T+148: The Real Deal and ….Really?

T+148: The Real Deal and Really?

We mount our bicycles at the top of Sherburne Pass.  (The town of Killington was originally named Sherburne, but it was too easily confused with other names, so it officially changed its name just a few years ago.  The pass has kept its original name.)  It is distinctly chilly, although the sun is out.  I don’t have gloves or mittens.  Wes has gloves to put over his bike gloves, but for reasons unknown does not put them on. The ride down is fast and cold.  By the time we reach the valley floor, we are both bringing our hands to our body’s core to warm them up. 

This is a beautiful part of the country.  The valleys are cut with rivers; the mountains rise steeply and glow bright yellow and red above us.  My ability to enjoy this beauty is being hampered, however, by how cold I am.  At a corner, about 5 miles below the summit, I pull in to a sports shop, where I buy a pair of ski gloves with photo sensing. (So I can use my phone without taking my gloves off).  

As we come out of the shop, we look across the highway and see a house completely off its foundation.  The houses and barns next to it have obviously just undergone a major renovation.  The shoulder of the road, which had been excellent, now is patchy.  Parts of it have fallen into the Ottaqueechee River.  The traffic is fairly heavy, but we soldier on, seeing more and more signs of something amiss:  another building off its foundation, strange dark marks high on the side of a barn, the width of the road strangely narrow. 

I see the name of a furniture builder I recognize from the pages of Old House Journal in a re-purposed warehouse not too far from Woodstock.  I call a halt, and under Wes’s protestation, tell him I want to visit the workshops of Thomas Shackleton Furniture.  Housed in a former wool mill, the factory and showroom were a fascinating visit.   After viewing the handmade furniture and pottery, we stopped upstairs to see the workrooms.  There, we encountered two young people in the midst of hand-building two pieces of furniture.  I stay and watch for a long while.  Wes goes to look at the artwork downstairs.

The young woman, dark haired and long limbed, was using a hand planer to shave the smallest edges from the footboard of cherry sleigh bed.  A young man, massively built, and wearing a bandanna over his balding head, is working on a walnut sideboard.  He is carefully chiseling dovetail joints to construct an upper drawer.   I find out that each piece of furniture is made by one person from start to finish.  The individual builder meets with the wood supplier, and sources the specific wood for each piece.  The builder preps and cuts the wood, then hand builds and finishes each piece.  I say, “It must be so satisfying to see a piece from idea to shipment.”  They both nod vigorously; she says it is one of the main things that keeps them going through years of apprenticeship, becoming a journeyman (person?) and finally mastering the art. 

He tells a story about friends who want him to make them furniture.  When confronted with the price of a handmade piece of furniture, they are shocked and say they will just get a piece from Ikea.   I tell them I think Ikea is a form of “classy trash”—it is visually very well designed, but made of the cheapest materials and scantiest structures.  Ikea won’t last the decade: the works made by these young artisans will be given to the purchaser’s grandchildren.  As I get ready to leave, the young man notes: “Usually, it is the husband who stays to talk to us.”  I note: “I am ten times the gear head that Wes is.”  He says, “Well, that is what it takes.”

Before I leave, I ask about the Shackleton name and find out that Thomas Shackleton was indeed cousin to Ernest Shackleton, of the ill-fated Endurance voyage to Antarctica.  In that trip, the ship was frozen in the ice for months on end, but Ernest Shackleton was able to save his entire crew through great personal heroism and effort.  Making furniture from tree to truck may not be as dangerous as sailing to the Antarctic, but it is heroic in its own right in this age of flashy trash and corporate consumerism.

Back on the road, Wes thanks me for making him go to this workshop.  We keep following the river, with the shoulder becoming more and more suspect.  We round a corner, and see the Woodstock Farmers’ Market.  There are lots of cars, but we are suckers for hand raised foods, so we stop, despite our intentions to keep moving. 

