Day 62

I'm home from school sick today, and I remembered that I still have some days left... I'd pretty much forgot.

August 9 Lincoln, NH to North Waterford, ME

Leaving the condo in Lincoln, we immediately began the climb up to Kancamangus Pass... about twelve miles and 2000 or so feet. The rain from the night before had stopped, but the ground was wet and fog hung in the valleys and rose off of the trees in little plumes. Our maps showed this climb as one of the worst in New England (after the Middlebury Gap), but in truth it was a pretty easy climb. We reached the top around mid morning, and after getting our picture taken at the sign, started down the other side. The road dropped steeply down the other side for about six miles, before levelling off to a more gradual descent for the next fifteen miles into Conway.

From Conway, we struck out onto a rather busy road that would take us into Fryburg, the first town in our last state. We kept our heads down and rode for the first few miles, staying in the shoulder and trying not to inhale too much Carbon Monoxide. Half way to Fryburg, we came to the beautiful blue sign declaring "Welcome to Maine." Everyone posed for multiple pictures in front of the sign before starting off again down the road; at the time it was almost surreal, but as we rode away from the sign, I began to realize that we were REALLY IN MAINE! I began to think of all the miles and days we had put in to get here. I remembered the people who had taken us in, and the cyclist we had met along the way. It all suddenly seemed much more monumental.

We stopped for lunch in Fryburg at a rather slow restaurant, and called home to let everyone know we had made it to Maine. Then we pushed on, hoping to make it to a campground in North Waterford. Everything went normally, the road dropping and rising through a series of shallow valleys, until we had nearly made it to the campground. As we glided down one side of a valley, we saw ahead of us the road climbing back out at a grade just shy of vertical. All five of us began to pedal frantically in order to build momentum for the climb back out; within a hundred yards of starting up the other side, our momentum was gone, we were all in our very smallest of gears, and were standing in our pedals just to keep from toppling over. We inched our way up the other side, weaving dangerously back and forth when our speed dipped too low. None of us dared to stop because we knew we'd never get started again. Finally, we made it to the top and all stopped to congratulate each other. "Whew... that was crazy." I said.

My dad laughed giddily, "Jeez! I can't believe that hill!"

"You're a man now, after climbing that hill, Seth... we're all men now." Rick panted.

Michael grinned, "I can feel chest hair growing."

"My altimeter says that hill was a twenty-four percent grade!" my dad added. We all lapsed into silence, both in awe of our accomplishment, and for lack of breath.

It started to rain as we finally rolled into our campground, and we were left hiding in the convenience store until it let up. Our final night camping was also our most expensive one, with the site costing $58. Luckily, the rain let up and the ground was only mostly muddy, so we had a reasonably comfortable night. We made a big batch of spaghetti for all of us, and then dad made a blue berry cake for desert. As it started to get dark, we retreated into our tents for the final night on the trip.

Day 61

AUGUST 8 Sharon, VT to Lincoln, NH

The day began with another New England hill: short (well, relatively short at only four miles... looking back now when I'm not in shape, I doubt it would have seemed so short) but fairly steep. We crossed into New Hampshire late in the morning, then wove back into Vermont a few miles down the road for a second breakfast. After breakfast, we returned to New Hampshire, for good this time.

That afternoon we came to an intersection flanked by fair trucks and orange tape. They were directing traffic away to the left because the flood had damaged the road ahead of us. "There was another cyclist earlier," one of the firemen told us, "he just rode straight through... he didn't even stop to ask for directions." All four of us (Jerry was still eating his second sandwich at a sub shop back up the road) shared a knowing glance: this could only be Steve's handi-work. The detour, though a bit longer, was also much gentler than the road we avoided (which the map said was quite steep.) We rolled along for the extra mile and a half before coming to the real climb... and the rain. As we began the ascent, the sky darkened, then began to spit lightly. We made our way to a shallow valley between two hills before the rain really struck.

