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.
---------------------------------------------
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.

------------------------------------------
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.

T+135: Stalled in Central New York

Centennial, Wyoming:  My body is not liking being off the bike. The daily vigorous exercise suited me.  My digestion has slowed to crawl; my shoulders and neck ache. I am having trouble sleeping.  The daily walks are helpful, but obviously not sufficient.  Today, we got my beloved Kuwahara mountain bike running.  We took a small jaunt in the 40 mile an hour wind.  My coat blew up like a balloon.

My 1986  Kuwahara reminds me of previous trips we have taken.  I rode that little stump jumper from Jasper, Alberta to Yellowstone, from Montreal to Halifax and back to Quebec.  It’s been on the backroads of Yellowstone during the Great Fire of 1988.  It’s been to Boulder and back a few times, and all around Wyoming.  None of these rides asked as much, nor delivered as much, as the most recent journey. 

Earlier trips were vacations, escapes, a hoot.  The trek across the country was a quest… to see what was going on in our country , to be sure.  But it was also to find out who I was after years of submersion into grievous overwork.  I had trouble seeing my personhood separate from my work.  Even though it was killing me, I couldn’t find a way to reduce it or make it relent.  The only thing I knew to do was something completely different.

Now that we are back, we cannot perceive what our life will be like in 6 months.   We are still in the sacred space of the trip, telling its tales and trying to mine its teachings.  As we wound through central New York, we thought we were on the downward slope, and getting close to that victory dance.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  There was still plenty to learn about persistence, commitment, and dumb luck.   The first teacher was the little town of Fulton.

Mile 3695, Fulton, NY

We ride into Fulton and the first thing we see is a pretty lake.  We go over to it.  The next thing we see is a huge warning sign, “NO SWIMMING, NO WADING, DO NOT EAT FISH FROM THIS LAKE. If you get lake water on yourself, rinse immediately.”  It doesn’t say what the toxin is or what caused it.  We wonder about the flocks of geese and ducks paddling about on the lake.  Are they being poisoned?

As we leave the lake, we look across the street and immediately see a big Wal-Mart.   As we ride into town, we start to see the tell-tale signs of economic distress: empty buildings, abandoned homes, beater cars, pay-day loans, houses that haven’t been painted, faded For Sale signs, rusty fences, hand-made business signs.  At one of these handmade business signs on a faded old house, we stop.  The sign says “No Biggee Coffee House” and something about its home-grown look is appealing to us.

As soon as we step in side, we are warmly greeted by the proprietor.  She is a European American woman, with faded blonde hair, strong arms, and snapping, bright blue eyes.  We look around for a place to sit.  In the former living room, there are a series of second hand lounge chairs and saggy couches nestled around a makeshift stage sporting handmade signs announcing Game Night and Open Poetry Night.  We find two chairs around a well-used wooden table in the former dining room. 

We go to the handmade wooden counter and ask about latte’s.  They don’t have that kind of a machine.  How about some regular coffee? Fine.  She pours us two big mugs of coffee from the domestic drip coffee maker.  “Those are 50 cents each…so $1 dollar, please.” We are surprised at the low price.   Well, we better get a pastry, too.  “They’re all home-made,” she offers.  Wes gets the coffee cake, and I get the cinnamon roll.  Mine is delicious, but Wes’s is very dry. “That’ll be $1 dollar each, and they come with coffee, so you owe me another dollar.”

We are seated next to a middle aged couple who look like they just came off a 1950’s farm.  She has dyed blonde hair in a soft bouffant and is wearing a cotton shirt with small flowers.  He could stand to lose a few pounds, but has a round, open face with his short hair carefully Bryl-creamed into place.  They smile at us and say “Hi.”  This group is joined by a young woman, perhaps 17 or 18, who might be the daughter? niece? guardian? of the proprietor.  She is all excited about a fund-raising effort she is doing for a school club that  will use the funds to visit colleges.  She is taking orders for pies.  She makes a sales pitch at the couple’s table and at ours.   We explain we are just passing through; the farmer’s wife says they are too expensive at $22 a pie.  The farmer says he doesn’t thinks schools should be promoting the eating of sugar.

About that time a rather round young man comes in.  He is a regular.  The proprietor asks if he wants his usual.  He does.  She fixes him some sort of big sugary drink, which excites a comment from the farmer sitting next to Wes.  “See... this is what’s wrong with the American diet…too much sugar…too much wheat.  It just stimulates the production of bacteria in the gut.”

The young man is blissfully sucking his drink through a straw, when a handsome, slender, dark-skinned African American man comes into the coffee house.  Everyone greets him.  “Hey, Lionel!”  He goes over and gives the proprietor a big hug, “Hey, baby.”  The farmer’s wife leans over to us and whispers confidentially.  “They’re newly-weds…aren’t they cute?”

