T+128: Navigating on the Erie Canal

Centennial, Wyoming: Wes and I returned to our little cabin in the mountains of Wyoming.  We grin madly as we get the cabin open, sweeping up the jillions of dead flies, uncovering the furniture,  and getting the well started again.   Wes, whose emotions are always on his shirt sleeves, stops to jump for joy on occasion. We bask in the glow of domesticity. We delight in cooking in our kitchen, which we have completely stocked with food.   We enjoy cooking in my own pots and pans, and setting a candle-lit dinner, while listening to classical guitar of Sharon Isbin followed by Schubert’s suite for piano and flute.

Little things, like wearing slippers and a bathrobe, feel utterly delicious.  How nice it is to use my electric toothbrush and waterpik.  We both put on clothes from our drawers.  We are glad to get out of those dratted bike clothes.  We show each other how big our clothes have become.  I gloat, “I need to take in these pants!”  Wes pulls his pants’ waistband out several inches and says, “I gotta put another notch in this belt.”  All of this feels so good, but it is tempered by the recognition that we must maintain what we have learned (and earned) and not let the lessons and fitness of our journey slip away.

 

It takes a good while before we can get out of the shadow of the border.  We are following the Adventure Cycling route, and true to form, the route takes us away from services and the city, wending around back ways with a complicated set of turnings.   The route is following the highlands of the Niagara Escarpment, the tall ridge of granite encrusted limestone that runs all the way from Niagara through the Bruce Peninsula, forming the backbone of Georgian Bay.   Also true to form, Wes and I miss a critical turn and ride off the 300 foot escarpment.  At the bottom, we realize the error of our ways and are trying to figure out what to do, when we are joined by a slightly pudgy cyclist who pulls out of a pack of speeding road bicyclists.

He asks where we are going and if we have secured a place for the night.  We tell him that we are going to the Erie Canal and we don’t have a place yet.   He says that he would have offered us a place, but he is just 15 miles into a century ride, but if we want to get to the Erie Canal without the giant climb, we should take this road then take this alternative route to Lockport.   While we are there, we should go see the locks.  They are pretty amazing.

We thank him for his advice, and follow his directions, but think we won’t go see the locks.  We have seen the locks for the giant ships at Sault Ste. Marie, after all.  How interesting could these be?  Pretty damn interesting, as it turns out.  Using the route described by our friendly biker, we returned to the top of the escarpment where the pretty canal town of Lockport is located.  There, we were astounded to watch boats being lifted up from valley floor to the top of the escarpment. Through a series of 7 or 8 locks, each raised the boats about 15 feet.  No wonder the Erie Canal was the engineering marvel of the 19^th century.  It was impressive to watch when the locks were using electric pumps and hydraulics.  We still can’t understand how they did it in 1825.

After visiting with some former New Yorkers who currently live in Key West and have ridden their motorcycle up to see family, we make our way down the toll path.  Just as a note, the range and variety of people who ride motorcycles all over the country is amazing.  This couple was in their late 60’s; he was a former firefighter with slicked-back hair.  She used to work for the Catholic Church and is very religious.  I don’t believe I have ever been blessed with the sign of the cross so many times within a single conversation.

Riding the Erie Canal toll path is like entering a time machine.  The canal pre-dates almost everything around it.  Its construction changed both New York and the rest of the country.  We stop and read all the information markers.  While I had been given a rudimentary background on the Erie Canal during my elementary and junior high schooling, Wes did not.  However, we are both surprised to find out that the Erie Canal is responsible for New York state being called the Empire State, and New York City becoming the financial center of the country.  “Clinton’s Ditch”, as it was first called in derision of the governor who championed it, made boomtowns and millionaires wherever it went.  It made cities like Cleveland and Detroit possible, by bringing people and goods to the whole Great Lakes Basin. 

It went through three construction periods, growing ever larger, wider and deeper, and was still carrying barge traffic until the late 1950’s.  Some of the towns have successfully transformed from shipping to recreation and tourism towns.  Some have not.  As we bike along the smooth, flat, graveled surface, I look for buildings and businesses from the 19^th century.  There are quite a number of Federal style buildings (identified by their low second story windows) still being occupied.  There are an even larger number of stores and shops from the 1890’s, with their characteristic eyebrow windows and boxy shapes.  They bump up against houses from the 20^th century.  Occasionally, the Erie Canal passes by an outbreak of plastic land, that ubiquitous, ugly amalgamation of chain stores and fast food joints that ring small and large cities and towns alike.  We wonder how many of these pressboard and plastic monstrosities will be useable in 50 years, much less 200 years.

However, mostly it passes through quiet countryside, with the occasional village thrown in.  The first we visit is a town called Medina, where we have made last minute arrangements to stay at the Garden Bed and Breakfast.   After making arrangements with the bored proprietress, who hands us off to her sunburned and chatty husband, Wes and I ride into town for dinner.   The road to town passes by one gigantic mansion after another, with a very few derelict wrecks thrown in.  The downtown has been restored and has both cute shops and functioning businesses in its 1890 storefronts.  The town in just in the midst of restoring its massive 1906 opera house, which has sat empty for more than 50 years.  It is the last big piece of real estate sitting empty in the downtown area.  When we mention how impressed we were by the town and the efforts with the opera house, we get the first and only smile from our landlady, who sits on the board for the opera house restoration.

The next morning, I sleep in while Wes goes downstairs and has a meager breakfast with the hosts.  He asks about the many signs we have seen along the roads, including one on their drive, which says “Repeal New York SAFE act.”  When he does, the proprietress jumps up from the table and stomps from the room from the room saying, “Let’s not get into THAT!”  We find out later that there is big controversy about the gun registration law recently passed by the New York legislature.  Apparently, this is yet another example of what one fellow tell us is “legislation being forced down the throats of real New Yorkers by arrogant New York City and Long Island snobs.”  Resentment against downstate money and power is a constant, palpable theme in our interactions with upstate New Yorkers.  Many people said they wished that New York City would just secede from New York State.  I wonder if they would miss the city’s tax revenues.