As we are parking our bikes, we notice a hand-drawn sign on the backside of the red clapboard building.  Well above my height is a scrawled note, “Hurricane Irene water level.”   We peer at the note, and look around at the surrounding buildings, seeing the tell-tale signs of high water on the market and the adjacent building, which houses a glass workshop and artist studios. One of the store manager comes out.  We ask her about the sign and she tells us that the water had completely crossed the road.  They had to do major renovations just to get open again, but were lucky compared to some. 

We get some rolls and cheese in the tourist packed market and go down the road to a series of tables next to the river.  I go in to get soup for lunch and discover that this business had been completely swept away in the flood.  It is hard to imagine the sweet small river on which we are sitting raging with such force.   As we are eating, I realize that we have now completed 4000 miles.  We take pictures in front of the river and think about my brother Steve and the recovery they’re facing.

Because this is the Columbus holiday weekend, the pretty town of Woodstock is full of people, buses, cars, and bikes.  The Columbus holiday passes with very little notice in other parts of the United States, but here in New England and Upstate New York, it is a big deal, although it could be more accurately called “Leaf Peepers Weekend.”  Making our way through this crush is no fun, but I call a halt to Wes as we go by a particularly intriguing local art store.  We go in and are very struck by the high quality of the artwork.  Both Wes and I stare at a beautiful print of aspens next to a frozen lake with the mountains in the distance.  It is fairly rare that Wes and I both get “beeped” by an artwork.  We try to listen to these impulses, but this is not exactly the right moment to buy a piece of art.  We walk away, as we usually do, to see if the image stays with us.   We walk through the throngs, and check out a few stores.  The town reminds us of Aspen—not at all in the way it looks, of course—but in the sophistication and expense of its goods and the profound sense of place in its design and layout.   As we walk along, we become more committed to the artwork and decide, “What the hell?  Let this be the one memento of our trip.”

Back at the store, we make arrangements for the print to be shipped to Wyoming.  We have a long conversation with the store owner who was a longtime resident of Detroit.  As usual, we have to allay her fears about the destruction of the city.  She had many wonderful memories of her time there; she had lived on the far southeast of the city and in Indian Village.   She had heard that there were even more artists in the city than when she was there.  She compared the situation in Detroit to New York City in the 1970’s, when that city was its most dysfunctional and yet a haven for young artists.   

After our purchase, we return to the traffic.  As we pass a covered bridge, I see a road on the other side of the river.  I use my newly discovered mapping program to take us to the “road less traveled.”   There we ride up and down hills through tiny villages and little farms under glorious red and yellow trees.  This is Vermont at its most charming; we wonder if we will have the same experience in New Hampshire.

The short answer is “No.”  First of all, there is a snarl of freeways, roads, and bridges as we cross the Connecticut River into Lebanon.  Traffic is intense and we feel quite exposed.  At long last, we clear the access roads and confusing one way streets and are ready for a break.  We spot a diner.   The diner is full of students from nearby Dartmouth College.  When we go to sit down, the young waitress behind the counter barks at us, “We’re closed! You have to leave.”   Wes points out that the doors were still open, she shouts, “You have to leave!”  We ask if there is someplace nearby.  Nobody answers.  This is not an auspicious welcome.

The layout of the towns and villages is quite confusing and dense, but we make our way to a coffee shop and call our accommodations.  It had been quite difficult to get a room on this holiday weekend.  After many calls, we were able to get the last room in the hotel that serves the Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital.  We have to cross freeways again and wind our way around to find this out of the way lodging.   The room was bit worn at the edges (especially for its high price), but young Indian desk clerk was friendly.  There were no services, so Wes and I set out walking to the closest convenience store.  Bleah.  Gas station dinner for us. 

Just as we were coming back, we crossed an uncomfortable scene in the lobby.  Three senior citizens, one man and two women, were seeking lodging for the more slender, care worn woman.  She had to receive medical services at adjacent hospital and had no car.   The three pled with the desk clerk, but the motel was full.  He asked, “What shall we do?  Where will we stay?”  Some desk clerks would have called around to see if anyone had any openings.  Some lodgers who saw this might have offered their room. But this night, neither did, and the trio went out into the cold night.  No room at this inn.

