The host at Inlet proved correct. The terrain outside of Raquette Lake became
distinctly more challenging. The hills
were higher and the roads were worse.
However, it was beautiful as we cycled past glacier lakes, climbing ever
higher into the mountains to a
major junction at Blue Mountain Lake.
We go to corner gas station/convenience stop. We have a tiny amount of cash and want to
get a little something. We wander about
the store, while the young woman cashier frowns at us. We end up splitting a high priced muffin and
she slaps our change on the counter with nary a word.
Outside we peer up the north route, then down at the east
route. The north route is the Adventure
Cycling route. The east route means we
will be committed to our own wayfinding.
We had been tending that way, but now, within a few hundred miles of the
end our trip, we cut the cord. With the
HERE program on my phone, we feel confident enough to make our own way. We’ll see.The country becomes more remote as we leave the lakes region. We cycle for mile upon mile in dense forest. At one point, we see a car parked on the other side of the road, where a man in full outdoor gear was shouldering a heavy pack. I call out to him as we go by, “Goin’ for a hike?” To my surprise, he answers, “Nope, goin’ fishin’…..Say, you got a big climb ahead of you!” Wes calls back, “If we can make it over the Cascades, we can make it over the Adirondacks.”
Cottages are few and far between. After lots of ups and downs, we stop at restaurant in Indian Lake, where once again, with the exception of one fellow at the counter, we are the only customers. The waitress is quite young, tattooed and vibrant, glad for some customers and the possibility of a tip.
About half way through our meal, the waitress’ mother and a male friend come into the restaurant. The waitress tells them of our trip. Before long we are talking about our journey through the Adirondacks with this small group of locals. Wes asks, “Where are the moose?” The mom begins a harrowing tale of a bull moose recently hit on the highway. She told of the panicked, injured animal crossing back and forth on the road, causing all sorts of problems. It finally died on the highway and they had to get special equipment to move the 700 pound carcass.
This begins a round of moose tales from everyone in the restaurant. Wes tells the story of his mother attempting to shoo a moose (with a broom!) from their snow covered sidewalk, only to be charged by the moose. She just made it in the door, where she told her wide-eyed sons, “You’re not going to school today!” Others talked of moose in their gardens, or moose where they fish. The general consensus is that there are a lot more moose than there were 20 years ago, but not nearly as many as there used to be or should be. The same could be said about black bear. All these locals had seen more bear more often, but the bears still had not recovered from the greedy hunts of the late 19th century, where one hunt would kill 15 or 20 bears at a time.
(Wildlife talk like this only happens when humans live in close contact with the undomesticated earth. We had seen so little wildlife on our journey, and had so few of these conversations. One of the reasons we chosen the northern route across the United States was the (mistaken) belief that it would be more wild and pristine. )
We continue to cross remote country, climbing and
falling. After one long climb, we see
Wes’ favorite sign: the runaway truck sign with a grade warning. This one says “Steep grade, 4-5%, next 2
miles.” It has been a long time since we
had a long downhill, so we let the bicycles just rip. We have to ride in the road because the
shoulder is bad, but there is so little traffic, we feel safe. The road flattens out next to a beautiful,
sparkling river…the Hudson River. We are not far from the source of this mighty river in a small lake in the Adirondacks. Although it is a shadow of the giant it will become in downstate New York, it is already bigger than many western rivers. The river is such a marker to us, and is so beautiful surrounded by the golden and red trees. We stop and read every information marker about the river. (Who knew they used to have huge railroad tie runs on the Hudson?)
The Hudson River carves the valley that separates the
Adirondacks from the upper Appalachian mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire. It is an important psychological marker for us
that truly signals the last stage of our journey across the country. We cut into the little town of North Creek to
celebrate. The town is still the gateway
to the Adirondacks, with active train service, boat connections to both Lake
Champlain and the Erie Canal. The style
of the town is not North Woods, but distinctly upscale Atlantic colonial: white
clapboards instead of logs.