 

The canal is a man-made river. The trees are just beginning to turn color, and the water is slow moving and as reflective as a lake.   Often it is high above the surrounding landscape, more like an aqueduct than anything else.  Natural rivers actually pass beneath it.  Even so, it has become a haven for all sorts of birds.  The second day of our ride along the Erie Canal, we spook eight great blue herons, who wait until we are practically alongside their perch, before they grumpily and majestically remove themselves to the other side of the canal.  We laugh at a braggart osprey, who after plunging down and successfully catching a wriggling fish, screams happily up and down the water before flying to its hidden nest.  He seemed to be saying, “Look! Look! I caught a big one!  A big one, I tell ya!”

After the commercial bustle of Medina, the next community we visit is Albion.  Our tires are taking a beating on the gravel path and need air.  I need more supplies to deal with the never ending pain and abrasion in my netherparts.  Albion has a finer collection of 1890’s brick storefronts than Medina.  The workmanship is better; the buildings are larger.  There is a sweep and presence to its canal side business district unseen in either Lockport or Medina.  However, that is where the similarity ends.  Most of the buildings are empty.  If they are being used, it is with marginal businesses like thrift shops.  There is a large social service presence with signs telling people where they can food or energy assistance.  We see a young mom, with a bad and grown out blonde dye job, pushing a stroller to an aid agency.  She is having a raucous verbal confrontation with a tattooed, baggy pants young man whom we assume is the father of the silent, big eyed toddler.

I find a car repair garage in a former livery barn.  Inside, a young man is covered in grease, working on a beater pick-up truck, while a grizzled old man with a patchy beard peers into the open hood and tells of the truck’s many problems.  They are unaware of me.  Finally, I say, “Excuse me, could I trouble you for some air?”  Startled, they both turn to look at me and they are even more startled.  I suspect middle aged female bicycle tourists are not common in these parts.  Actually, I suspect tourists are not common in these parts.  They recover themselves, and after wiping his hands, the young man fills all my tires with air.  We visit a bit, then I ask if there is drug store around here.  They puzzle for a minute, then remember, “There’s a Rite-Aid up on the highway about mile and half from here.  If you go up the hill over there, you’ll find it.”  As I get ready to leave, the older man calls after me.  “Make sure you don’t leave your bike unlocked when you go in the store, it’ll be stole for sure.”

When I tell Wes about the location of the drug store, he says, “Let’s just get out of here.”  Our creeped-out feeling was confirmed when we were making our way back to the canal path when two young men, sporting what looks like gang colors, flounce up to us, and grant us no room on the sidewalk to pass them.  We have to step into the street to get by.  After passing us, the more burly of the pair, goes out into the middle of the street and starts yelling something we can’t make out.  It is clear he is intoxicated.  From the second floor of a building we thought was unoccupied, another young man wearing a bandana head-wrap, pulls aside a board from the window, and yells back.  We think the street yeller might be making arrangements to pick up or get drugs later.   As we return to the canal, we see a derelict 19^th century mansion just above the toll path.  A group of about 6 young men, both African American and European-American, are sitting on the steps, passing a pipe.  We wave.  One fellow waves back.  We are glad to get out of there.

The contrast of this impoverished community with its active drug presence with the next town was quite stark.  Brockport has embraced its tourist and recreation present and is full of brewpubs, eateries, bookshops and the like.   Medina, Albion, and Brockport are only about 15 miles apart from each other.  We wonder about the civic culture in each town that has led them to their current state. 

The next day is also a study in contrasts as we traverse Rochester and its environs.  But that is a story for the next post.

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+125: Fellow Travelers, Pt. 2

Des Moines, Iowa: On June 23, Wes and I stayed at this same Candlewood Suites, en route to Wyoming, where we would pick up Wes’ bike and make our way to Portland, Oregon.  It is now October 25, and we are making our way back to Wyoming, to drop off the bike and finish writing the story of our travels from Portland to Portland.  In many ways, the trip began on that night in June, when we watched the movie, The Journey, with Martin Sheen.  That movie resonated throughout our trip….the times of just going, the moments of grief or of jubilation, the tender and touching connections with people who walked…or in this case, cycled…into our lives, and left such a big impression.

 

We had just got on the Erie/Niagara Trail and were making our way along the eastern coast.  Our goal was Niagara Falls, but it was far and we were tired.  We couldn’t find one nice thing to say to each other.  All the petty grievances of constant companionship were at the front of our minds and quick off our lips that day.  Why can’t Wes eat one meal without spilling food on himself?  Why does Shaun always dawdle and delay and mess around when we need to be going? 

About five miles in, a youngish man, full beard, chestnut colored hair, riding a bike with full panniers, rides up alongside us.  One of his panniers is a rectangular plastic box. Normally, one buys kitty litter or soap in these containers.  Here it was bolted to his bike rack.   Seeing that he was a fellow traveler, I launched into the regular litany of questions.  Where are you coming from?  Portland, where he lives.  Where are you going to?  Rhode Island, to meet his girlfriend, although his original destination was Portland, Maine.   He and a group of 4 other bicyclists set out the third week of July and have been pretty much following the Northern Tier.  However, the group has been splitting apart.   Two split off in Montana, including the girlfriend he was rushing to meet in Rhode Island on October 8.  The other two he left in Minnesota.  He has been traveling alone for a while now.  After experiencing what Wes describes as “Existential Angst” (Why am I here?  What am I doing?)  during a particularly difficult crossing of Michigan, he has chat stored up and is anxious to talk.

And talk we do.  His name is Bruce.  He is originally from New York, but has been living in Portland for some years.  He is an emergency room nurse by trade, but a mountain climber/adventurer by avocation.  This is the first time he has taken a major bike trip.  He has been camping and eating rough most of the way.   A light day for him is 70 miles.  It is clear that he has slowed down to ride with us; Wes and I are pumping as fast as we can to keep up with this slender, strong man and his light, modern bike. 