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posted from Centennial, WY

T+144: The Oldest Ski Lodge in the United States

Mile 3987: Killington, VT

We are anxious to complete the trip on or before our self-imposed deadline of October 15, and plan on moving through Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine as quickly as possible.  Vermont is an upside down triangle; our route through the state is only 65 miles across.  The pass over Killington is the last major obstacle before us on this trip. 

A typical Vermont landscape

We know we are going to have a climbing day, and it begins as soon as we leave Whitehall, NY.  We are able to get off the busy US Highway 4 and take its original route through the towns of Fair Haven, Castleton, and Rutland.  From there, we will climb the pass to Killington, where I have secured lodging at the top of the pass.  

The ride is beautiful.  The trees are spectacular, as is the little college town of Castleton, with its main street of maintained Federal and Georgian mansions.  We have truly entered New England…the architecture is utterly different than anything we have seen thus far.   In the West, old is 100 years old.  Here, the college was founded in 1787, and most of the houses were built about that same time.  Now, I understand,  in the global scheme, a town 250 years old is an infant, but the scale, scope, and sense of continuity here is so different than in towns developed and arranged for automobiles. 

However, we don’t tarry.  We are worried about the pass, so we push on.  We have been warned, over and over, that the passes over these Vermont mountains are nothing to sneeze at.  They are fairly short, true, but steep and demanding.  With the days getting shorter, and the chill in the air, there’s no time to be a tourist.


We have already made 30 miles when it’s time to find some lunch.  Rutland, Vermont is the center of that state’s granite and marble industry.  There are stone cutting businesses and granite supply houses all along the road, although we don’t see any of the quarries, they must be nearby.   In West Rutland, we follow signs to the “historic stone cutters district” and see some massive cut stones, but only one small deli “serving since 1930.”   Thinking this looked promising as it was situated in an 1830’s townhouse, we climbed the stairs, opened the door, and entered a tiny tavern with about 10 seats.  The waitress looked like a Barbie doll, with platinum blonde hair, false eyelashes, enormous, perfectly round breasts, and bright pink lipstick.  We asked about the menu, and the two guys at the little counter laugh.  She said, “We only have hamburgers and hot dogs.  Mostly, we just serve beer.”   She was understanding and helpful, however, when we asked for a place with a more extensive menu.  She directed us to Mary’s Kitchen for a real, home-cooked meal.

This truly is a locals’ place, in a converted clapboard house.  We sit in the former porch, surrounded by a group of ladies who lunch, a minister, and pair of local businessmen.  We have been climbing all morning and are kind of sweaty and rough for this genteel crowd.  We are scrupulously ignored in this setting, although we certainly feel eyes upon us.  We eat rather quickly, speak to no one, and make our way to Rutland.  Rutland is a busy market town, nestled in the midst of steep hills.  It has a historic downtown, which we glanced at from afar, and lots of big houses built into very steep lots.  I was fascinated by one Victorian house that first appeared to have three stories, but actually had two additional levels opening onto the steep downhill.   The town is a-bustle with preparations for a big art fair to begin the next day. 

We climb up to the big park where the art fair is setting up.  Traffic is horrific, and we are glad to step away from the crush for a minute to read a historic marker about John Deere.  Little did we know that he was born in Rutland in 1804, and left his family there while he went to Illinois, invent the steel plow, and found the company that is still going strong nearly 200 years later.  We look longingly at the art coming into the park, but know we still have to make the pass, so off we go.

Getting out of Rutland is a hard climb with heavy traffic and no shoulder.  We have to stop often to catch our breath.  At one raggedy, rough spot, we get off and push our bikes over grass and broken pavement.  We pass Norman Rockwell’s studio on the way, but again, we don’t stop.  The road gets rougher and steeper.  We are getting worried; we are still not to the pass.  Finally, we clear the outskirts of the town and pass the gates that mark the beginning of the pass.  The road widens.  There is a big shoulder.  To our astonishment, the grade eases and we find ourselves plugging right up.  After all our anxiety about this pass, it is eminently rideable.  It is easier than anything we ridden that day.
 


