T+155: The Final Push

Mile 4162: Portland, Maine

We leave the bed and breakfast in Meredith and push out into traffic.  It is chilly.  We have about a 50 mile ride to the little town of Cornish, Maine.  The next day, we will only have about 30 miles to get into Portland.  We both have pretty strong homing fever.  Like horses who have been on an all-day ride, but who begin to trot and can’t be deterred once they get a sense of barn and pasture, we are singled minded in our focus.  We want to get to Portland as soon as we can.

Of course, that doesn’t stop us from missing our turn and going the wrong way for a few miles first thing in the morning.  Even though we were following Highway 25, we were not seeing the lake shore as we should.  Instead we were climbing a small saddle…and making good time, at that.  It just doesn’t seem right, I tell Wes.  Let’s stop and check.   We pull off into a public area, check the map, and…can- you-believe-it—not only have we gone the wrong way, I also have a flat tire.  Grrrrr.

It is already late because of the long conversation we had at breakfast, so we try to control our anxiety as we change the tire and make our way back to what should be a connector road back to EAST 25.    (We had been going due north on WEST 25.)  25B is a short-cut, all right, in distance.  It is straight up a steep hill we can’t ride.  After a long and cranky push, we make it to the top and see the streets of Center Harbor, straight down.  I am not completely confident in our repair, so I brake like mad down the 13% grade.   Wes shoots straight down, and when I meet up with him at the bottom, he has a bug-eyed, wild-hair grin.  Near the junction with the main road, we see a semi-truck loaded with hay just turning onto the road.  He stops his truck and asks us if this the road to Sunset Hill.  Wes tells him it is, but warns him that he may not be able to make it up that grade.  He drives off to attempt it.

We don’t tarry at the lake, even though the town looks cute.  We push through Moultonborough, even though it is on another lake and has an intriguing sign for the Cloud in the Sky house.  Nope, we’ve got homing fever.  No left, no right, just go.  The road outside of Moultonborough begins the circumnavigation of the Ossipees.  We climb up and can see its western flank with big canyons and fast moving streams. 

Ossipee Mountains

As we circle around these unusual mountains, the view to our right doesn’t change.  Unlike normal linear mountains, which have a beginning, middle and end, riding the perimeter of the volcano means that mountain seems to rotate with us.  However, once we are on the north side of the circle dyke, the views to our left begin to be awe-inspiring.  The White Mountains are just a few miles away and they are impressive.  At one point, we look north and see a jagged peak far above the surrounding peaks.  A single horn of granite, the stubborn remnant after glaciers had scraped away all else, stands 1000 feet above the rocky ridges below.  We wonder, is that Mount Washington?  It certainly was the tallest mountain we had seen since the Rockies. 

West Ossipee is at 1pm on the clock of the circle.  It is the last junction before Conway, in the heart of the White Mountains.  It is also the first place we see a road sign announcing the distance to Portland, Maine: 62 miles.  There is a busy barbeque joint right at the junction.  There are lots of folks wrapping up their Columbus Holiday weekend.  We eat in the tent outside the main dining area. 

It was better people watching than eating.  Around our table we see the following sets of people.  There is a handsome young couple, both quite athletic with the tans and muscles that come from lots of vigorous outside activities, with five children.  The oldest, a teenage boy of about 15 looks exactly like his father, who looks no more than 32 years old.  The mother has long, dark hair and a kind of casual elegance that makes me jealous.  Their youngest child is probably 5 years old. They order tons of food and eat only part of it.  They all seem very confident and relaxed.

Next to them is an intergenerational family of far fewer means.  The grandmother is on oxygen.  Her two daughters are overweight and wearing tight knit pants.  They all have their hair pulled tight into high ponytails.  All three women spend a good deal of time correcting and engaging with a young tween who can’t sit still and may not be able to read.  There are numerous questions, in quite loud voices, “Do you want the chicken?  How about the pulled pork?  Please sit down!  Did you want to try chicken, or not?  Answer me!” 