We talk of our trips and compare notes.  Bruce is a mountain climber and backpacker.  He has been on many trips, but even he found the ride over the Cascades a challenge.  He was eaten alive by mosquitoes in Saco, MT.  They stayed on the freeway all the way across North Dakota, never venturing into the back ways and farm routes we explored.  He left his friends in Minnesota so that he could make time across the mid-section.  By the time he got to Wisconsin and was going to take the ferry at Manitowoc, it had broken down.  It was not at all clear who or how or what was going to be able to fix that 100 year old coal fired ship.  (I wonder what has happened to family associated with Two Guys taxi; ferry traffic was the mainstay of their business).  He took the hovercraft over the lake, landing at Muskegon.  He wandered through busy roads and surly people in our home state and was glad to be out of there.

He was bee-lining across Canada and anxious to get to Niagara.  Despite having been raised in New York City, and having travelled extensively throughout the state, he had never seen the falls.  After that, he was off to the Finger Lakes, Ithaca and Cornell, then lickety-split across the Catskills to Rhode Island.  He had a ride of about 700 miles to do in 8 days.   Of course, this makes Wes and I feel like a couple of pikers.

After we wore out the topic of our trips, we soon turned our attention to politics, the economy, our personal history…and more.  The conversation continued apace as we rode the fifty miles to Niagara Falls.  It continued as we explored the town and ate dinner together that night.  It didn’t stop until we said our good byes the next morning from the hostel in Niagara Falls.

Like us, Bruce was using the bike trip to sort out a life change.  He had been an emergency room nurse for some years and had been satisfied with it.  He had recently purchased a house in Portland, and now at the age of 40 (he looked barely 30), his life of work interspersed with adventure was no longer working for him. He had become frustrated and disaffected with the branch of medicine in which he was working.  When he was younger, he had liked the adrenalin rush and lack of relationship at the core of that type of nursing.  It wore on him now.

I told him that my sister was a nurse and that she has found a great deal of satisfaction, after years of bouncing around the profession, working as a hospice care nurse.  She really enjoys that it is patient and family-centered.  Bruce says he has thought about it and is going to think some more about it.  This conversation occurs as we are on the most eastern reach of Erie, as we are cruising past giant houses on the Niagara Recreation Trail, 40 miles into our common ride.

Bruce is a generation younger than us.  His view of his prospects and future within the American economy is sobering.  He has an enormous student debt that he believes he will never be able to pay off.   He feels good about the house he recently purchased, but allows that he is the only one of his friends to make that commitment.  He has no pension plan, no retirement savings, nor any expectation to ever receive Social Security.  He feels his best strategy is to make the most of each day, no promises given nor expected.  He doesn’t perceive a social contract beyond his circle of friends and family.

We are surprised by this.  He allows that it would be a good thing to feel as though one were getting and giving in a web of mutual support.  It’s just that he has never seen or felt such a thing.  He is not a member of a union, and doesn’t think he knows anyone who is. 

It would be tempting to say that Bruce is alienated, but he is not.  He is a free agent, and ok with that.  He benefits from white privilege and knows it.  We all know that we move more freely than any person of color.  A case in point: the night before Bruce camped (illegally) in the closed Peacock Point Provincial Park.  Local law enforcement saw him there and shined a light on him, then moved on without saying a word.  Would that have happened to someone who was not a white male on a nice bike?   It is not hard to think of scenario where the answer would be “No.”

He is an alert, educated, compassionate guy.  He lives simply and tries to pay attention to his choices.  Part of the reason he has the plastic box pannier is a commitment to living without waste.  What surprises us, over and over, is the lack of collective conscience or experience.  He was self-centered, but not at all narcissistic.  Being for himself and himself alone was not driven by ego; it was the way he was trained to be.  It was how society asked him to perform.

He was truly surprised when I told him about our life in Detroit and that I know at least 100 people by name in my immediate neighborhood.  Detroit is incredibly rich in social capital, I tell him.  The kind of art-making, storytelling, urban agriculture, mutual protection, and social activism that makes up our daily life in Detroit sounds appealing, but utterly foreign, to Bruce.  I do understand that social capital is required and present when financial capital is absent, (otherwise known as “making a way out of no way”). In addition, it is easy to disengage from the social contract when one has financial means.  What bothers me, truly saddens me, is understanding that there are a large number of young people who don’t see themselves connected to any larger whole. 

As we get closer to the falls, all three of us get more and more excited.  This is a momentous point in our trip.  Already we are seeing all sorts of signs of this area’s pre-American Revolution past.  When we cross the border tomorrow, we will enter one of the original colonies.  We are amazed at how little we know of War of 1812, which is remembered and celebrated all throughout this region.  I say to Wes, “Just think! When we cross the border, we will actually be in the Atlantic United States.”  (I will soon discover the folly of that statement.)  We stop to take pictures of the corner of Lake Erie with Buffalo, New York in the distance.

We bike along the edge of the Niagara River.  The river is big and powerful, with enormous rocks which generate ferocious rapids.  It is easy to see why this river created such a barrier.   When we get to the town of Niagara Falls, we find ourselves in a huge sea of humanity, even though this is mid-September. It is impossible to cycle in this throng, so we dismount and pick our way through the crush.  

The range of people here is astonishing.  There are women in gorgeous saris, groups speaking in the clicking tones of very South Africa, many, many Asians, some speaking Japanese, some Tagalog, maybe some Vietnamese, Korean, and Chinese as well.  There urban folks and country folks, the tight pant set right next to the baggy pants brigade.  There are busloads of seniors, mamas attempting to corral little ones while pushing strollers.   Young lovers kiss in front of the falls while someone takes their pictures.  There are folks in wheelchairs; people conversing in sign.  I saw one family pushing what looked like a gurney with a person tightly wrapped in a handmade quilt toward the guardrail.  A woman, whom I took to be the grandma, held the wrapped one’s hand and issued a running commentary on the sights and sounds.  Every complexion, every size, every age is represented: what a global mosaic.