The ground was already soaked, and within minutes there was standing water on the road. The rain fell harder. Suddenly, Michael, then Rick, and then dad veered off to the left. Instinctively I followed. Ahead of us was a the yellow opening of a battered old garage, with a car up on stilts blocking most of the entrance. Rick rolled up to one of the mechanics, "Mind if we watch you work on that truck?" he asked dryly.

The mechanic shook his head and grinned, "Nope. Ya can come in all the way if ya want." A woman appeared around the side of the car and beckoned us all further into the garage. Our coats dripping on the floor, we watched the mechanics work replacing a wheel. At one point I dug out my bag of goldfish from my panniers and I heard the mechanics joking with dad, "Yeah, lookit that one. Eatin' his goldfish!"

"I would be too." A second mechanic said.

When the rain seemed to have slackened as much as we could hope for, we set off up the other said of the valley. The rain stopped entirely, and the sky stayed a murky gray for the rest of the climb. The sky grew progressively darker as we rode down the other side, and by the time we reached the bottom, it began to rain again. As we began frantically searching for a hotel in Lincoln, Michael got a call on from Jerry, "Hello, this is Jerry and I don't want to camp!" Michael assured him that we didn't either, and that we'd have a hotel by the time he arrived in Lincoln.

Surprisingly, most of the hotels were already full, and we were just checking into a condo (not too expensive when split five ways) when Jerry arrived. The rain kicked up to full throttle as we stashed out bikes on the porch and hauled our bags into the living area. The dripping, muddy pile on the floor looked like something from a refugee camp. We all showered, and I made myself a cup of hot chocolate, then we ordered pizza. "I'll have a small garlic and anchovy." Rick said. My dad gave him a disbelieving look, "No really, I'm serious. It's delicious! That's how my wife and I knew we were meant for each other: I took her out for pizza on our first date, and she said, 'It's sort of weird, but I want a garlic and anchovy.' and I said, 'Me too!'" The rest of us ordered pizzas and salads. As we ate, the TV got switched to some old Clint Eastwood western... none of us really watched, but it added to the masculine mood. After dinner, a couple of Michael and Rick's friends stopped by; they had been taking a chocolate making class in Vermont, and as dad said in his journal, "they brought free samples!"

P.S. Sorry for the quality above writing... so far after the fact, everything seems rather surreal and vague. Sometimes it seems hard to remember that all of this actually happened to me. I remember the images and settings quite clearly, but only the occasional dialogue. This is also the part of the trip that I gave up keeping a journal on because I'd just cover it in the blog as soon as I got home... well, three months later it's a lot harder to do that than I imagined. So, my apologies if it feels rushed or vague, and my apologies for taking so long to get this far (I can't imagine anyone has really put up with me procrastinating this long...). Hopefully (but no promises) I can finish the last four days by the end of the month(?).

~Seth

Day 60

AUGUST 7 Brandon to Sharon, VT

We had breakfast at the Inn the next morning along with an Elder Hostel group who were hiking the Appalachian Trail "the gentleman's way"; they spent each night at the Inn, then drove out to the trail each morning to hike a segment. As we ate, we all prayed that the road over the gap would be open. The rest had been nice, but we were all anxious to move on. We left the Inn around 8:45, but not before Rick threw out his back while loading his panniers. The sky was clear and the roads dry, but we were surrounded by signs of the flooding: flattened grass, debris on the road, and orange "road closed" signs. The ride began casually, then started to climb, up over the Brandon Gap. The climb began gradually, similar to many of the roads in the Cascades, but then we turned a corner and the road shot upward, "Uh-oh!" Michael said when he saw the increase. The last two miles of the climb were some of the steepest on the trip. I was in my lowest possible gear (which is lower than on most bikes) and I still had to stand in the pedals and hammer to get to the top (If only I knew about the hill that was yet to come!)

