The next day, we went hiking around the granite monoliths of Vedauwoo. We watched climbers scale Turtle Rock, shimmying up a 300 foot vertical crack. There were lots of people out, like us, surprised and pleased by the nearly 60 degree temperature—and no wind. Long conversations with our dear friend Diana, finally making friends with her skittish dog Zola, then ending the day with homemade stew, wine, and a pumpkin pie provided by her friend Ross---what a day of pleasure! The ride through the heart of the Adirondacks, not so long ago, was another such day.
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Mile 3840: Raquette Lake, NY
The ride through the Adirondacks is glorious. It is true that we missed the peak colors of
the trees. The big rain and blow
yesterday took down many leaves. The
colors are beginning to edge toward buff and amber. There is very little traffic on the road and
we are grateful to be able to see the country without snaking through travel
trailers and stressed out drivers.
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| An island on the Moose River |
We are ebullient when we enter the tourist town of Old
Forge, New York. We visit the bike shop,
where my bike gets a mini-tune-up, and we visit with the 70 year old owners,
who tell us they see 100 bicycle tourists a day during the peak of the
season. This is clearly not the case
when we are there. We are genuine
oddities in the scant groups of elder tourists.
During this section of ride, we have returned to the
Adventure Cycling maps. We wonder
whether to continue following their route, with all its twists and turns and
mountain climbs. A super-fit woman
joins our conversation with the bike shop guys as we wonder if we should go via
Ticonderoga, Bennington, or Rutland. She
says, “If you’re looking for a challenge, take Ticonderoga, for a long way but
a nice ride, take Bennington. For a
quick ride, with good scenery and a good road, go Rutland.” After she leaves, the owners says, “She ought
to know. She’s a world class
tri-athlete. She’s probably ridden every
one of those roads.” We choose Rutland.
As we get coffee at the one open coffee house, and go out
into the fall sun to drink it on the deck, older tourists making their way up
and down the streets call out to us and engage us in conversation. Wes visits at some length with two sisters
who drive up from New Jersey and Pennsylvania every year. They are short and round, with pronounced New
Jersey accents: “Oi cen’t bleeve yous rode all d’way from Or-e-gon!”
Wes is at his best, flirting and telling stories with these
70-somethings. He almost has one
convinced she needs to take up bike riding again, when we have to leave. After a supply stop at the drugstore, Wes is
all business with me. Time is burning;
we got to get down the road. I want to
browse and wander the tourist shops. Wes
says, “Why look when you know you can’t buy?”
We stand on the side of the road
and fuss at either other (You never….I always…etc.) before we both realize we
are being absurd and start laughing.
We ride alongside the Fulton Chain of Lakes. Most of the many cabins, restaurants, and
shops are closed for the season. It
tickles us to see the original iterations of the “North Woods” style: log
cabins, heavy plaids, stenciled or iron cuts of bears, moose, and pine
trees. Much of Wyoming has adopted this
look. Our own cabin has a pretty heavy
dose.
At Inlet, we stop for a beer and to secure lodging for the
night. In the summer, or on the weekends
during Leaf Peepers season, there would be hundreds of places to stay. Midweek, the second week of October, just a
few days before the season ending Columbus Day weekend, the choices are few. We ask our host, a young, extremely heavy, man with a tousled mop of brown hair he constantly pushes out of his eyes. Without a pause, he recommends Raquette Lake Hotel. He then grabs his cell phone, and calls them to make sure they have a room available. After a short conversation, he hands me the phone. Surprised, I babble a bit before making the reservation.
While we drink our beer and look at the sun glow on the
lake, we visit with our host. He tells
us a lot about the route ahead, warning us that we are in the easy part of the
Adirondacks. He gives us a blow by blow
description of all the roads we will travel until we get to Lake George. We can’t comprehend it at the time, but when
we look back, we realize he was utterly accurate.
Right before we leave, a very young beer salesman comes
in. He looks to be no more than 25 years
old and couldn’t weigh more than 125 pounds.