Everyone takes turn pushing up to the guardrail to take a look at the awesome horseshoe falls.  There is a full 180 rainbow over the falls and a light mist falling over this human sea.  The city stretches behind us with high-rise hotels; helicopters circle endlessly and dip in and out of the water’s mist.   Boat with names like the Maiden of the Mist chug towards the cataract at the base of the falls.   On the edge, at least 300 feet above, we can hear the faint squeal of the crowd on the boat as they move into the fall’s spray.  The whole experience is giddy, surreal, slightly euphoric. 

I need to find the ladies room, so make my way through a cavernous hall, jam-packed with people.  It is tricky and takes quite a while.  While I am gone, a young man with a bike pulling an overloaded BOB trailer introduces himself to Wes.  He is Japanese, quite young, riding a single gear bicycle.  He has just begun his trip and is headed west, on the opposite path we have just traveled.  Wes and Bruce try to get this young man to join us at the hostel for the evening.  However, the wind has shifted and the light mist has become the equivalent of a heavy drizzle.   Just as I return, the young man bows deeply to Wes and Bruce and disappears into the crowd.

It is getting late; we need to get to the hostel and get our dinner. As we ride, we worry about this rider.  How will he ever make it over the Rockies and Cascades with a single gear?  And it is much too late in the year to be staying so far north.  He told Wes he was carrying 35 kilos on his bike…80 pounds and no gears as fall is coming on… with limited English.  Ay, ay, ay….

After we check into the run-down hostel with just a single staff on duty, a jocular, sandy-haired native of Ireland named Eric.  The hostel has all sorts of signs of events and tours it is offering on Fridays.  This Friday, there are none.  Wes and I have (over) paid for a private room; Bruce sleeps in the men’s dorms.  We walk down to Queen Street for dinner.  This area used to be the hipster/bistro/quaint shop district of this tourist town.  Now, most of the shops are closed and our steps echo as we walk.  We go into a brewpub, eat pretty average bar food, and listen to a group of Canadian physicists talk about US and Canadian politics.  Bruce is happy to be sleeping inside and eating at a restaurant.  Both have been rare events on his journey.   We take our leave.  Bruce wants to go listen to some incredibly loud rock music (we heard it three blocks away) and sample the local beer. 

Wes and I are very much aware of our age as we say good night. The 70 mile ride with Bruce has pushed us pretty hard; we’re beat.  Wes is complaining of a scratchy throat and watery eyes.  He thinks he might have picked up a germ while we traversing the crowd.   We wonder at Bruce’s endurance, although we do remember our last bike journey from Montreal to Halifax and back to Quebec.  We camped and cooked our own food the whole way.  Such are the strengths and fleeting ways of youth.

The next morning, we are off on our bikes before Bruce, although we are sure he will overtake us and leave us behind.  We stop and ogle the whirlpool vista, where the river makes sharp turn.  At another vista stop, we mis-communicate and run into each other, wrecking both of us and causing a group of seniors who just exited a bus to come running over to see if we are all right.  We are a bit battered, but more embarrassed than anything.  The bruise on my knee and gash on Wes’ finger will take the rest of the trip to heal.

Crossing the border is hectic. We are the only bicyclists in a swarm of motor vehicles.  We wait behind a group of motor cyclists from New Jersey, who have been out on a 1000 mile weekend jaunt.  They will ride 350 miles back home today.  One of them is long-haired, good looking, perhaps Tongan, and he is fascinated by our trip, but wants to know why we haven’t used it to raise money for a good cause.  He didn’t like our answer that we were using it to make a change in ourselves.  As he rode off, he said, “Next time you do this, make sure you benefit someone else!”

With that, we enter the last phase of this trip.  We are tired, but think we are almost done.  We are wrong.  There are many more challenges, some of them as hard as any we’ve faced, in the last days of this journey from sea to sea.

 

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+125: Fellow Travelers, Part 1

Return Mile 0: BROOKLIN, MAINE

Bar Harbor with Cruiser
 

The biking portion of our journey is really, truly over.  Yesterday, we drove our car to Bar Harbor (or as they might say here “drove th’ cah t’ Bah Hahbah”), where we had our bikes and Bobs boxed, and ate the most astonishing and delicious meal.  After wandering the tourist town which was full of German tourists who had just disembarked from a cruise ship, we looked at a variety of restaurants, but nothing appealed.  We asked one of the guys at the bike shop where we could get “some real food for real people.”  He thought for a moment, then leaned in as if to tell us a secret. “Well,” he whispered, “if you go down the driveway next to the shop, and go a little ways further, you’ll find a bagel shop.  You have to be nice to the German lady there, and you can get some of the best food you will ever eat.” 

We walked down the dirt alley, past a big fellow woodworking in the warm fall sun, into a rough courtyard, where there was a small, rather rundown building marked Bagel Factory.  Inside, there were two tiny tables, and one woman working the ovens.  We ask what kind of bagels she has, and she replies, “None.”  We were taken aback.  “But if you wait 4 minutes, I’ll have the next batch right out of the oven.”  Great.  I order poppy seed and Wes orders sesame.  We ask about the beans and rice scrawled on the chalkboard menu.  “That’s gone.  The only thing I’ve got is chili.”  That’s fine. “If you want something to drink, I have coffee, tea, and some hot spiced cider that has some hard cider in it, but I think all the alcohol has burnt off.”   We’ll have some cider too.

The fresh, hot bagels were the best I have ever tasted.  The vegie chili with tofu, dried tomatoes, and bits of fresh rosemary was deeply savory, and the cider crackling without being overly sweet.  While we are oohing and aahing over the simple, great food, while visiting with the proprietor/chef Agnes, another fellow comes in, tries to order the beans and rice, only to be steered to the chili by Agnes, with our enthusiastic endorsement.  Why the beans and rice dish is not erased from the board, I can’t say.  When we go to pay the bill, Agnes tots the charge and says $8.60.  Back at the bike shop, when we tell of our experience in this “only the locals know” diner, the bike guys nod. “Agnes is a treasure…and a master chef…you’ll never get better.”  We would have to agree.

