PASCACK VALLEY AREA—Atkins Glen has been a part of the culture of the Pascack Valley for generations. A deep ravine cut through the sandstone by the Bear Brook, the spot is a rare natural gem in the middle of our suburban landscape. A sun-dappled trail follows the murmuring brook and offers a relatively easy, and very scenic, outdoor adventure close to home. A walk through the Glen is like stepping back in time to experience the Pascack Valley as it once was.
In fact, our earliest photos of the spot, taken in the late 19th century, could just as easily have been snapped yesterday.
For all the beauty of this location, the early Dutch settlers of the valley saw it in a less sentimental light. A highly superstitious lot, those farmers of the 1700s called it Spook Bergh (pronounced spook baar), which meant “Ghost Hill,” and they believed that negative spirits dwelled there. Perhaps this was because the deep ravine, with its canopy of ancient trees, was cast in shadow even on days of bright sunshine. The sound of rippling water coming up from the depth of the hundred-foot abyss gave color to fantastic tales of witches and ghosts.
Glen Road, which runs on the southern end of the park, was a hot spot in these legends. One of the widely accepted tales cautioned that near the top of the western hill on Glen Road, wagon wheels would refuse to turn, being held back by invisible ghostly hands. After a little while the wheels would be released, and this would be accompanied by the sound of demonic laughter.
There was also a tale of how the evil spirits on Ghost Hill put a bewitched grape leaf wreath around the neck of a gentle cow, and she thereafter gored her owner.
Of course, not everyone believed these and the other tales, but even the more pragmatic folks timed their passage along Glen Road so as to not be there after dark—just in case.
The following story, from a local family history, tells us just how ingrained these tales were in the minds of the people who lived here.
It seems a highly respected farmer in the vicinity was approached one evening by his next-door neighbor with some sad news: The neighbor’s infant child had just died, not uncommon in those days, and the man requested that the farmer go to Hillsdale and notify the undertaker there.
The farmer drove to Hillsdale and, according to the custom in that era, received a wooden box containing ice for the body. The funeral director said he would attend to the arrangements the next day.
It was nearly dark when the farmer began the journey home with the box in the back of his wagon. As he drove along Glen Road, his mind drifted to the eerie tales of the hills. As he topped the first hill, the place was totally dark. The horse stopped to rest. In the comparative silence was only the sound of water trickling from the ice box. This farmer, in his boyhood, lived in a time and a family that talked much of supernatural events, and while his common sense told him not to believe these things, they came to his mind now and he felt nervous.
As he set out again, from the back of the wagon came a groan that scared him out of his wits. He continued on and reached the infamous westerly hill on Glen Road. Just as the top was near, a cold, clammy hand brushed the farmer’s face, and filmy garments fluttered before him.
He closed his eyes to shut out the horrid sight, and something sharp pressed against his throat. He felt cold blood flow down onto his chest and believed his end had come. He gave a hysterical shriek that echoed back from the adjacent hills. The wagon jolted over the stony road as the horse bolted down the path towards home. The farmer’s hat flew off, and the little wooden box rattled in the back of the wagon.
As they neared home, the horse slowed and all came safely into the yard. As the farmer staggered out of the wagon, his wife, seeing his condition, helped him into the house and to bed. Someone else drove the wagon and its contents to the neighbor’s house.
The next afternoon, the farmer considered the previous night’s ghostly encounter in the light of a bright summer day. His common sense told him that there must be a different explanation for all that had happened.
He returned to investigate. The first discovery came in the spot where he had heard the groan. In the mud: the crushed body of a frog in the track of his wagon wheel. The sound had not been a groan but rather, the poor animal’s final croak.
Near the top of the second hill the tracks showed where his wagon had drifted to one side of the road. A branch had a bunch of leaves that in brushing against his face were mistaken for wet, clammy hands.
The limb scraped across his throat, shaking off some dampness that felt like cold blood as it trickled onto him.The much-relieved man retrieved his lost hat from the road.
By the start of the 19th century, ghostly tales of the Glen were seen as the silly superstitions of an older generation. Instead, the land became a popular recreation site—and the main element haunting it was careless visitors.
The Glen exists today thanks to successive owners who refused to let the modern world mar a natural wonder. At the turn of the 20th century, owner James Leach allowed the public to make use of the spot—until increasingly large parties of picnickers, including busloads of people from outside town, began visiting regularly and causing damage.
When the Erie Railroad approached Leach with a proposition to buy the property and create a resort, he refused the railroad’s money in favor of protecting the land.
After Mr. Leach’s death, Daniel H. Atkins of Montvale bought the property in 1921 and the public was once again admitted—that is, until Mr. Atkins was forced to send workers on Mondays to clean up all the trash left behind by the weekend crowd. The public was barred once again.
In the 1950s the estate gifted the land to the Borough of Park Ridge for use as a public park.
— Kristin Beuscher is president of the Pascack Historical Society