Wes celebrates our final pass!

Still, we are tickled when we get to the sign announcing our arrival in Killington.  We stop for pictures and feel proud that we have cleared the last mountain pass of our trip.  We ride along the top of the mountain.  There are lots of resorts surrounding the Killington and Pico ski areas.  When we finally spot the Inn at Long Trail, we are surprised at how small it is. 

We step inside and greeted by Karl, the desk clerk.  The inn has low ceilings and tree trunk beams.  We are immediately struck by the feeling of hominess and permanence.  There are couches and chairs nestled around a big fireplace.  There is a stand up grand piano in the corner.  There are all sorts of conversation nooks, a game room, maps and pictures on the wall.  Its unspoken message is, “Come in and visit a while.”  Behind Karl’s shoulder, we can see the Irish Pub, with its dark wood, benches, booths, and tables.  It, too, looks inviting.

Karl takes us outside and tells us to stow our bikes in the boiler room in the basement.  He tells us that the inn is named after its proximity to the Long Trail, a Vermont branch of the Appalachian Trail.  They get a lot of through hikers, some of whom stay in the trail campground across the highway, some who welcome a soft bed and warm water on this part of their sojourn.  Karl looks like an unreconstructed hippie.  He has long gray hair, kind blue eyes, and a mother hen energy.  He has worked at the inn for many years, loves his job, and is good at it.  How few desk clerks have actually been welcoming!  They could take a lesson or two from Karl.

As he shows us to our room, he takes us by the dining room.  It is built around a massive granite boulder the size of a small cabin.  Just outside the dining room windows, we can see that the inn is built into the living rock of the Green Mountains.  As Karl tells Wes that this is the oldest ski lodge in the United States, I have to go touch the cool, rough strength of the boulder.  At first he tells it as a joke, in reference to 1.3 billion year old boulder which has survived three ice ages, around which the inn is built.  But it is also factually true. The inn was opened in 1938, just as the ski industry in the United States was being born.  Most US ski resorts, (including the one my father opened in Centennial) were founded after WWII by members of the famous 10^th Mountain Division, who skied and fought through the Italian Alps. 

Our room is tiny but nice, with real wood furniture and nice linens.  It is clear we are supposed to spend our time in the lodge, not in our room.  That seems like a good idea to us.  It is not long before we are down in the pub, where we meet the owner, who introduces us to the staff and other patrons.   His family, the McGraths, have owned the inn since 1977, and spent the first years undoing modernizations and returning the inn to its original state. 

At the bar, we meet an older couple who have just driven up from the college town of Castleton to celebrate their anniversary.  We celebrating too, and it is not long before we are having a really fun conversation.  Both are former teachers: he taught high school math and she retired from teaching at the college in Castleton.   We had a great time telling “Administrator from Hell” stories.  We laugh a lot; they congratulate us on our trip.  We congratulate them on their 40^th anniversary.  It was sweet as it could be.

The dinner that night is good.  While we are doing our laundry, Karl catches us and says, “There are some through hikers I’d like you to meet.”  He coordinates a meeting between two young hikers and us for the next morning. We go the pub that evening, which is packed with families and people of all ages, there to listen to some Irish music and socialize.  The musicians are really talented, as can be seen in their intricate and beautiful instrumentals, but their vocal music choices are drawn from the Irish cornpone/bar music bin.  The schtick wears after a while; we wished they would explore their lyrical side.  But the crowd was happy, the mood was good…who are we to complain? 

Wes is ready for bed, but I am still restless.  I take my computer to the game room on the pretext of working on the blog.  There, instead of working, I watch three young children, two boys and a girl, encounter non-electronic games.  They play Chinese checkers, make contraptions out of the Tinker Toys, play “Shoot the Moon” and more.  The dad, who looks like an impossibly young executive, comes to get the kids for bed.  The boys go willingly, but the daughter, who is a bit older at about 11 years of age, is completely fascinated by the Lincoln Logs.  She tells her dad, “In a minute!” and he says ok and disappears.  She is making house after house, all square or rectangular.  As I get ready to leave, I crouch on the floor with her and show her how she can make rooms, bays, and extensions with the logs.  She is building an elaborate log mansion when I leave.