We find a bumptious bar named The Barking Spider. It is jam-packed on this early Friday
afternoon. The crowd is older, European
American men, most of whom looked like they just escaped their corporate
offices to get an early start on the long Columbus holiday weekend. We are lucky to find a couple of seats at the
far end of the bar. Before long, we are
in conversation with a young retiree in an Indiana Jones hat, who tells us of
his love of airplanes and fly fishing. He
was really glad he got out of the real estate business in New York City “just
in time.” It was clear he had made enough
money to do just what he pleased for the rest of his life. Sitting next to him is a silent, burly, bearded fellow, about 45 years old, who barely looks up when he is introduced as the leading garnet prospector in this area. The area around North Creek is still the largest source of garnets in the US. While Wes and the airplane guy compare adventures, I try to talk to the prospector about his work. Finally, he signals me to follow him out on the deck. I ask a few questions about garnets and how they are found. He answers without looking up, almost in pain. I ask how garnets are related to rubies. Here, he becomes animated and tells me that they are the same chemical composition, just subjected to different degrees of pressure. I say I love rubies and show him the three ruby rings I always wear. “They are my birthstone,” I say. “Mine, too,” he says, still not making eye contact. “You a Cancer?” I ask. Then, and only then, he looks me full in the face, peers at my eyes, then says, “Yes, I am.” He then scoots away without another word into the hubbub of the bar and away from his former seat.
We know we should go on. There are still a few more hours that could be ridden, but we like it here and are not quite ready to leave the mountains. There are several places to stay, but there is a nice looking motel in full colonial style just across the street. The ladies at the desk were tickled by us and our trip and give us a discount to stay in this rather high priced establishment. We stow our bikes and BOBs in the basement, return to our big and kind of showy room, and get ready to have nice meal.
The restaurant is an anomaly. In the midst of this very colonial motel, with its Queen Anne furniture and chintz wallpaper, is its restaurant, The Trappers Tavern. It is built like a North Woods tavern, complete with a stuffed moose (shot by Teddy Roosevelt) on the wall, knotty pine paneling, and big stone fireplace. It was inviting, but so disconnected to the rest of the facility’s ambience.
We are sitting next to an older businessman dressed in a
muted green suit. At first, he is in intense
discussions with another heavy set man who seems to be the manager or owner of
the inn. They are the middle of some
kind of development deal with a local government agency, and there are lots of
directives, and communications, and maneuvering that have to be done. He orders a martini and drinks it
rapidly. When his colleague leaves, he
orders another, rubs his face, and sits waiting, tensely. A little while later, a middle aged man and
woman, with two college-aged daughters join him at the table. They exchange “barely hugs” while saying “Hi,
Grandpa” or “Hello, Dad.”
The grey-haired man is suddenly bluff and outgoing. He announces to the table, “I have already
ordered lobsters for everyone!” The son
exchanges a look with his wife. Seeing
the look, the older man announces, “You don’t need to worry about the
cost. The whole thing is on me. Then you can get whatever else you want after
you finish with the lobsters.” The
family acquiesces and the conversation turns to the two young women. They are home for the weekend from their
colleges in Middlebury and Bennington, Vermont.
They are pleasant, but rather supercilious, as only college juniors can
be. They tolerate, just barely, their
grandfather’s questions about their overseas studies. The taller, more muscled of the two blonde
girls, answers one question with barely concealed condescension, “Well, of
course we studied French before we went to Paris.” The grandfather winces at this remark. There are not many places in his world where
he is not front and center. He continues
grandiose, however, buying drinks and oversupplying their every perceived or
real whim.The next day takes us into very different territory.
From the tony environs of North Creek, we ride to the far less prosperous town of Wevertown. The landscape is opening up and we are mostly going downhill. The town is crowded into a small valley. We wander about trying to find a place to eat. We ask a woman and a man; neither can provide any guidance. We think it very strange. Towards the southern end of this long and skinny town, we spot a little bistro with room for 12 or 15 people. It is a one-woman operation. We hand-write our own order. She tells us she will prepare it as soon as she can. The food is worth the wait, but we wonder, once again, why so many restaurants, bars, and hotels are so understaffed.
On our way out of the bistro, we meet a handsome couple who see our bikes and ask about our trip. She is an avid cyclist and is trying to convince her older husband to take an extended trip. Even more interesting, she is a direct descendent of the town’s founder. Her family has lived in the town for seven generations. She says that Wevertown used to be a major transportation hub, and had a lot of mills and factories, but most of that is gone. Now the town is trying to make it on retail and tourism. They were really excited about an outlet mall coming to the town. They gave us advice on the quickest route to Vermont which would save us 20 miles.