The young man with the drink goes up to Lionel and stops him in his tracks by saying, “I sure was sorry to hear about your son.  It’s real bad when someone so young dies, isn’t it?”  There is silence in the room.  Lionel finally smiles at the young man who seems totally unaware of his blunder.  “Thanks for your condolence.”  The farmer whispers to us that the son had died of a heart attack, even though he was just a young teen.  He gestures to a sign announcing a chicken dinner benefit for the family to help pay for the costs.

Lionel extricates himself from the young man, and scoots behind the counter to grab the coffee pot and re-fill everyone’s mugs.  We offer to pay for the re-fill, but…  “Oh, no, refills are free.”

About that time, we are joined by another 30 something woman, who has bangs and long blonde hair curling around her stout shoulders and thick back.  The teenager immediately accosts her with the pie sales pitch.  Ms Bangs looks at the prices, blanches, then declares, “I make all pies myself…bread, too, pasta, even. All that store bought stuff is no good…too expensive and full of all kinds of junk.”   This statement is confirmed by the farmer. “See that’s just what I’m saying!”

The teenager is none too pleased by her sales failure and she wails, “How am I ever going to go to college if I don’t make my sales.”  Her mother/aunt/guardian offers, “I don’t know how you will afford to go college. Period.”  The teenager offers, “I could get a job.”  Lionel asks, “What kind of job can you get?”  Teenager, “I could get one like yours.”  Lionel, “You have to have a car.”  Teenager, “You have to have a car to work at Domino’s?”  Lionel, “How else are you going make the deliveries?”  Teenager: “They don’t give you one to use?”  The whole room laughs.  The Mom? asks, “How would you get a car?”  Teenager, “I don’t know.  Why is it all so hard!?”  Ms Bangs, “That’s just the way it is.  Nothing is as easy as you think.”  Whole room: “Boy, ain’t that the truth,  That’s right, mmm-hmm.”

At that point, Lionel announces he has to get to work.  He goes over to hug his wife.  She asks, “That’s all?”  He glances around, decides to take a chance, and gives his new wife a nice big kiss.  As he exits, he says, “I’ll be back after a while to help you clean up.”

Wes and I decide we best be moving on, too.  At that point, the farmer pulls out a folder, reaches in, and gives Wes a flyer telling about a website and some products he is promoting.  It is promoting a wheat and sugar free diet, and he is selling some amino acids to promote better digestion.  He says, “I lost 40 pounds since I started following this diet and using this stuff.  You go on the website and you can find out all about it.”  Wes takes the paper and prepares to leave.  The proprietor has stepped away, so he just leaves a $5 dollar bill on the counter, hoping they will take the hint about their prices. 

As we ride away, we can see that the town is hanging on by a thread.  The downtown businesses are mostly closed.  We decide to push onto the next village just six miles away, where there is supposed to be a small motel.   As we walk our bikes up the hill (my knee still complaining), we talk about whether No Biggee can make it.  We hear a lone saxophonist practicing jazz in a small house across the highway.  The player would play a bit, stop, then try again, this time a little better, a little stronger.  By the time we had cleared the hill, s/he was able to play the whole phrase.   That’s our wish for the folks at No Biggee—that they’ll find a way to keep doing just a little better until they can do all right.

We make our way to the hamlet of Volney, where we cannot find the motel.  I call the number a few times.  It rings and rings.  Finally, we go into the Ace Hardware and ask about the motel.  The young man working the counter has never seen or heard of this motel.  Just at that moment, a customer with a prominent bandage on his neck comes the counter.  The counterman asks the customer about the motel, who immediately asserts, “Naah, that’s been out of business for a long time.”  Are there any other motels about?  “There’s one Fulton.”  We just came from there, we’d prefer not to backtrack.  This causes a great deal of consternation and “Is there one in…? How about in….? There’s definitely one in Oswego.”  We’re not going that direction. After much back and forth, checking the computer, contemplating routes…nope, we have to go back to Fulton and stay at the Riverside Motel.  Sorry.  

On our way out, we ask the young man about Fulton.  It seemed very depressed.  He says, “You shoulda seen it before.  Man, it was something.  We had Nestle’s, Birds Eye, and Miller.  Everyone was working and the town was just humming.  Did you know that Nestle’s had its first factory in America here in Fulton?”  We ask if there are is any signs of rebirth.  He shakes his head, “There’s some talk of Birds Eye starting something here again, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

We make our way back into town, past the abandoned Nestle factory to the Riverside Inn.  Once, it was a standard bearer.  Now it is showing its age with stained carpet, peeling wall paper, and a rutted parking lot.  We ask the young man serving as the desk clerk about the town.  He replies, “It sucks.  I can hardly wait to get out of here.”  Thinking of our encounter at No Biggee, we tell him we have met some nice people who trying to get things going.  He snorts, “Nice people! Not too many of those around here, if you ask me.”

