T+133: Up and down and all around

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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