(I wrote this as a mass email to friends Sept. 12, 2001 and posted it to this blog later that month. The picture was also taken by me about a week from 9/11).

Horrific, apocalyptic, cataclysmic … I can’t really do justice to the scene that lay before me last night.

One WTC looked like it had been chopped off at the seventh floor. The remains of an empty skeleton jutted up at odd angles from the south tower. The courtyard between the two buildings was a jumble of shapes.

Police cruisers lay on the streets, smashed and burnt-out. One was nearly incinerated. Papers were strewn everywhere; I picked up one sheet that talked about accounting costs and losses.

An inch of a thick white soot covered everything. In the street it mixed with the water from the firefighters’ hoses to create a grimy paste. We had to dodge pools of water and twisted debris to get around, and soon my sneakers were soeaked and covered in grime.

I saw a woman’s shoe lying on the ground, and then a small teddy bear, grimy from the dust. A photographer with me propped it up on the hulk of an ambulance to take pictures. 

The air was acrid, difficult to breathe, even through the white mask I had strapped around my head. The wind at times whipped up the soot and it rose, stinging my eyes.

The whole scene made me want to vomit, but I hadn’t eaten for hours.

Police and firefighters were everywhere. Two ladder companies sprayed water on the remains of the northern tower. Around the corner on Liberty Street, hundreds of firefighters were on top of the mountain of rubble. Somewhere down in there they were trying to rescue two Port Authority cops, who were conscious and talking but pinned. A gas leak meant this rescue would have to be accomplished without blow cutters.

“These are guys we work with, day in, day out,” said one of several port authority cops, watching from the sidelines. Some 70 had been in the building; 15 were unaccounted for.

At the remains of a Burger King across the street, the police department had set up a relief station and were serving weary cops and firefighters drinks and rations. A Starbucks nearby had also been commandereed.

The area was a ghost town, with no power or no lights for blocks. The independent photog and I had dodged and wheedled our way through cops and a maze of streets to get this far, heading west when we ran into a cop we couldn’t persuade to let us past. At the moment, we were the only press I saw, although later I ran into my buddy Daryl from the Times and a Post photog.

Across from the towers were the remains of the Millennium Hilton Hotel and the Century 21 department stores, their windows blown out for stories, their exteriors covered in soot.

In the courtyard, some flags still flew. And a huge tattered American flag had been strapped from the arm of a traffic light.

“I guess what that says,” said one firefighter, “is you can bring the city to it’s knees, but you can’t hurt America.”

Someone had written “God Bless America” in the soot that covered the marble of a nearby courtyard. Some of the larger vehicles had another word written in the soot on them: “empty.”

My cell phones were useless; the pay phones inoperable. It was nearly 11 p.m. If I left, I knew I’d have a tough time getting back in. The story of the port authority resuce was the news here, I knew. Did I stay and hope for a dramatic rescue? Or leave and call in what details I had? I ran around a bit, trying to find a firefighter I had heard was part of the “line” handing the trapped cops food, water and oxygen until he himself was overcome by smoke.

Inside One Liberty Plaza was a massive triage center, was he in there? Could he talk to me? I didn’t get far before I was kicked out.

I ran from dead pay phone to dead pay phone. I ducked inside 190 Broadway, another skyscraper. The air in the lobby was a welcome respite from the dust outside. No one was in the building; there were chairs arranged around a TV that blared news. I grabbed a phone at the guard station and looked at the building’s command console, with monitors and switches and flashing lights. Jesus. But no luck, just a fast busy signal.

I grabbed a Snapple from a huge 20 pack from a tray and beat it. Finally, in the darkness some six blocks from the scene: a working pay phone! I reached an editor, but it was chaos in the newsroom. “Can you call back in 20 minutes,” Sal said. “Everyone’s in a meeting.” Ack. But I understood, I guess. And in the darkness, I was in no position to read anyone my notes anyways.

I headed back in, but didn’t make it. Cops had secured the perimeter better, turning the area into a “frozen zone.” I ran a hospital, the only building with working lights in all of downtown, but even their phones weren’t working. I tried to get back in again, only to get yelled at and shoved by a cop.

I beat it to call in; after about a mile, my phone finally started working again. Finally. I ran a bit longer, grabbed a cab and crashed at my friend Jon’s pad, only to find sleep elusive.

I knew what I guess we all knew: nothing would ever be the same again.