When we leave Wevertown, it is a long zoom down to the
tourist environs of Lake George. We
recall the words of the barkeep in Inlet, who told us it would be fun going
down, but he couldn’t conceive of biking up.
We agree wholeheartedly. The
tourist season is almost over along this beautiful lake. Given the miles of motels and guest houses
all along the lake, we are glad we are not biking through here during peak
season. There are a few lake steamers
still plying the waters as we cycle by. We are on our way to a bike trail originating at Fort William Henry, a tip from our Wevertown folks. As we ride through a glacier rim, we discover that we are on the Knox Trail. Of course, we had never heard of it before, but our admiration grew with each mile we travelled. During the first year of the American Revolutionary War, in the middle of the winter, American troops hauled more than 60 tons of heavy artillery captured at Fort Ticonderoga to Boston. With these canons (one 11 feet long), George Washington was able to drive the British from Boston and change the course of the war. Cycling through this little canyon is no easy task: hauling through the snow across these mountains was truly heroic.
We leave the Knox Trail, and begin following the French Mountain to Fort Ann cut-off described by the Wevertown folks. It starts out well, but soon turns into a scary road with heavy traffic and no shoulder. We were so relieved to be off that road with its heavy semi-truck traffic, we didn’t at first notice how beat-up this town was. Nearly every building was ramshackle, although they were probably quite nice in the 1890’s when they were built. More than half the buildings looked to be closed or abandoned. We could see no signs of economic life. It seemed as though Fort Ann was in the process of ghosting.
We find a little tavern in one of the few open buildings. The owners were truly surprised to see two strangers come in. We order a beer and ask about accommodations. There are none here, none near here either. I check my phone and find out that there is one motel within 20 miles. It is up in Whitehall, which is another 14 miles up the road. The barkeep and her husband, who is sweeping up, both make faces and warn us off it, saying it is a known location for prostitution.
About that time, a professionally dressed woman and her casually dressed husband come into the bar. They are longtime friends of the owners. She works in Vermont and is on her way home. They ask her if she is aware of any other lodging between Fort Ann and Vermont. She thinks long and hard, and gives us the name of place right on the border in Vermont. She thinks it is another 6 or 7 miles past Whitehall. It would be a lot better…and a lot safer…
We have already ridden 40 miles by this point and it is after 4pm. If we have any hope of getting to this better place, we better get a move on. We ask about the bike trail following the canal. It stops at Fort Ann. We have to ride US 4. We ride this national highway with heavy traffic, but a good shoulder, watching the sun move ever closer to the foothills on our left. By the time we get to Whitehall, the sun is just about over the hill. We’re beat. It will be dark soon. It’s the fleabag motel for us.
It is bad. It is dirty. The sink in our room pours water onto the floor through the leaky gooseneck. The heat doesn’t work and the landlord brings us a space heater. There is no way I am sleeping in that bed. We bring our bikes and trailers in the room for safekeeping. Our dinner that night comes from a rundown McDonald’s next door. We watch TV for a while and manage to get some sleep on top of the bed.
The next day, we wander up and down the streets of Whitehall, looking for a place to get some breakfast. It is not as bad as Fort Ann, but it too has seen much better days. There are beautiful 19th century manor houses, from when this was a canal and boat building hub. About half of these buildings are in good repair. There is a big castle on the hill and there are numerous signs proclaiming Whitehall as the birthplace of the American Navy. It is situated at the southern end of Lake Champlain and has none of the tourism energy of either Lake George or Burlington. We end up eating at a small diner which has been in business for 50 years but has a sign announcing it is going out of business. The young tattooed waitress tells us she is leaving the town as soon as the place closes. “There ain’t nothing here anymore.” Across the small room, two older town residents talk at length about the town’s big deficit. It is hard to believe that North Creek is only 35 miles away, as the crow flies.
We make our way out of the valley and up the hill to Vermont. We climb and climb before reaching the better accommodations we had been told about. We couldn’t have made it the previous evening.
When we cross the border into Vermont and enter the picturesque little town of Fair Haven, Vermont, we have entered another world. It is as shocking a border crossing as the one between Detroit and Grosse Pointe. One side, decay and dereliction, signs of poverty everywhere, the other side, services and shops, buildings in good order, signs of prosperity. In modern day United States, these are the passages of inequality…there are them that gots and them that ain’t.
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