It’s an autumn day in Central Park. Carriage horses nicker, teenagers lounge in the meadow with their phones, and Lycra-encased cyclists holler, “On your right!” as they career past hot-dog carts and charcoal portraitists. Tourists extend their selfie sticks toward the changing leaves.
More than two hundred years ago, before Central Park was even a twinkle in Olmsted’s eye, an Albany native named John Randel Jr. was commissioned to create the blueprint for Manhattan’s first street grid.
|A modern rendering of Randel’s plan, before its 1811 adoption. Image Public Domain/WikiCommons.|
After he’d completed the plan, a surveyor went around the island, marking out the grid on what was then mostly fields. Randel and his crew followed, installing marble monuments, stakes, pegs, and, where they encountered rock, hammering iron bolts at more than a thousand future intersections. Today—if you know where to look—you can still find some of these markers, hidden in plain sight, and imagine the ghosts of avenues that might have crossed right there.
At least one of the Randel bolts remains today, embedded in a mound of schist between the Central Park Dairy and the Sixty-sixth Street transverse, marking what would have been the juncture of Sixty-fifth Street and Sixth Avenue. In 2017, however, it’s just an iron nubbin. The city, after all, is full of inscrutable iron things, from Lilliputian doors in subway stations to arcane sidewalk posts. Can you spot Randel’s street bolt in this picture? If so, imagine strolling through the park and stepping over it. Would you think to look twice?
Even up close, the bolt is mundane, though it is surrounded by a halo of white rock. It’s a tough job for a two-inch piece of iron to compete with such glorious surroundings. If you were in a curious mood, you might conclude that a building or shelter had once been erected here.