The next morning we meet the young hikers, who have the energy of junior high boys called before the principal.  Why were they being made to talk to these old, weird bikers?  Karl does the set up and introductions.  These young men are on the final stages of their Appalachian Trail hike.  We are on the final miles of a cross country bicycle journey.   One young man, exceedingly fit, and wearing the athletic gear to emphasize his physique, does most of the talking, while his compatriot stares into his tea cup.   They are both from Virginia, where they work in software. 

They are avid cyclists and hikers.  They have been taking the Appalachian Trail in 4-500 mile chunks.  They are going hut to hut.  They are going fast, carrying no tent, very little gear and food.  They hike 15-20 miles a day, which is a lot in the tough and rocky terrain of these mountains.  I ask if they wear hiking boots, and the answer is no.  They wear walking shoes.  I ask if they don’t need ankle protection.  He replies, with just the edge of a sneer, “We don’t.  Other people might, but not us.”   I ask if they have ever had a problem not carrying a tent, like getting stuck in the rain, or finding the hut already full of hikers.  He again makes a sneering answer about making sure they get there before anyone else…and oh, by the way, never listening to the advice of “civilians” about the trail or conditions.  “Civilians” in their book, are day hikers or weekend jaunters.  Only through hikers, like them, could be trusted to convey knowledge.  We don’t point out that they actually aren’t through hikers, like the couple we met in Idaho.  Karen and Mike hiked the 2200 miles from Maine to Georgia in one trip. 

After hearing all about their trip, Wes tried to steer the conversation towards our trip.  No doing.  Not interested.  The talkative one did tell us that he had seen us making our way up the hill from Rutland.  He said, “I thought you looked like an old couple on their way from grocery store.”  I wanted to pat him on his cheek and say, “Ah, youth!  Someday you will learn that appearances can be deceiving.”   Just because we don’t wear bike regalia doesn’t mean we are not serious bicyclists.  We wish them well on their journey, and go to breakfast.  They don’t have the presence of mind or heart to return the good wishes.

At breakfast, a 30-something woman in a hand-knit stocking cap is sitting right behind us.  She asks if we are the cross country bicyclists staying at the inn.  We say we are.  She asks how we found the ride up.  We say, “Not bad.”  She launches into a loud, funny discussion, for the benefit of the whole dining room, about her hike to the top of Pico.  She is enthusiastic about her experience: “Man, it was just great.  I was walking up there, just breathing so hard, then I go to the top and it just took my breath away.  I mean, I could see for miles.  It was awesome!  The trees were big, the boulders were huge.  I just loved it!”

She is from Pittsburgh, on a business trip to Boston, who thought, “If I’m this close, I might as well go see the mountains.”  She does this sort of short term adventuring as a regular feature of her business travel.  When she finds out we are from Detroit, she announces to the whole room, “I LOVE Detroit!  I have the best time there.  I love your art museum, and man, what great music!  I have never had a bad time in that city.  Don’t you just hate the way people talk about it?  It is so unfair.  I think it is a great city!”

In Pittsburgh, she is active in the anti-fracking movement.  It is not long before she is talking to everyone in the room about the dangers of hydraulic fracturing oil drilling.  Not everyone wanted to have a heavy duty political discussion with their homemade pancakes with real maple syrup, but we loved her energy and the fact that she got people going.  We had to get a move on, but were glad to see the conversation continued as we were leaving.

We are dragging our feet, delaying our departure, as we loaded our bikes. Karl comes out and thanks us for coming to the inn. We tell him we love the inn and that we will be back.  We can easily envision a family ski outing here.  But now, on this chilly October morning, we need to get down the mountain and onto the rest of our adventure.  There are not many places on this journey that so tickled our fancy, but this is one.  We will be back.

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posted from Centennial, WY

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.