Across from us is a middle aged man of Asian descent, who has led his tiny, tottering, nearly blind mother up the ramp and to a high table, where he has very difficult time getting her into the stool.  There he explains, over and over, what this place is.  It’s not clear she understands.  When the food comes, he puts a bib around her then gently helps her take bites from her sloppy, slippery sandwich.

At the far end of the tent is another extended family.  I can’t see them very well, but I have a great view of the patriarch, with his sailor’s cap, beige windbreaker, tan chinos, and deck shoes.  He looks like he should be returning from a weekend on the boat instead of the New Hampshire mountains.  He spends the whole meal on his cell phone, only breaking his conversation once, with a loud, “Oh, all right!”  while he pulls some bills from his pocket to give to two gesticulating teenage boys, who then run into the interior of the restaurant.

When I come out of the restaurant, I see Wes in deep conversation with an odd-looking fellow.  I had seen him riding down the hill to the junction on a beater bike with a wobbly front wheel.  He looked to be in his forties.  His clothes—work boots, ragged jeans, polo shirt under a flannel shirt—were ragged and dirty.  His long blondish hair was stuffed under a mangled fisherman’s brim hat.  Still, his eyes were clear, his face was clean and smiling.  He was gesturing animatedly and pointing to his bike.  I soon learn he is telling Wes of his plans to convert his bike to a recumbent so he could take a tour like ours.  He is very fascinated by the trailers and asks Wes all sorts of questions.  The conversation starts to repeat itself and it is not clear whether this fellow actually has the wherewithal to do what he says, so we gently take our leave.  As we are riding away, a young interracial couple in full black leather come riding up on motorcycles.  We hear the cyclist tell them, “See them trailers…I’m getting me one like that and headin’ out!”

A few miles down the road, through a strip of tourist oriented businesses, we have traveled 180 degrees around the Ossipees.   The main route continues circling, but our route  turns to the east, over a small pass, heading to Maine.   The country is changing from upland hardwoods to boggy lowlands with ferns and pines.  The houses are becoming few and far between.

We stop to take pictures in front of the beat-up “Welcome to Maine” signs.  We have about 45 miles to go to Portland, and still about 10 miles to go today.   We are feeling pretty excited.  It’s hard to believe our traverse of the Northern Tier is nearly complete.

Almost immediately, we see that this part of Maine is in a very different economic state than anything we had seen in New Hampshire and Vermont.  Instead of big, well-maintained “add-on houses,” we now see bedraggled cabins or rusty, raggedy mobile homes surrounded by old pick-up trucks.  There are signs, some hand scrawled, offering firewood cutting, small engine repair, or “Maine-made” crafts.   Instead carefully tended gravel or paved driveways, there are muddy two-tracks leading to yards with falling down fences.  There are also chickens on the road with great regularity.

 
There are moments of great beauty in this landscape, however, especially alongside the Saco River.  Our minds, however, are focused on getting to Portland.  Even as we go through the little town of Cornish, with its rustic shops, outdoor cafes, and groups of weekenders pottering about, we don’t stop.  Our lodging is well outside of town, in a new-but-meant-to-look old complex.  It has a bar, restaurant, and butcher shop in the downstairs retail area, and is advertising for more renters.  It’s blinking external sign, at odds with its attempted colonial tavern design, says the motel is open, but the restaurant is only open on the weekends.

Our hostess is a young, beautiful Asian whom we can barely understand.  When she finds out that we are headed to Portland, she tells us we need to go to Kennebunkport and see President Bush—the first one—he is always there.  Make sure we don’t miss seeing the bridge over the bay, she says.   She is giving us more enthusiastic travel advice when we finally interrupt her and tell we are tired and need to get to our room.  She then apologizes several times.  We are to put our bikes in a covered awning behind the bar.  Our room is upstairs.  They will be serving until 8pm tonight and no, they do not have a breakfast in the morning.

Ok.  Putting the bikes under the awning proved quite difficult because of the chained picnic table also occupying the space. Both Wes and I end up with big bruises.  Upstairs, it is clear we are the only tenants in the motel.  The room is new and nice-ish. Like the rest of the building, it is built to look nice, but made with the cheapest materials and the shoddiest construction--the simulacrum of civility.