But back in the story of our journey across the continent, we are still on the North Shore of Lake Erie, about to meet some of the most memorable people of the trip…..

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The back and forth cycling from the highway to the shore and back again has made for a very long day.  When we finally arrive in the town of Dunnville, the sun is glowing red on the horizon.  The town, with its crooked High Street and the Queen’s Gate Pub right on the corner, looks like it was lifted from Britain’s Midlands and plopped down in Canada’s flat farmlands.  We make our way up the river road to the one and only motel in this town of about 5,000 people.  The Riverview looks quite typical when we pull in and we think we are in for another night in plastic-land.  The room, however, was such a pleasant surprise.  Not only was it big, clean, and well-equipped (as well as reasonably priced), it has a really beautiful view of the lush and lovely Grand River not 30 feet out the window.   We open the curtains as wide as possible and watch the shimmering river turn red, then orange, then pink, then purple as the sun slips away.   We see geese, swans, and ducks.  In the distance, we hear the clattering of cranes.

Instead of walking into the quaint downtown, as recommended by our hosts Zina and George, we choose to go the Chinese restaurant next door.  The hostess is a very tiny, round faced woman with softly curled hair and a frightened expression.  Her English is quite limited and she seems new to her job, and perhaps to this continent.   She tries to steer us to the buffet, but that is more food than we want, so she seats us alone in a separate dining room away from the other guests.  This particular Chinese restaurant has a full bar, and lists a martini on the menu, which Wes decides to order.  The hostess had heard of a martini.   She runs into the next room and grabs the lone Anglo waitress, who comes back and asks, “What did you order?”  A gin martini, Wes replies.  The waitress says, “Well, I’ve never made one before, but I’ll give it a try.” 

Less brave souls would have rescinded their order at this point, but not Wes.   It takes several minutes and two more stops at our table, “What’s the other alcohol that goes in the drink?”  Vermouth.  “I don’t know if we have any vermouth…”  In the end, Wes got a chilled shot of gin with no vermouth and no olive or twist in whiskey glass.   Then the hostess forgot to put the drink on our bill, and ended up chasing us down in the parking lot as we walked back to the motel.   “Mister, mister…you need to pay for drink!”

Up the next morning, we have to satisfy Wes’ latte addiction, so we make our way to the teeming Tim Horton’s.  While enjoying our yogurt and coffee, a fellow comes up to us and asks if we are the owners of the bikes outside.   When we confirm we are, he launches into a big disquisition about how we need to get electric motors on those bikes.  “Sure does make goin’ up those hills easier.  But you want to know the best part?”  Sure, why not?  “You can go as fast as motorcycle with them motors, but you don’t have to get ‘em licensed like a motorcycle.  When I was living up by Toronto and had my license taken away, that’s what I did.  I got me an electric bike and I could go everywhere and didn’t think nuthin’ of it.” 

The fellow is a bit of a blatherskite and in the next few minutes, we find out that he is pro-windmill, anti-gun, thinks Canadian politicians are as crooked as American, calls his wife “The Boss”, and has a son in prison.  When we are leaving, he and “The Boss” are having a noisy confrontation over her desire to buy an ice cream birthday cake a week in advance.  “But, Honey, if you buy it now, you will just eat now and we’ll have to buy it again.”

Our powers of observation are not so keen, however, when we return to the highway.  Some miles later, when we haven’t returned to the lakeshore, and certain expected landmarks haven’t appeared, it finally dawns on us that the road sign has a crown on it, meaning we have been following Canada National Highway 3 instead Haldimand County 3.   We finally come to an intersection where we are faced with a choice: leave the national highway and take the long scenic way to Port Colborne, or take the short busy way to town.  Long scenic wins.

We have just turned the corner to return to the lake when another cyclist pulls up beside us.  He is a tall, lean, older man riding a mountain bike.  He asks about our trip and we begin a long conversation that takes us nearly to Port Colburne, where he lives in a beautiful house on the shores of Lake Erie.  His name is Chris.  He was raised in the wilds of Quebec 400 miles north of Montreal, in the French speaking outback near Hudson Bay.  He had come to this area at the age of 19.  He was 70 now, although he had the body and the bearing of a much younger man.  He had worked for years at the Nanticoke Generating Station, the continent’s largest coal powered power plant.  

We had cycled past this enormous—and shuttered-- edifice the day before and were shocked by the 20 foot tall pipes bringing water from the lake to plant.  When Wes asks Chris about the wind turbines, he responds by talking about how much he disagreed with closing the power plant.  He insisted that it was possible to use coal cleanly.  He also talked about the huge disruption created by closing the plant.  Not only were many thousands of union power plant workers released, but it affected all sorts of coal shipping jobs, railroad jobs, and power line transmission jobs.  The turbines weren’t adding the local economy at all, in his view.   Still, he was retired with a good pension and had turned his attention to becoming a wind surfer.  He said that the winds were quite odd this summer (as we had experienced this summer with our endless southeast winds).  On normal years, he said, westerly winds raised 20 foot waves on the eastern end of the lake where he lived.  It was considered one of the prime wind-surfing areas in the world. 

When we came to his house, he asked if we wanted any water, but we demurred.  (I wish we had; it would have been interesting to see his place).  Instead, we asked where was a good place to get something to eat.  He immediately mentioned a place we heard as the Eatery, but soon find out is Eataly.  The food is Italian and delicious and we find ourselves in conversation with a group of bikers both older and more out of shape than we are.   They are immodestly dressed in bikers’ jerseys and ask all sorts of questions about our trip and our equipment.  An older blonde woman spent a good bit of time trying to cajole her pudgy husband that THEY needed to take a bike trip, too.