The room is not at all expensive, but is full of all sorts of extraneous furniture like a couch in the entrance and a storage chest along the wall.  It is crowded and a bit dank.  The restaurant is closed, but they have some food in the bar.  It’s 10 wings and 2 beers for $10 night and there is a small crowd.   The waitress has her small son and infant in the bar and steals moments to attend to their needs.  The next morning, she is working the front desk and the tall man who was in the bar is serving as manager/maintenance/whatever. 

A full hot breakfast comes with the room.  There is one waitress, who is working hard, especially for a group of what appears to be construction workers, who have her coming and going, getting more food, more drinks, on and on.  When they leave, the table is a mess, there’s a lot of uneaten food, and they have left no tip.

She says to us, “Those guys do that every day. Never leave a tip.  Ask for everything.  I’m only getting $7 bucks an hour and working 14 hours a week.  I need the tips, but they don’t give a damn.”

We have decided to make the best of this rest day by doing laundry, correspondence, and dealing with Wes’ broken Go-Pro camera.  This gives us another view of this broken down town.  The laundromat is crowded.  We are greeted by a man who yells a story at us that makes no sense.  When he goes into the Laundromat, he is scrupulously avoided, even when he directly speaks to someone.  There is a large group of young Spanish speaking men, who point at our bikes, especially the bike trailers, but do not speak to us.  An older man with Downs, who may be at the Laundromat in some official capacity, goes from person to person, wishing each one well.  A tired looking woman with an adult son, cleans and sorts and stacks an enormous pile of laundry.  She apologizes to us, saying, “My washing machine broke down.  Don’t know when it’ll be fixed.”

Wes has spent hours on the phone with the Go-Pro camera people because this nearly new camera will not turn on and will not charge.  After a series of tests, which the camera fails, they tell us to send the camera back and they will issue a new one.  That’s great, but how can we get while we are on the road?  There are multiple confusing phone calls as Wes tries to work out the logistics.  Long story short, we have to send the camera back and they will send the camera on to one of our future destinations. 

There is no UPS or Fed-Ex store in town--closed.  There is a mailbox place that can send it.  Ok, back across town with all the information.  Wes asks the woman if she can print the mail label from the email Go Pro sent.  “Oh, no.  We don’t have any email access at this store.”  "Well, if I pull the email up on my computer, can we use the printer here?" I ask  “Oh, no.  That’s not allowed.  You have to go over to the library.”

Back across town again.  The library is next to the post office.  Wes will mail some letters, while I go start printing the labels.  Oops, bad plan.  I go the library and realize I have neither lock nor money.  I have to wait until Wes comes before I can start.  There is another young woman waiting just outside the library.  She is morbidly obese, and on oxygen.  She can only move a few feet at a time, before she has to sit down on her walker.  She calls for a taxi, then makes another phone call while she is waiting. The conversation grows more and more heated.  She is quite upset because a former roommate came into her apartment while she was gone and took something.  The person on the other end apparently didn’t think the offense was so bad.  The conversation becomes ever more heated until the young woman screams into the phone, saying, “I don’t know why you are trying to stress me out.  If you don’t watch out, I’ll have a heart attack and just die!”

I am relieved when Wes returns and we are able to print the labels.  There is one librarian in the large 1900's  edifice.  He is running around like mad, helping people with computers, answering reference questions, checking out books.  Back at the mailbox place, the clerk easily prepares the camera for shipping.  We ask her about the local economy.  She says it bad, really bad, but maybe the Bird’s Eye thing will help some.  I say I think it makes sense for Fulton to become a processor of the local apple harvest.  She says, “Oh, no, I don’t think there is enough apples to do anything with them.”  We say we just rode through miles of apples.  She insists there’s nothing to be done.

We stop at a shop on the way back and see that it has notices for 4 chicken dinner benefits for people experiencing some sort of crisis.  We have been up and down, back and forth in this town.  The signs of hope, local organizing, urban agriculture, or maker-space entrepreneurship, so common in Detroit, are nowhere to be seen in this little town.  We have seen a lot of despair, too much negativity, and a fervent belief in future negative outcomes.  It makes us sad and makes us want to leave.   Sore knee or no, we’re heading out tomorrow. 

 

----------------------

posted from Centennial, Wyoming

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