The restaurant/bar has a number of patrons.  Most are eating lobster, which is the special of the day.  It strikes with a blow that these are probably fresh caught lobsters.  Our minds and stomachs are still in the mountains, however, so we have stir-fry and sandwiches instead.  This was probably a mistake.

We try to go to bed early, but like kids waiting for Christmas day, we have a hard time sleeping and wake up every few hours to see if it is time to get up.  We are up before dawn and out the door just as the sun is beginning to peak over the hillside.  We are passing through numerous ups and down, with small farms and little cabins.  It is not quite as disheveled as the area near the border, but this is no high rent district, either.

The road turns south near the tourist area around Lake Sebago.  We are sure that this is a beauty spot, but nothing is going to deter us from getting to Portland as soon as possible.  We have gone about 15 miles; the sun is well up.  We need to get some breakfast. 

We find a tiny, “Mom’s diner” looking café, complete with gingham curtains, and pull into the parking lot.  Just as we are about to go into the door, a young man standing next to an old 3 speed bicycle, smoking a cigarette, accosts us.  Without warning, he launches into a big story about taking bicycle maintenance classes at his alternative high school.  Before long, we have learned that he was put out of his previous school, that he loved the teacher who taught him bike mechanics, that he thought it was a great thing for people like himself, who need to learn a skill, but that the whole program was shut down because of budget cuts.  He’s looking for a job now.  He hopes he can find something to do with bikes.  He really likes bikes, what kind are ours?  Have they worked good?  Do we need anything done?  This all goes by lickety-split, with barely a breath between sentences.  Stunned, we tell him our bikes are working fine, and wish him luck finding work with bikes.  Later, he comes into the restaurant, and unleashes another torrent at a fellow sitting at the counter.  The waitress and the cook exchange knowing glances.  The waitress then helps the young man find the door and tells him can come back later.

As we are eating, two 30 year old men enter the café.  They ask the whole diner, “Whose bikes are those?”  When they hear our answer, they sit in the booth next to us, and ask us questions throughout our meal.  While they are interested, they are also just a bit disrespectful, with “Why on earth would anyone want to ride a bicycle that far?”  and “Don’t you have something better to do?”  questions.  However, they wished us well as we left, and told us we still had 25 more miles to go.  We are surprised by this.  We have been pedaling fast.  Why aren’t these miles going down faster!  The young men beep and wave at us as they drive past us a few miles later.

Bit by bit, the landscape begins to take on unmistakable signs of suburbanization.  The two-lane road becomes a four lane and the traffic is becoming more noxious.  We stop in the town of Gorham, which was originally its own town, but has been swept up in the wave of suburbanization.  We are about 10 miles from the sea.  On some material I had picked up, I see a description for a bike route that will take us all the way to the coast.  The ride on the highway is not pleasant, so this seems like a good solution. 

We find the trail right away and are following a river trail, when all of a sudden, it goes into a small park and peters out.  We wander about a bit but can’t find it again.  We wander out to a major junction on the edge of a big industrial area.  We are trying to determine if one of these roads will get us to downtown and to the ocean, when we see a bicycle tourist riding up truck-clogged street towards us.  We flag him over.

When he comes over, we are surprised to see he is a tiny, beautiful youth.  His hair is light brown ringlets curling around his bike helmet.  He has enormous blue eyes ringed with long lashes.  He is just an inch or two taller than me and looks to be about 17 or 18 years old, with soft pink cheeks. Except for his well-used mountain bike shorts and dirty wind-breaker, he looks like an angel.  He is riding a mountain bike with an odd conglomeration of bags and a huge sleeping bag.  We find out that he has cycled all the way from Portland, Oregon, and that he left the day after us, July 4.  He has never heard of Adventure Cycling, but has been making his own way using Google maps. He has been camping a bit, but mostly couch surfing or staying with various relatives and acquaintances.  More surprising, he was now turning south, on his way to Florida.  He hoped to be there by December.  He had found Portland kind of inhospitable and was anxious to leave.  He could offer us no suggestions for a route downtown.  We watched this little spirit boy mount his bike, then ride off along the ridge, heading to southern parts unknown.