After all our company leaves, and Wes and I have to make our way to the bike route which begins at the intersection of the Welland Canal, which connects Lakes Erie and Ontario and the Erie/Niagara Parkway.  We are crabby as hell.  This general malaise has occurred on and off throughout the trip.  There was not one thing either of us was doing right (according to the other), and the afternoon promised to be a long slog of sniping at each other as we pedaled along.  We had just made about 5 miles when a young man with full panniers pulls up beside us, engages us in conversation and changes that moment and the rest of the day, night, and next morning…

That is a story for the next installment….

Posted from Des Moines, Iowa

T+116: The Outback of Erie

Mile 4162:  PORTLAND, ME

We made it to Portland yesterday, arriving at 2:30 in the afternoon.   Stephen and Esther got us a glorious room in the Regency Hotel.  We have been celebrating and reminiscing, and just a few minutes ago, Wes was crying because the trip was over. 

However, it is not over in many ways.  We still have to get back to Wyoming, where we will gather all the materials and add some reflections, ruminations, and rants to create the book about our trip.  I still need to finish writing the story of the travels from coast to coast.  In the next few days, as we stay in Brooklin, Maine with my brother and his wife, I want to share the stories from the rest of Canada, across New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. 

I will keep the T+ counting until we return to Detroit.  It began when we left the city on June 22.  Eleven days later, we were abike in Portland, Oregon.  We cycled 105 days to get to Portland, Maine.  Of those 105 days, there were only 7 days we did not cycle, although to be sure, there were a few very short rides in those 98 days on the bike.   It really was two trips combined into one long trip: the first from Portland to Anacortes, WA, then from Anacortes on the Pacific Coast to Portland on the Atlantic Coast.  The first trip was 420 miles, the second, 3740 miles.  Now comes the re-entry.

But first, the rest of the story……

The eastern side of the North Shore of Lake Erie is quite distinct from the touristy middle range.  The shoreline changes.  No longer sandy beaches, it is either shallow, rocky, little inlets, or swampy coves.  The farms on the plains above the coast stretch out too.  Instead of a wide variety of vegetables, the landscape again begins to be dominated by corn and soybeans.   

 

We are following the Lake Shore route, which is taking us through mile after mile of small cottages.  For reasons we cannot determine, there are a number of bridges being replaced in this section of the lake. It is a bit frustrating because we keep getting turned off our route, returned to the busy main highway for a few miles, then returned to the shore route.  These detours are adding many miles to an already long ride.

There are few tourist services like restaurants and motels.  Nor is this the land of Victorian trophy farms, such as we had seen on Talbot Trail of Chatham-Kent. The wind turbines continue apace; the density of anti-wind turbine lawn signs also increases. 

 

We stop to read an information display about the turbines, and find out that the Ontario provincial government lets bids to private companies to build and run these wind farms.  It seems clear that local residents are not happy with the way Toronto chooses the companies or places the turbines.

We had been riding several hours and were beginning to look for a place to eat some lunch.  We are riding in a little colony of houses clustered in concentric circles around a small point on the lake. We see a sign directing us from the main route to the Peacock Point Store which has Hot Lunches.  It is a small white building across the street from circular park with big oak trees.  A line of small houses rings the park so that all the houses are facing each other. 

There are three people sitting outside the small building, chatting, smoking, and enjoying the bright fall sun.  One is a youngish, heavy-set blonde.  Another is an older male with long, scraggledy hair and wispy beard sitting in a non-motorized wheelchair.  Both his legs have been amputated.  A small sixty year old woman with dyed brown hair completes the trio.   A chalk board sign announces “Mary’s Last Day!  Thanks for a Great Season!”

They seem surprised when we stop our bikes. When we ask if they are still serving lunch, the older woman jumps up, and motions me to follow her inside.  Wes stays outside with the other two.  The store with its little grill at one end, bank of coolers at the other, and line of shelves in between is nearly empty of products.   Mary explains that when she leaves today at 3pm, the store will close for the season.  She apologizes for the state of the store, bustling about, wiping shelves, swatting flies, and explaining what few items can still be prepared.  She says she is behind on the closing because she had family in all last week.  Her son and family had come all the way from Nunevet, where they live way above the Arctic Circle and he works as a geologist for an oil exploration company.  After the store closes, she will travel to Dallas to see her daughter, who works there in the medical field.  After that, she didn’t know what she will do, perhaps go get an apartment in Hamilton and see if she can find work until she can come back to Peacock Point the following spring.

When I return outside with Wes’ egg salad sandwich and my Italian sausage sandwich, Wes and the man in the wheelchair are in heavy discussion about the wind turbines.  “I hate ‘em!” the local declares.  “All they do is kill birds and they don’t even provide much energy.  All of these damn turbines and they only provide 8 percent---8 percent—of Canada’s energy.  Look around at all these towers.  (We could easily see 30.)  How come so many are turned off?  I’ll tell you why.  They turn ‘em off during the day because of the protests, but at night, they turn ‘em back on and sell all the energy to the United States!  And who even gets to choose whether to have a turbine or not?  Corrupt Toronto politicians, that’s who.  They come in and tell the farmers they have to lease their land to company for 50 years, no questions asked.  At the end of the term, the farmer is supposed to get turbine, but who’s going to want it when it’s old and broken down?  I tell you, it’s a bad deal from start to finish.  I hate ‘em!”

There is not much anyone can say to this rant, so we change the subject.  In increasing numbers, all along the coast, we have seen many houses with Union Jack flags, along with signs that say “Loyalist Cemetery” and “Loyalist Union Social Club.”  We ask if these British flags stand for anything.  Did it mean anything when one house had the Canadian red maple, and another the stars and bars of England.  No, no.  If anything, the flags just show who the house supports in soccer….or maybe their ethnic origin. The blonde, whose name is Donna, says that she regularly flies a German flag, because she is German and she supports the Frankfort team. 

