A field of towering corn stalks, awaiting mutilation by combine, rustle in the breeze, a sound which at times becomes so amplified within the quiet of the country air that one might expect a bewildered human, lost for decades, to suddenly appear from within the dense crop, only to ask what year it is. The neat rows of maize expand into a seemingly endless expansive of agricultural hell, truncated only by narrow asphalt county roads which meander randomly through eternal fields of soy beans and horse corn. The rows of crops are planted across acres of land so sweeping that the horizon of the sky eventually blends in with the ground, for nothing else in-between exists to interrupt the pastoral monotony.

Walking along the insufficient shoulder of the oil and chip paved country backroad, marked merely by a single four inch reflective white line, I find myself pressing up for dear life against the corn stalks growing directly up to the edge of the pavement's dirt gutter. Fortunately, an advance audible warning is always discernible in the form of a grumbling diesel engine growling louder and increasingly angrier. The sound spoiling any surprise of the barreling, larger than life pick-up truck complete with dually rear tires, a rubber scrotum hanging from the hitch, and a modified exhaust, huffing a plume of black smog and soot sky high, as it races down the winding road, its driver eager to get nowhere fast.

It is within this land of cultivation in which I've discovered that the native humans perplex me the most. Perhaps it's something within the crops themselves or just a future case study of how a life of boredom distorts the brain; this land of yee-haw and piss beer is perhaps nothing more than a rural ghetto. For what the rural country lacks from city life, it is abundantly clear that poor living and upbringing conditions are still ever present. Beautiful, ancient stone farm houses accompany crumbling wooden barns, which at first glance appear abandoned, however hay bales stacked roof high within seem to prove otherwise. Occasionally a modern cookie cutter mansion can be spotted rising out atop a pasture of finely mowed grass, inclusive of a private farm acreage so massive that the landscaping of which perhaps provides work for the entire population of the cowtown.

Dirt driveways rutted and scarred by ATV tire track ditches lead to questionable residences often decorated by an assortment of dead vehicles from decades past, reminiscent of an automotive autopsy. Corroded chassis remain stripped from their engines and a plethora of parts litter front lawns, as if an industrial tornado had ripped through. Often a common sight might include a decaying Ford truck which has had its front end elevated up on steel auto ramps longer than the residence it belongs to has had electricity. This is Northwest New Jersey, it's a truly bizarre cult of rural culture, agri-culture perhaps, yet it is within these anti-population, barren lands, that the beauty of New Jersey, in its entirety, can not exist without.

The Garden State no doubt receives its fare share of notorious shame and fame regarding its limitless landfills turned luxury apartment complexes, political corruption, sweet garbage aromas, superfund sites, and toxic oil tank farms surrounded by expanses of brown-fields lined with multi-story tall rusty gas cylinders, looking more like aliens straight out from a War of the Worlds scene. However, this is the land of the populous, for hundreds of thousands of people live, drive, work, and fly in and out of this real-life NJ "Sopranos" movie-set world, passing infamous PK KID tags and oil tanks adoring such kind messages as "Drive Safely", easily ignored as motorists by the thousands cruise down the NJ Turnpike attempting to forget how the hell they wound up in Bayonne instead of Jersey City. It is with this contrast of ghettos however that is it is important to remember that just barely an hour west down Interstate Highway 78, an entirely different land of farms exists, a land just as bizarre, and perhaps even a little more scary. For while the fields out there may be void of urban blight, they are not surrounded by razor wire fences to keep the unknown and dangers trapped in.

It is this soy bean, corn stalk, pumpkin patch ghetto which cultivates my attention as I continue to clutch the roadside curb making my way closer to a corroded water tower which rises high in the distance, creating the only assemblage of what could perhaps be considered the Hunterdon County skyline. While New Jersey's industrious past is best associated with the rise of such fascinating cities as the Silk City, Brick City, and J.C., much of the glorious industrial past there has been covered over with a fresh coat of gentrification. While there is always still much to be discovered and explored in NJ's finest metropoli, some of the most boring corn fields, hold treasure to the state's most fascinating remaining industrial ruins.

The multitude of free flowing tributaries in North Jersey have long since been home to bouts of heavy industry, primarily existing at the turn of the twentieth century, unfortunately present day remnants mostly exist in complete ruin, if at all. However, a few industrial gems hidden behind rising corn stalks may be revealed to the curious eye by an out of place smoke stack or crumbling dam upstream of a rambling river.

As I stalked the rising water tower, approaching closer, I could begin to see the tangle of vines which ran up the open face ladder; a climb for later I convinced myself. Just ahead, a slender deer path presented itself within the briars, allowing me to move easily toward the true jewel of the corn, situated just a couple hundred feet ahead. I had discovered during prior reconnaissance that this old mill was once a paper factory, representing one of the few profitable industries within the otherwise agricultural bowels of Northwest New Jersey. The Hughesville Paper Mill once home to the Riegel Paper Corporation, employed hundreds of people across this otherwise barren region. But that was many decades ago, today paper production is dead, long dead; China does it more efficiently and cheaper, NJ just hides the past pollution.

Out of all the various industries, paper production is one of the most environmentally toxic. The often unregulated paper making process utilizing questionable dyes, bleaches, and heavy chemicals and metals most always seeped into the ground, polluting the otherwise pristine land abound. Additionally, during this time period of the early 1900s, mills were constructed along rivers for both a source of power and product. Many of the most early mills were often built from wood and have long since burned off the face of the Earth. Yet, the Hughesville Paper Mill remains as a polluted, rotting, collapsing wooden shit hole of a testament to a once thriving industrial past.

Slipping in through an open door, I was giddy to discover much of the original machinery still intact, including a massive antiquated steam powered roller, which looked more monster than machine, a truly sinister beast rotting away from the steam powered era. Dark corridors lead toward cobweb invested rooms of the mill. A break room complete with 1970's era porn star pictures cut out from a Playboy Magazine and glued to the wall, provided for a humorous sight. A set of concrete steps lead down into the basement of the mill, which was a haunted house of pipes and various corroded infrastructure. Of significant interest was a water turbine which once powered a dynamo to provide electricity to the mill. Much was to be discovered as minutes passed into hours, exploring the collapsing factory.

Fast forward to 2019 and the rising water tower has since fallen, the mill soon after pummeled by excavators into a heap of splinters carried off by the truck load to be dumped into some hole in the ground, no doubt forming the foundation for a future luxury condo complex. Yet the Hughesville Mill's toxic legacy still very much lives on. The mill may now be eradicated, but there is no denying the numerous ground water monitoring wells spread across the empty swath of vacant land. A toxic invisible wound remains, which may never fully heal. Regardless, I have little doubt the Toll Brothers or any other such similarly grotesque land developers are kicking their third leg around, spurting with excitement. River View Condominiums, $3,000 a month?