We are lucky enough to find good ol’ Highway 25 again, and follow it past suburban malls, across freeways, and through an increasingly dense and packed environment.  As we go along, Wes is telling an outrageous story about how the mayor will be meeting us to give us the keys to the city…for a rather large fee, of course.  Oh, and that marching band playing the victory march at your arrival, that’s an additional $6000.   If you could just leave the fee with the bursar, I have another pressing obligation…

At one point, we are faced with a Y junction, east or west?  We would have preferred south, but that was not an option.  The east route runs us past institutional buildings and ends at Portland’s Back Bay.  Clearly, we had reached some portion of the ocean, the smell alone would have told us that.   However, the tide was out and gulls, sandpipers, and curlews were hunting in the sodden mud. 

The main portion of downtown was to our right.   We cross another freeway and have to go up to go downtown and down to the sea.   Our path takes us by a Salvation Army service center.   There are scores of homeless people hanging around, all ages, all genders, all colors.  There are those in hot conversation with others.  Some look like they are embarrassed to be seen in this crowd, some are there in body, their minds elsewhere.  No one says a words as we pant up the hill, in hot pursuit of a little piece of open ocean.

We find our way to Commercial Street.  Before us are a series of busy piers.  Some are serving the tourist trade (Whale watching, scenic tours); others, for commercial fisherman.  A few look like private mooring for pleasure craft.  Beyond these piers, we can see a glimpse of water.  We want to get there. 

The first one we traverse stops us with a locked gate.  The next one leads to a waterside condominium with private boat slips.  Although there are numerous signs saying, NO TRESPASSING, we will not deterred at this point.  We come to the edge.  There will be no ceremonial dipping our front wheel in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.  It is 8 feet below the edge.  It is not open ocean, either.  We can see standing oil tanks across the bay.  None of it matters.  We have made it.  Even when two men exit the condominium and give the fish eye to the two rasty-looking bicyclists on their dock, we will not be deterred from taking pictures and sending a celebratory text.   

We made it!  It is hard to believe that we have reached the end of our bicycle journey.  Our travels are not done, far from it.  We will visit with my brother and his wife in “downeast Maine.”  We still have to get back to our cabin, then  back to Detroit, before this journey is truly complete.  But for today, for right now, we can celebrate.  We can relax.  We can begin to begin to understand all the changes this journey has wrought.  But first, we’ll pause, and relent, and have at least one day where there’s no goal to be met, no task to be done.  Aaaaah.

 

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Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

 

T+142: Them That Gots and Them That Ain't

Mile 3883: North Creek, NY and Mile 3948: Whitehall, NY

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 19^th 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 19^th 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.

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+133: Up and down and all around

Laramie, Wyoming: Wes woke this morning and just had to have a proper café latte, so we are sitting in Coal Creek Coffee in Laramie, Wyoming.  The place is full of all sorts of people enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning in this college town.  We were greeted by a well-behaved Shepherd/Terrier mix dog, who was waiting for his parent, and sat untethered and patient outside.  It is hard to imagine our dog Louie ever being that calm and focused. 

Animals are such a feature of Wyoming life.  Dogs are ubiquitous and welcome in shops, bars, and some restaurants.  This is mid-size dog territory with lots of Australian shepherds and cattle dogs, boxers, Labs, border collies, and all their mixes.  This is in contrast to New England, which is big dog territory.  Big chocolate labs and squirming mastiffs wriggled through social gatherings and traveled in cars.  In Washington State, little dogs like terriers and Chihuahuas were common.  Even the biggest, burliest (former) lumberjack carried tiny, often yappy, dogs.  Dog discrimination was in full force around Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, where there were often signs forbidding dogs on paths, in parks, and in public places.  Dogs were definitely not welcome in bars, cafes, or stores.