Eldon, the man in the chair, says, “I should see about finding me a Finnish flag!  But that’s the thing with you Americans.  You’re not even allowed to put up a flag in front of your home.  I think it is just a real crime when you aren’t even allowed to do that.”  I try to correct him, but he is not to be deterred.  “And another thing, look at the mess your government is in right now.  Why is there such a big mess about getting health care?  It’s unbelievable!  What a bunch of corrupt politicians…but, hey! I’m not saying ours aren’t a bunch of crooks, too!”

He goes on.  “Look at Donna and me.  I don’t know what we would do without NHS.  But you Americans are against health care for the people.  It just don’t make any sense to me.”  Wes points out that most Americans are not against the new health care law, and Eldon is just about ready to start another rant, when I ask Donna about her experience with national health.  I tell about our encounter with our contrary host in Port Rowan, who was furious with the difficulties he encountered trying to get treatment for his Parkinson’s.

She says that they was not at all her experience.  Her husband had recently passed away after contracting a particularly aggressive form of Lou Gehrig’s disease.  A year ago, he began falling.  Six months later, the 36 year old man with three children, was dead.  They had taken him to all kinds of specialists in Toronto and London.  Nothing worked, but she never had to pay a bill.  But…she also pointed out…she also hadn’t been able to work and if it hadn’t been for the community here in Turkey Point, she and her family wouldn’t have made it.

“Yep!”  Eldon declares, “It’s not unusual for me to come home and find food, or some groceries just sittin’ on my table, but that’s just the way it is here in Turkey Point.  People take care of each other here, not like some big city where nobody knows nothin’ about you.   I remember a few years back, when I ran out of water after my cistern sprung a leak, people brought me some of their own, even though it meant they were cutting into their own stores.”

We find out that the water supply will be shut off to the whole community after Thanksgiving.  Many people will leave the colony, but fulltime residents like Donna and Eldon will need to depend on water from their individual cisterns.  I ask if people have trouble making it through the winter on the limited water supply.  She laughs, and says, “That’s how we know they are city people.  They don’t know all the tricks to save water---liking using your dishwashing water to flush your toilet---but if you’ve lived here all your life, like my family all the way back to my grandma, it’s no big deal.”   I ask why they don’t keep the water on the winter.  Eldon replies, “The pipes from Lake Erie freeze!”

Our delicious handmade sandwiches are long gone, and our short break has stretched far past its allotted time, when we make our good byes to this vivacious trio.  There was a certain melancholy in the air.  In a few short hours, the store which had provided work for Donna and Mary would close.  Most of the summer people would leave and the water would be cut off.  Not one of the trio had a clear sense of how they would get through the coming winter, but they were all certain they would find a way.  They wished us a good ride and told us to come back and see them sometime.  We cycle off and wonder if we ever would.

 

Posted from Brooklin, Maine

T+114: Ports o’ Call

Mile 4084: MEREDITH, NH.  We are on the beautiful shores of Lake Winnipesaukee in the middle of New Hampshire.  Another day of mountain riding will take us into Maine today.  The next day, God willing, we will cycle into Portland.  We will meet my brother Stephen and his wife Esther, and they will deliver our car to us.  Their vehicle remains inaccessible in flood damaged Colorado.  

We are both astonished that my original predictions that the ride would be 4200 miles and that it would take us until mid-October have proved correct.   I very much want to get the stories of this amazing adventure down before another part of life overtakes us.  In the next few days, as we come off the trip, and visit my brother and his wife in Maine, I hope to get the story of the journey completed.   As we drive back to Wyoming, I will continue to post, as we transition from one state of being to another.

 

The first thing we see as we leave Ridgetown and head to the north shore of Lake Erie are wind turbines.  The tall, elegant towers with three 80 foot propellers are sprinkled across the horizon as far as we can see.   The second thing we see are protest signs saying “No Wind Turbines” and “Health Studies Before Wind Turbines.”  The third thing we note are the large number of solar arrays at almost every farm.  These are the size of small billboards and most are permanently fixed to capture the sun’s southern rays.   These three things move in lockstep across all the way across Erie, a source of much conversation and contention with the people living in very southern Ontario.

We are traveling through Canada’s horn of plenty.  While there is certainly plenty of corn and soybeans, there is also an astonishing array of everything else.  Anyone who lives in Detroit knows that this part of Canada is famous for its tomatoes, but there are also huge fields of potatoes, broccoli, cabbage, raspberries, strawberries, peas, beans, and carrots.  We see fields that look like giant stands of dill, which takes us a few miles to figure out are asparagus in its seed phase.   Throughout this part of the country, there are tall, airy barns nestled in groups on various farms.  We can’t figure out what they are.  They’re not for animals, nor for grain, nor for root storage.   We finally put two and two together when we see a farmer out harvesting in a field of tall plants with huge leaves.  The leaves are shorn off the plant, but the plant is not uprooted.  These are tobacco plants and the buildings their drying sheds.

All of this speaks to the peculiar microclimate on the north shore of Erie.  Plants typical of the Carolinas (like tobacco, magnolias, and tulip trees) can grow here because of the moderating effect of the lake.  Suddenly, several things make sense.  I had never understood how Detroit could have had huge cigar rolling industry at the end of the 19^th century.   Also, we are seeing many grand Victorian mansions on the farms of this region.  Tobacco was THE cash crop in this region for many years, and the source of much wealth and immigration for the whole area.  It is much diminished now; the fields of tobacco have been replaced by more healthful substances, but the many drying sheds speak to the size of the former industry. 

We are riding on a road known as the Talbot Trail, which has been an established road since the early 1800’s.  When most of Canada was wilderness with far-flung forts, a visionary entrepreneur built a road from one end of Lake Erie to another, providing settlers with access to the lake and the best road in the region.  He also received land from the government every time he brought in more people (200 acres for every settler who bought 50 acres from him!).   He soon became known as the Baron of Lake Erie.  When the rest of the surrounding area, whether in the US or Upper Canada (as it was called) was still raw frontier, this northern-most reach of Carolinian forest had farms, ports, and towns.

