T+141: Just Go Outside and Look!

Centennial, Wyoming: The three days of wind are over and we have had two wonderful days of still, warm weather.  On Saturday, Wes and I took our first long bike ride since ending the trip.   We rode roundtrip from our cabin to the Albany Lodge, a total distance of about 22 miles.   I rode my 1986 Kuwahara mountain bike.  The bike had some issues and needs some repair, but we both did great, despite the (inevitable) headwind and not quite having high altitude lungs.  

 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.

An island on the Moose River

We take the back road from Boonville, which takes us past the original Black River Canal, then down to the spectacular Moose River.  We are riding on what is called the “Woodgate,” which means this route is the most forested way into the highlands.   We are having fun; Wes is singing, and we are spinning back and forth across the empty road to get a better look at bright trees, gurgling brooks, or small ponds.  Wes asks, “Where are the moose?”  Their image is on all sorts of road and restaurant signs, but the animals are nowhere to be seen.  We tell stories of the three big bull moose, who stay near the edge of the road just outside Centennial.  They seem to enjoy the “moose jams” they regularly cause as motorists stop to stare at 3000 pounds of moose flesh.

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.



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.

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Posted from Centennial, Wyoming.

T+138. Up Potato Hill

Mile 3506: Boonville, NY

The next morning we were more than glad to leave our corporate digs.  We were leaving the valley and going to enter the Adirondack Mountains.  Wes was pretty excited about this portion of the trip. He had been reading about peak color in the trees, and kept saying, “This is the climax of the trip!”  I was less certain of that, but I had heard of these mountains and lakes all my life.  I wanted to see what they were all about.

It was both ridiculous and appropriate that we missed our exit coming out of the hotel and ended up on the freeway, instead of the road to the mountains.   We soon corrected our error and found our way on the road to the foothills.  I had picked out a path, using Google maps,  that looked like the quickest and most direct path into the mountains.  We knew it was going to be a day of climbing, so we just plugged along, ever climbing, watching the houses become fewer and fewer. 

We clear the first big set of foothills, then pass down into valley.  There we see a massive wooden mansion with big white pillars and slate roof that must have been built in the 18^th century.  It is empty now, but it has been lived in within the last 10 years.  We wonder how such a spectacular house could be left to the elements.

There’s a hill after that, then another, then another.  At one point, we can look back and see all the way to the Catskills.  Each hill is followed by a valley.   There is less and less farming in each valley as each valley is higher than the next.  The weather is chilly and there is a brisk wind blowing from the west.  We are not too far from our junction with Egypt road, where we will turn to the east and enter the Adirondack Park itself. 

Look how close the lines are!

The hill  is daunting, to say the least.  We cycle as far as we can, then get off.  This is a real doozy.  Its grade is at least 8% with moments of 10%.  We can’t comprehend how this road would be passable in the winter.  We walk our bikes up it little bursts.  First, in chunks of 50 steps before stopping to breathe.  Soon it is 35 steps, then 25 steps at an effort.  This hill is likely the single steepest hill we have encountered on this trip.  It is hard work and it takes us more than an hour to clear its summit.  

The clouds to the southwest are black.  The wind is blowing briskly.  We debate whether we can get to a town before the rain starts to fall. 

We have just cleared the hill, when a woman comes running out of her house.  She yells, “There’s a tornado warning for all of Oneida County.  You need to seek shelter!”  Wes calls back to her, “Where should we go?” hoping that she will offer us refuge at her house.  She shouts back, “You need to find a ditch or some other low place,” then runs back into the comfort of her house. 

We arrive at our junction when the sky turns pitch black and the first fat rainfalls begin to pelt.  It is at least 10 miles to the next town down that junction.  We have just entered the town of Boonville; the village must be within 5 or so miles.  However, the wind starts to roar, and we know we better seek cover, NOW.

Just off the road, we can see an open barn.  We start to make our way there when I notice that farmhouse next to the barn is being renovated.  No one is living there now, and the glass covered porch is open and somewhat protected from the wind.  We pull our bikes up on the porch.  It is littered with milk crates, garbage cans, and other construction detritus.  The wind is now howling and we are peering anxiously for the tell-tale funnel clouds.  They do not appear, but the rain clouds do.  It pours. 

After 15 minutes, it appears that we might as well find a way to sit down, so we arrange the milk crates and settle in for long wait.  After an hour of hard rain, we make a “table” from a garbage can and a board, pull out the cook kit and Wesley’s Roadside Cantina is in business.  We warm our fingers on the hot coffee, and eat all of the rest of last night’s leftovers: a chopped salad and a vegetable calzone. We are dressed in gloves, hats, fleeces, and rain gear.  We have arranged ourselves so that we are not getting hit by the wind, although this took some doing as half of the windows are out.

We curl up next to each other as the rain pours on.  The tarp which was covering the newly poured basement of the farmhouse addition rattles and fills and empties over and over.   Wes is feeling sleepy, and I tease him about his ability to sleep in any position at the drop of the hat.  I say, “You know me, I’m not the napping type.”  But there, snuggled up to Wes, with the drone of rain and full belly, I fall fast asleep on Wes’ shoulder. I wake up an hour later and it is still raining.  We have been on the porch for 3 hours.  There are about 2 hours of sunlight left.  

We wait and watch and wonder what to do.  I use the program I just discovered to find the route to the next town and identify lodging.  We make a few calls and discover that the only lodging still open at this late date is about six miles away, just outside of Boonville.  Well, we weren’t planning to go to Boonville, but it is clearly the best option available.   The rain has become a steady drum, which is a big improvement from the downpour.  As much as we don’t relish getting wet or riding in the rain, we better get a move on before it gets too late. 

It is close to 5pm when we leave our protected porch.   It is raining for the first mile or so, but as we clear the final hill before entering the Boonville valley, the rain lifts, and a patch of blue sky appears.  We make our way to the town, which has a lot of 18^th and 19^th century buildings, but feels very much like a frontier outpost.  At the Colonial Motel, we are one of the few guests, be we really like this “olde style” motel with its real wood furniture, massive fireplace in the lobby, and great view of the Black River. 

The host tells us we should eat at the 1890’s Boonville Hotel, which stopped hosting overnight guests a generation ago, but has more than a century of serving homegrown meals.  We eat in the nice but odd art deco style bar (which reminds us of  Cliff Bell’s in Detroit) and order the special: chicken and biscuits.  We visit with the folks there and we tell them of our hours on the porch just at the top of a massive hill.

The young man, who sported a lumberjack/skateboarder look, did a double take.  “Wait.  What hill did you come up?”  We told him we came up Highway 74, and were just going to turn onto Egypt Road before the big storm.   He whistles, “You guys came up Potato Hill….that’s unbelievable.”  When the waitress came over, he enthused, “These guys just road their bike up Potato Hill.”  “Walked our bikes,” we corrected.  “Still!  That is the single steepest way to get in this country.  Wow, I am impressed.”

While he was impressed with our athletic achievement, I was abashed at my horrible, but lucky, route selection. Oh, well, we were safe; we were dry; we were about to eat one of the best meals of the whole trip.   Perhaps Potato Hill was the right path after all.