Here in Wyoming, we also have daily contact with a range of wildlife.  As we went up to town (so-called for this tiny village of 100), we drove past a gathering of 60 deer, feeding on the sedges at the edge of an irrigation ditch just north of our cabin.  There is a group of 5 mule deer who are permanent residents on the 6 Bar E Ranch where our cabin is located.  We see them every morning on our sunrise walk.  They stare at us, and as long as we don’t make any move toward them, are content to let us pass.  Yesterday, we came across the antelope herd.   They dashed in their long legged loping way to the prairie about 75 yards south of us, then moved as we moved, stopping to stare at us.  Finally, they streaked across the ridge until they came to high spot about 200 yards away, then turned to stare at us once again.  

The coyotes cry outside our door.  Sometimes they are quite close.  Other times, we hear them singing from the hogback ridge about a quarter mile away.  Yesterday, in the fresh snow, we follow the little loping tracks of a fox, no doubt looking for the rabbits and chipmunks which live in the cottonwoods near the creek.

We were surprised at how little wildlife we saw as we travelled across the continent.  Granted, bicycle riding is a road activity.  But even so, we were often in fairly outback places.  Even in the wilds of Montana, along the High Line, humans have overtaken the landscape and left no space for other living beings.  Humans have overtaken nearly every available space.   The way of life and the type of economies varied enormously, often in quite small distances.  Nowhere was this more obvious than in the small patch of land between Palmyra, Sodus Point, and Fulton, NY.

After a lovely breakfast with our hosts, we returned to the Canal for the last short ride to the town of Palmyra.  The canal is changing in this section, making greater use of existing waterways.   It becomes more anomalous and harder to follow, no longer the hard edged aqueduct it has often been in the previous miles.  At one point, just before Palmyra, we are on a little path surrounded by water in a low swampy region 30 feet below the farmhouses above.

When come to the road that will take us away from the Erie Canal, we are a little sentimental about leaving the path.  Part of us wants to continue on this time traveling path through America’s first “superhighway.”  Another part wants to climb out of this valley and look around at bigger skies and hear other stories.  We visit downtown Palmyra, where there are signs of a culture war taking place. 

Palmyra is the town where the Church of Latter Day Saints was founded by Joseph Smith in the 1830’s.  It has become a pilgrimage spot for contemporary Mormons.  There are Mormon shops and inns.  There are also big Protestant churches throughout this town, including the largest Christian Scientist edifice we have seen thus far.  One church sign says, “Looking for true religion? Look no further.  Come on in.”  A few shops carry endorsements from the LDS church; most don’t.  The town doesn’t look particularly prosperous, but it is far from the dysfunction of Albion, but also far from high end shops and bistros of Pittsford and Fairport.

We make our way to a little coffee shop, where we sit on the balcony and enjoy the sun.  There is an older woman and man sitting a few feet from us.  They ask about our travels and were surprised to discover we had started in Portland, Oregon.  It is not long before Wes discovers that they are former teachers and long-time friends.  He was from Syracuse; she was from the Finger Lakes area.  It takes one second before they are deep in teacher talk.  They both have been retired for a while, and are happy to be receiving full pensions.  Wes asks if they have been experiencing the attacks on teachers, their benefits, and their pensions that have been endemic in Michigan, Illinois, and Wisconsin.  The answer is no.  Teachers have not been demonized in New York.   They were surprised to hear that teachers are fighting to maintain health benefits, tenure, and full pensions.  They were glad they missed that. 

Like every upstate New Yorker we met, they had a long list of complaints with their legislature and the influence of New York City.  The complained mightily about their high taxes, but did admit that they received good services for their money.   They allow that their state government is rotten, but perhaps not quite as self-seeking as other states.

We tell them we are headed up to the Ontario shore line.  She immediately becomes quite concerned.  She tells us that her husband is an avid bicyclist who takes groups of seniors out on rides through this country.  He spends hours trying to find routes without hills for these rides through that beautiful landscape.  At the time, I don’t think much about her concern and his effort.  24 hours later, I will be singing a different tune. 