He sits on his foot, perched on the bar stool, looking all the world
like a great blue heron. He and the
host, Jack Spratt and his wife, begin an intense discussion of the various
tastes and qualities of beer. They are
almost head to head and talking rapidly through the tens of choices on the beer
seller’s list.
The ride out of Inlet continues beautiful, past lakes named
Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth. We arrive in
the outskirts of Raquette Lake just at dusk, very nearly missing the unsigned
turn to the tiny hamlet. Raquette Lake
Hotel dominates the collection of little cottages nestled around an open green. A group of deer are in the green. One is beneath an apple tree, eating one
fallen apple after another.
The lake, shimmering in the evening sun, pulls us like a
magnet. We stare at the immense Blue
Mountain, looming majestically over the lake.
There are numerous sail boats, skiffs, canoes, and pleasure craft bobbing
gently on the water near the marina north of the hotel. We walk all around the hotel, which was built
in the 1880’s and houses a store, bar, and restaurant. It has been grand; it could be again. Now it looks well used…and well loved.
We make our presence known at the bar, which not only is the
nerve center of the hotel, but also the for the small village. There are about 10 men at the bar, and a few
more mixed groups sitting at the tables. It distinctly reminds us of the watering holes
in our tiny town of Centennial. All eyes
are on us, when we say we are the people with reservations for a room. The frowsy young blonde bartender gives us
set of brass keys and tells us our room is just up the stairs. “Go to the next door and straight up. That’ll be $49. You can pay me when you get settled.”
The next door has a ratty screen door, and we have to
maneuver around a bunch of kitchen supplies piled in boxes to get up the
stairs. There is large, dusty, lobby
with old furniture and a tottering bookshelf at the top of the stairs. We spot our room number just next to the
wooden phone booth, complete with a folding door. The room is tiny, although it does have its
own bathroom, with a big clawfoot bathtub.
The iron bedstead with a chenille cover barely fits in the room. There are hooks on the wall instead of closet,
and a battered solid wooden dresser. The
only window looks over the rusty fire escape and the greasy roof of the hotel
kitchen. It doesn’t feel bad, exactly,
just old. This was probably state of the
art in 1942.
However, we had seen the lake and knew it was magical. I told Wes to wait, and went exploring. Down the hall, on the opposite end of the
building, there were more rooms. These surely
would have views. Wes goes back
downstairs, to ask for a room where we could see the lake.” The bartender couldn’t have been more
surprised. “Well, just go outside and
look!” she exclaims.
After Wes explains that we really do want a room with a
view, she disappears for a moment to confer with the cook. When she comes back, she says that there is a
suite at the other end of the hotel, but that it costs more. She quotes the price. It is quite a bit more than $49, but less
than many places we have stayed. We take
it.
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| The view from our room |
When we open the door, we are thrilled. Not only does the suite take up three full
rooms, its entire west side is ringed with the original mullion windows facing the
lake. There is a big comfy bed on one
side, a hot tub on the other, and a little eating area in the middle. The sun is just getting ready to set over the
lake. Wes runs downstairs, buys a couple
of drinks, and we sit at the antique arts and crafts table and watch the lake
turn orange, then red, then the richest sapphire. We sit on until the sky is inky and Venus
makes her appearance. In the far
distance, we can just make out the cry of a loon.
We have a pleasant meal and nice visit with the homefolks,
who are all in a buzz about an energy company which has just entered the valley
and is trying to get new customers. One
young fellow, who looks like a slacker lumberjack, says, “They said they would
provide energy for life for a payment of $4000. Last year, my heating oil for the winter was
$1600. How can this not be a scam?” Most people agree it sounds too good to be
true, but everyone, including me, is happy to eat from the sausage and cheese
tray the company has left as part of their promotions.
When we return to our magical suite, we have a hot tub, a
sweet night, and a deep sleep. We notice
that perhaps this suite wasn’t quite finished yet, and wonder if our stay there
was fully legal. Legal or no, we loved it. With our windows open, and all the night
sounds of the little town and the big lake, we didn’t need to go outside to be
right there with the shimmering lake and its looming mountain.
------------------------------------------Posted from Centennial, Wyoming.
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