T+128: Navigating on the Erie Canal

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T+6: And so it begins...we hope

PORTLAND, OR:  We arrived today to sunny, hot Portland.  We had a magnificent view of Mt. Hood as the plane circled.  It is a huge massif, completely snow enrobed.  Wes spent the entire flight from Denver peering out the window.  We played a guessing game:  “Is that the Red Desert?  Is that Bear Lake?  Is that Boise, ID?”  The skies were clear and the view was amazing.  We saw the volcanic cones of the Cascades from our window and were immediately humbled.  These mountains are obviously named Cascade because of the roaring way the water comes off the steep sides.   We will have our work cut out for us on the first part of this trip.

We have been a jumble of nerves and exhaustion that reached a boiling point last night.  Since we left Detroit on June 22, our life has not yet slowed down.   It is always a fairly rough passage to get to the cabin two days, but we have done it often and know all our favorite stops along the way.   It has become a matter of ritual for us to stop at the Pioneer Co-op in Iowa City.  Here we pick up our fill of good Midwestern produce, fresh hand-made bread, and rich organic coffees.  We know well that such delicacies will be rarities in the wilds of Wyoming.  We stop in a park for a picnic, but are chased away by the swarming mosquitoes breeding in the remainder of the flooded Iowa River.

I ask Wes, “what will we do if we when we are on the bike and the mosquitoes swarm.  There won’t be a car to hide in.”  We remind ourselves other mosquito swarms on other trips and recall our cries for mercy, and our setting up and hiding in the tent for a moment of respite.

Then it is a straight push to Des Moines, where we always stay at a Candlewood Suite and eat some of the food from Iowa City.  One of the delights of this lodging is their video lending library.  We checked out The Way, which was particularly appropriate for us to see at this time.  In the movie directed  by Emilio Estevez, featuring his father Martin Sheen, the meaning of journey is explored.  Each of the characters takes El Camino de Santiago (The Way of St. James) in Spain, saying they are looking for one thing---to quit smoking, to start writing, to lose weight---but find that the journey brings the knowledge they need, not the knowledge they sought.  Throughout the film, the constant refrain and greeting is “Buen Camino” ---roughly good path, good way.   We are thinking a lot about the bike trip, wondering what we will learn, wondering where our tempers will break, and who we will meet along the way.

The next morning, we take a tiny detour to see a working Danish windmill.  As we take a walkabout the minute Iowa town, we see men two staring pensively into the southwest.   The wind is blowing sharply, so I ask, “Does it look like tornado weather?”  “The tornado sirens are blowing in Walnut” is the reply, which is supposed to tell us something, but does not.  We continue our walkabout, when strangers stop us on the street to warn us of “big storm coming”.  We ask where we should go, we are not from here. The answer is go to the Danish Immigration Museum, where they have a good basement.  

We start to make our way there, a good six blocks away, when another Iowa woman, appears at the door of her house and announces to us, “It’s a complete lockdown.  You need to get to shelter right now.”  She considers offering her place to us, but is relieved when we ask, “Should we go back to the Windmill?”  She agrees, “Yes, go there.”  The sky is blackening, and the wind is rising hard, when Wes and I begin running to the mill.  Giant raindrops are pelting when we duck inside, just in time.  A few seconds later, the wind is pushing the rain sideways, the trees are whipping, and it is impossible to see across the street.  The radio is screaming warnings of 70-90 mile hour winds.   We are glad to be inside, in a room far from windows and blowing tree debris.

As quick as it came, the storm left.  When we drove back to the interstate, the road was scattered with all sorts of tree debris, including a few big limbs.  Again, we wonder, what would we do if we were on the bikes during such a violent storm.   Again, we remember hunkering down under an overhang and watching a storm lash our bikes, but not us.

By the time we get to Sidney, Nebraska, it is clear that we have entered the West.  The hotel is full of oil field workers and the prices reflect it.   We choose to eat breakfast at the hotel and regret it.   Like the room, it is flashy trash: bad, cheap ingredients gussied up to look fancy, but in reality, plastic and shoddy and fake.   We are glad to realize that it is only 180 miles to our cabin.

When we get there, it is refreshingly cool, not more than 55 degrees.  The cabin is like a long cool drink on a hot day.  It takes us a little while to open it up.  I can’t rest until the full load of furniture, dishes, and whatnot has made it to its new location.    We are super pleased with how all of it works.  We argue about whether Wyoming looks dry or wet. 

Wes goes out to get a piece of lumber to reinforce our kitchen shelves, now sagging under the heavy load of dishes, and terrifies a young male moose who was quietly, and apparently habitually, eating in our yard.  Wes tells him that he doesn’t have to leave, and to our astonishment, the moose stops, seems to consider the proposition, before deciding that this yard was not big enough for the both of them.   He is a beauty, at least 6 feet tall, 300 or more pounds of moose muscle, with his 2 inch antlers still in velvet.  This is by far the closest I have ever been to a moose, and I was thrilled.

The next day is consumed by errands.   We have to get Wes’ bike shipped to Portland, and we spend hours, truly hours, trying to figure out Wes’  GoPro video camera.  The camera is communicating with the camera is complicated.  I fuss at Wes because I told him months ago to get started figuring out these systems.  He keeps saying, “Who thought it would be so difficult?”  I remind him, over and over, I did. 

The next day is the belated filing of our federal taxes, which goes well until it is time to submit and we realize that we are out of ink and the closest store is more than 40 miles away.  We don’t have internet at the cabin at this point in time, so we go to the nearby hamlet of Centennial and try three different locations before we are able to submit our taxes online.   The technology is difficult and balky, and requires downloads, and re-booting, and failures, and retries.  We are exhausted, stressed, and cranky by the time we are done.

Then we have to go back to the cabin and begin closing it up so we can be on the road by 5 am the next morning.   We work at it, and are so exhausted, we go to bed by 9, but are so keyed up, we are awake by 2 am.  We close up the cabin, (a multi-part process that requires draining all the pipes, among many other things).   Our dear friend takes us the 130 miles to the Denver airport, where with the exception of a difficult security clearance for Wes, we are happy to get on the plane to Portland.  I sleep much of the way.

When we land, we call the bike shop to get instructions and find out about the bikes.  We find out, to our (especially my) great disgust, that our bikes have not arrived. Wes’s is not due to arrive until tomorrow, but my bike and the BOB trailers should have already been here.  A call to Detroit confirms that our shipment, despite having been dropped off more than a week ago, was not sent from Detroit until Wednesday---two days ago.  It is highly likely that it will not arrive until early next week.

Wes is philosophical about it.  Perhaps this is the way the gods are making sure we get a rest.  We have been on the dead run since the first part of May and are truly beat down.  So now we chill in hot and humid Portland (who’da thunk it) and watch the funky street life.    The truth is: the trip takes you, you don’t take the trip.  Apparently, this trip is not quite ready to start…or a maybe the trip is not in the biking….but in the being on the path. That we are, that we certainly are.