Our route takes us due north.  Just outside of town, we stop at a curious farmhouse built entirely of fist sized rocks.  There is a sign telling us that these “Pebble Houses” were built by German masons after the completion of the Erie Canal.  These houses were made with shore stones from Lake Ontario and can only be found in upstate New York.  This house was also the very house where Joseph Smith was employed when he reported that he found the golden plates which became the source of the Book of Mormon.  His 19^th century employer believed him and became one of the first converts to the new church.  However, the same cannot be said for the current owners.  The sign says people are welcome to look at the house, but that NO TOURS will be given. PLEASE RESPECT OUR PRIVACY!

The road north passes through the drumlins of the glaciers.  These are the first steep hills of any consequence we have traveled since the Rocky Mountains.  Once we clear these hills, we enter a vast area of apple orchards.  For as far as the eye can see, there are trees bearing red, yellow, russet, and green apples.  As we ride by, we brazenly pluck two apples from two trees.  They are sweet and fragrant and crunchy.  There is little traffic except apple wagons loaded with tens of 4’x4’ crates on their way to farm distribution warehouses.  Every so often, we pass orchards full of big Ford pick-up trucks and the oom-pah sounds of Mexican Norteña music.  Even more rarely, we see the pickers.  We wave and they wave back.

At the lake town of Pultneyville, we stop at a deli, where we are waited on by a bored teenager and are shocked by the high prices.  The deli was in a re-furbished barn, which had served as farmer’s coop for years.  Now it was decorated with sailor themes and all sorts of nautical kitsch. 

The landscape becomes decidedly hilly, the result of ravine like watercourses making their way to Lake Ontario.  About 4 miles from our destination for the evening, Sodus Point, another cyclist rides alongside us.  We see the plastic box pannier, the full beard.  Wes says, “Bruce!  We thought you’d be miles from here by now.”  The rider says, “I’m Scott.  Bruce is down in Ithaca now.”  As it turns out, this fellow was one of Bruce’s original riding companions---which is why their panniers matched and their beards were about the same length.  Upon closer inspection, he was more ruggedly built than Bruce and had more grey in his beard.  Bruce had told Scott about us.  He had wondered if he would see us.   We visited a bit.  He told us his destination for the evening was a full twenty miles beyond where we were going.  He also said that his girlfriend was “some miles back.  We might see her coming along.” With that, we all jumped on our bikes and rode as hard as we could down the steep hill in hopes of powering up the much steeper hill just ahead.  Scott clears the hill before we do and soon is out of sight.  We never did see the girlfriend.  We both thought it was strange that they were not riding together.  Our motto on this whole trip has been, “When you jump, I jump.”  It has meant that we have both had practice patience and adjust to each other’s rhythms and idiosyncrasies.

Sodus Point is small sandy point that began as a fishing village, but is now a center for pleasure craft.  It has long sandy beaches, made longer by the addition of the rocks of the original lighthouse after its demolition.  The rocks changed the flow of the water and built a quarter mile of sandy spit onto the point.  This spit is now completely filled with vacation and summer homes, most of them quite large and elaborate.  On either side of the point, there is docking for numerous sailboats and yachts.  The restaurants and dinner clubs cater to the boating set, with more dockage than parking.

We have made arrangements for a bed and breakfast stay.  When I call, our host tells us that they will be out of the evening, and that if we arrive after 5pm, we should just let ourselves in and make ourselves at home.  This is not the first time this has happened on the trip, but it always strikes this long-time resident of Detroit as remarkably trusting.   We get there before 5, so the question is moot.  The place was built in the 1870’s and has been wonderfully restored.  It is simple and elegant, quite a change from the overwhelming “thinginess” of last night’s lodging.  There are homey touches like fresh baked banana bread and warm cider.  Paul and his wife (whom we see for only one brief moment) have been innkeepers for just a few years after many years in Wisconsin.  Paul gives us guidance on places to eat, then hurriedly takes his leave.  We are alone in their big mansion. 