Just by chance, we stop at a cemetery snuggled into a small hill.  We note that it is called Ford Cemetery.  We wander about for a few minutes, looking at the hand-carved limestone and marble markers, and note an oddity.  Nearly every gravestone, along with the person’s name and dates, says “Native of Argyleshire, Scotland.”  There are MacColls, Ruthven, McCallisters, Campbells, Camerons, Forbes, and Fords.  The earliest graves date from the 1820’s; the most recent, 1958.   We wonder if these are the forbears of the Detroit Fords and if Talbot recruited whole villages to take up residence on the Talbot Trail.

Our first port of call is Stanley. (Yes, that Stanley, of Stanley Cup fame).  It is a deep port that sits about 150 feet below the Talbot Trail.  It began as railroad port, bringing coal from Pennsylvania.  There are cute shops nestled along the cove and two ways to walk to sandy beaches on Lake Erie.  It is late September and the tourist season is mostly over, but there are quite a few couples our age on the streets.  We are staying at the Kettle Creek Inn, where we have a reasonably priced room if we agree to eat in their restaurant.   The food was excellent, both morning and night. 

Because there were so few customers, we were able to have a long conversation with the waiter, an exceptionally slender and vivacious fellow.  He told of his mother’s bicycling adventures.  She is in her 70’s and currently on a long distance trip in South Africa.  Other trips had taken her to Istanbul, to Alaska, and all around Canada.  These were supported trips, to be sure, so she didn’t have to carry all her gear, but even so, this group of elder riders were covering 60-70 miles a day in some times rugged conditions to far-flung parts of the world.  We were filled with admiration---and a little bit of jealousy.

The next day was much like the first.  After we climbed out of the port, we cruised along the Talbot Trail among hundreds of wind turbines, a big variety of vegetable farms, quaint little farming towns, and regular views of the shining blue lake.  The geese are flocking; it is not unusual to see groups of 200 resting in a quiet bay.   We also see sand-hill cranes, which are so unexpected, our reasoning goes something like this: “Did you see those big birds?  Are those geese?  No, that’s not the way they fly.   Are they swans?  No, too skinny.  Are they herons?  The necks aren’t folded.  Oh my god, those are cranes!  What are they doing here?”

The next port of call is Port Rowan.  This is a far less touristy place than Port Stanley.  Adjacent to Long Point, a sand bar that extends 20 miles into the lake, it is an important flyway, a World Biosphere Reserve, and a major shipwreck site.   While doing laundry that night, I study the map of the point’s many hundreds of wrecks which date back to the 1600’s with the Walking on Water right up to the 1980’s.  Lake Erie is so shallow, and its winds so ferocious, it is easy to imagine wind powered boats being thrown upon that sand spit over and over.

We are staying at a bed and breakfast, whereupon discovering that we from the US, the hosts declare themselves Loyalists. We note that we had seen a “Loyalist Cemetery” up on the road, and thus begins a long explanation from our host John about his wife’s Sharon’s genealogy.   Her family were members of the original Massachusetts Bay Colony, which he says, “Makes her related to everybody in America.”  When faced with the American Revolution, her branch of the family chose to stay with king and moved up to Hamilton, Ontario.   He is a bit pugnacious, and likes to dispute.  One of the first things he says to us is that they are Canadians and that means like their taxes and services, unlike Americans, who don’t like taxes and don’t want services. 

When I talk about Point Pelee as an international birding destination, he actually pooh-poohs me, and says, “Point Pelee is nothing compared to Long Point.  More species and more birds come here than any other spot in Canada.”  The next morning, they join us for breakfast, and we get into a long conversation about health care.  We mention how great it is that Canadians have guaranteed health care for life.  John, who appears to have Parkinson’s, tells a long, angry story about his difficulties getting the medical care he needs.  He touts American medical care as much superior.   Wes later describes him, accurately, as “Mr. AuContraire.”

We like the little town, however, especially enjoy walking the shore amidst a glowing red sunset.  One of the cloud formations shining in the dusk looks like a bird in flight.    It is a quiet, peaceful, welcoming spot in this former fishing village.

The ride the next day is much more challenging.  The little ravines that take water to the lake have opened up and become steep valleys.   It is a quick, bumpy ride down, and a hard push up, over and over.  The problem I began having with my knees after the sprint to Ridgetown has not abated.  It has gotten worse.   Each pedal up the ridges produces a sharp, shooting pain.   Even though the hills are not long, I often have to get off my bike and push it, because the knee pain is too much. 

By the time we get to Port Dover, I am hobbling on both legs.   We had planned to move on, but after having a great lunch, seeing that this is the biggest destination port on the North Shore, and worrying about my knees, we decide to stay.  We wander the shop lined streets, and end up at the extensive sand beach, where a few brave souls are swimming and splashing in the decidedly cool waters.  We get a tropical drink at a beach bar, where they have planted palm trees in the Canadian sand, and listen to Jimmy Buffet on the speakers. 

It takes a long while to get lodging because it is a weekend.  We get a little cabin not too far from the beach. The landlady is not available.  She tells us to let ourselves in and she will settle with us in the morning.  It is a fairly wretched little place, lurking behind a beat-up historic house.  It is much smaller than most motel rooms, but it has full kitchen and tiny sitting area crammed into its small space.  The full size bed barely fits into its room.  It is not inexpensive, but at least it is clean, and we actually have a pretty good stay. 

The next day is begun at the Tim Horton’s, where I can use the Wi-Fi.  I still have no phone service and need to secure our next night’s lodging for this Saturday.  We encounter the Canadian version of the men’s coffee klatsch.  Wes has a good time entertaining them, while I work on the blog.

Our push out of town, with the apparently requisite way-lost backtrack, takes us away from the resort end of Lake Erie.  The next two days give us a glimpse into the work-a-day world of working class Canadians, but that is a story for another day.

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Posted from Cornish, Maine