In a narrow strip of land cut off from Fort Washington park by railway tracks, a footpath runs parallel to the Hudson from the foot of Dyckman St. south two miles before disintegrating into shoreline. Between the path and rocky shore is a thick growth of weeds, shrubs and trees that have been left untended, free to grow wild. Every 30 yards or so, thin trails branch out from the main path toward the river’s edge. They end in cul-de-sac clearings that look out across the majestic Hudson to the serene wooded cliffs of Palisades Park.

Although the George Washington Bridge, ships, planes and modern buildings are within view, it is not difficult to imagine an Indian camp by the river, but instead of piles of oyster shells (often the only archeological evidence of Indian camps on the island), one finds beer and soda cans, forlorn garments, a pale, a rusty sardine tin, and other garbage discarded by recreational users of the park. They are mostly local Dominicans, fishermen, teenagers and gay male cruisers.

One autumn a few years ago, when red and yellow bittersweet berries speckled the path’s border, I saw makeshift structures in clearings by the river with campfires, pots, pans, dishes, sleeping gear, clothing, boom boxes etc. At one messy site, a black man and woman were engaged in a dispute and I kept my distance.

Yet the idea of setting up camp by the river’s edge, removed from the rest of the city, hidden among the trees and living in as much of a natural setting as can be found in the metropolis captured my imagination, and on recent summer evening, I set out to find other camps.

As I brushed past fragrant honeysuckle vines, I heard the heavy clatter of dominoes being shuffled and came across a few Dominicans sitting around a table in a clearing. A pot was on a grill over an extinguished fire, but there was no remnant of a shelter. I continued along a path by the shore and passed two teenage boys casting fishing lines into the rose-tinted Hudson. Following a trail through some brush, I made out a blue tarp behind a thicket. On closer investigation, it was hanging from a 4×4 beam that was set between tree branches. On the ground, flattened cardboard boxes were arranged as for a sleeping mat, and nearby was a pile of refuse—perhaps a recent camp, glowing orange in the last rays of sun.

According to a city employee who prefers to remain anonymous, a 50-ish mentally disturbed Caucasian man, claiming to be from North Carolina, is known to have been recently living in a dilapidated boat that’s been pulled ashore. In March 2008, The New York Times reported that another homeless man was discovered in the park near Dyckman Marina—he’d been heating water over a fire in order to wash his clothes. When asked to leave, he pulled a knife and ran away, only to be arrested later for allegedly starting an uncontrollable blaze.

The homeless population in the park is monitored only by the Parks Enforcement Patrol (PEP) and no records of homeless taking refuge in the park are compiled unless a homeless person is arrested. According to the March 2008 report published by the Department of Homeless Services, there are 1263 unsheltered individuals in Manhattan (3306 in all of NYC). However, the homeless who shun contact with authorities and glean an existence rather than use homeless services are an invisible population and it is not unreasonable to speculate that the actual number of “unsheltered” in Manhattan is much greater.

In this age of surveillance it is remarkable that anyone can live off the radar, without a bureaucratic trail of credit cards, bank accounts, rent receipts, telephone records, driver’s license or social security number. Even if the people living in the park are crazy and destitute, I am glad that there is a still a place in Manhattan were trees and people are left more or less alone.