After a little while, we make our way to one of the dockside restaurants, where the local yacht club has just finished its business meeting and is now turning its attention to the more serious business of drinking and eating…and drinking some more.  They are keeping the lone waiter and single female bartender on their toes.  Finally, the waiter comes over and introduces himself as Eldrum.  He has an accent we can’t quite place. Nor do we recognize the origin of his name.  His hip-hop styling, earrings, and small goatee is a sharp contrast to the chino wearing white folks drinking and laughing across the bar.   We try to place the accent.  Portuguese?  Brazilian?  Could he be Macedonian?  Greek?  Nope.  None of the above.  He is Puerto Rican, born and raised in Brooklyn.  Sheesh.

The meal is okay and overpriced.  At the end of the meal, I order a brandy.  The waiter stares at me, “I’ll see if we have some.”  We see him in hot conference with the petite 20-something bartender.  A few minutes later, he returns with a whiskey glass filled to the brim with brandy. 

The next morning, our hosts have returned, although the only person we see is Paul.  As we visit over breakfast, we find out that Paul is retired from Cargill, where he worked in the meat processing division in Wisconsin for many years.   This sets off alarms for us, thinking of the turkey torture farm we had seen in Wisconsin, and our knowledge of the brutal labor struggles that have occurred in Wisconsin meat packing plants.  We proceed gingerly.  As it turns out, Paul was and still is active the humane treatment of animals movement.  He is the editor of the national journal and a close associate of Temple Grandin, whose pioneering studies on slaughter houses have utterly changed the industry.  It was Paul’s job to see that Cargill plants enacted these reforms.  We talk a long time about the ethics of meat production.  Paul understood perfectly why many people forswear meat, but he believed passionately that if animals are to be used for meat, the least we can do is reduce their suffering.  It was better for the animal, better for the worker, and better for the consumer.  Paul tells us that the use of intensive animal production is in a rapid decline throughout the industry.  We are heartened by our conversation and glad we decided to listen before judging.  If only we could always remember to do so.

The ride the next day is one super steep hill after another.  We are charging the hills, that is, peddling hard down a hill to provide momentum up the next hill.  This is fun for a while, but loses its charm after the 20^th effort.  After a while, my right knee is screaming on every pedal and I am cursing the routemakers when I see that there is a ridge ride just in from the coast that will move us along more quickly and with less effort.  Not too long before our lunch stop, I am reduced to walking my bike up the hills.  I am feeling surly and aggravated, walking my bike up yet another 8 percent grade, when we are overtaken by super skinny bicyclist traveling fast on a lightly packed road bike.  He is crossing the country on the Northern Tier and staying inn to inn, just as we are.  However, he had left Anacortes in mid-August and expected to reach the Bar Harbor within the week.  He rode 100-120 miles everyday, and had already covered 50 miles this morning.   Most touring cyclists will take the Anacortes to Bar Harbor journey in 70 days.  He will do it in 50.  It will take us 85.  I grump about needing to re-establish my hill-climbing skills after the easy rides of the last 1000 miles.  He says, “Oh, well, it will get us ready for the climb over the Appalachians,” then speeds off.

When we stop for lunch, the fast rider is already there.  He does not acknowledge our presence, just eats his food in silence, then is back on the bike without a look right or left.  My right knee is visibly swelling and I am crabby as person can be.  As we are getting ready to leave, two more ultra-bikers come to the restaurant.  I’m not fit for company, but Wes engages them and finds out that this route is notorious among biking professionals who use it for endurance training. 

The afternoon is a real pain in the knee.  Every hill has to be walked up, even small ones, because the slightest pressure sends shooting pains up and down my leg.  I am grateful that Wes is not Scott, leaving me to make my way as best I can while he rides away.  It is clear we have to stop soon and let my knee recover.  The closest town of any size is Fulton.  We will make our way there and take a day of rest.  Fulton is a revelation.  Although it is just a few miles away from the tony shores of Lake Ontario, and bustling acres of apples, there’s little prosperity, hope, or confidence in this little town.   The economic devastation rivals anything we have seen on this trip…or in Michigan.   We were there for two unforgettable days full of all sorts of lessons in the ways of American capitalism.  That will be the topic of the next post.