabey Lane to the tow path of the old Morris Canal, Dad and I would often come across a white-tailed deer. There were many times, when we would see a graceful doe with three or four of her young fawns. And, there were other times when we would see a proud, majestic buck standing tall and strong with his long antlers, acting as his crown of glory.

A thousand and one memories haunt the marrow of my bones and the chambers of my hearts. My father took the time to walk with me down the forest trail to the old Morris Canal, probably more than a hundred times. Each and every time, Dad taught me something new and wonderful about my family heritage. For the Mabey family played an important and vital role in the history of the old Morris Canal.

Now, after all these years have passed since those memorable days, I still look back with a certain fondness and appreciation of the time that my father took to walk the old, wooded trail with me. The echoes of my father’s gentle voice still resonate in the tiny bones of my ears. The chambers of my heart, hold fast to those precious memories. And, my imagination stirs with swirling reminisces, filled with a nostalgic spirit.

O’ ghosts of shadows of another time and another place, touch thy precious heart. And know in deepest crevices of heart, mind, and soul; that in dreams of night, a person can still return.

Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@hotmail.com. Please put on the subject line: My Life Publications.