Dad and I reached the top first (me in none to pleasant of a mood). My face was bright red, and I felt like I had taken a shower in sweat. Looking back, I could see the countryside below, at the bottom of the hills. The brick buildings and rolling fields tiny from such a distance. Dad took pictures of Michael and Rick as they reached the top (Rick still in excruciating pain because of his back), then we all pulled rain coats over our sticky bodies to keep us warm on the 12% descent. "I'm trying not to use my breaks," Michael told us before we started down what would be one of the steepest downhills of the trip, "They're pretty worn out, so I'm trying to save them as much as possible." I had no such limitations, and part way down Michael flew by me and quickly closed the gap between himself and dad.

We finished the day in the town of Sharon, just before another major climb. Jerry had been trying to reserve a motel room all day, but he hadn't found any. We flopped our bikes down behind the Congregational Church, and dad rode off to try and find a place to stay. Rick (quite painfully) tightened some loose spokes, then sat down next to Michael and I in the grass to wait for dad.

"Well, the hotel is closed," dad told us when he came back, "But I met a man who said we could camp in his year." His eyes turned to the church, "Wouldn't it be great if we could stay here? Look, there's even a canopy we could cook under if that thunderstorm gets any closer." We had already all noticed the sky slowly bruising to a dark purple, threatening another deluge.

"We should send Seth to ask at the church," Michael suggested, "He knows a lot about religion."

"And he's young and cute and can act pathetic." dad added.

It turned out that dad, Michael, and I all went to ask if we could stay at the church. First, we tried the door to the church itself, but it was locked, so we wandered our way over to the neighboring house. The lights were on, music was playing, and the door was open, but no one seemed to be around. We called around the yard for a second, and had just decided no one was home, when a man stepped out carrying a thin strip of lumber. He stared at us in shock for a second, and dad hastened to explain, "We're cross-country cyclists, and were looking to stay at the church, but no one was there, so we came to see if you knew anything."

"Ah, sorry, I don't." he paused for a second, "Y'know who you could ask... two doors down there's a carpenter, Ronald Potter. His wife, Phyllis, is the organist at the church. You might try asking her. And if that doesn't work out, you could stay in my barn; it's big, and clean, and you'd have a roof over your heads. Bathrooms might be an issue, though..."

"Thank you!" dad said, and Michael and I echoed him, "And what was your name?"

"Oh, I'm Hull." He saw the blank looks on our faces and added, "H-U-L-L."

"Well, thanks Hull. Have a nice day."

We found Phyllis in her yard with three other ladies, all chatting politely. "Excuse me, is one of you Phyllis?" Dad interrupted their conversation.

"Yes." the oldest said, "That would be me." she was easily a head shorter than her companions, and she had a warm, grandmotherly air to her, "What can I do for you?"

"Well, we're cross-country cyclists and we heard that you were the organist for the church up the road there, and we were hoping to stay there tonight..."

"I'll see what I can do." she said. First, she introduced us to her guests, a woman from the town and her pen-pal from Ireland, then made her way inside to make some phone calls. The guests wished us well and walked off. Phyllis came back a few moments later, "Well, I made some phone calls, and I'm trying to reach the deacon. It'll be a while if you want to have a seat." she gestured to the deck, but we all sat down on the lawn, "Used to be we left the church unlocked all the time. But then they put in the interstate, and we started to worry about bums going in there and smoking in the pews. We don't really have anything valuable in there, but we couldn't risk the church burning down." She shook her head for a moment. "Now, I'm gonna go in to finish my poies."

As she walked into the house, I saw Michael mouthing "Pies!!" to me across the lawn.

I grinned back, "Now we just have to look really pathetic..." Despite our best efforts to evoke sympathy, we never even saw a slice of pie. Instead, we got to spend the night in the Congregational Church of Sharon... more than a fair trade.

We set up our sleeping bags in the upstairs Sunday school room, showered at a house across the street, and picked up dinner from a convenience store a short walk away. We cooked our dinner in the kitchen down stair (the church was definitely equipped to support cyclists.) After our meal (for dad and I, a stir-fry followed up by a quart of Ben&Jerry's), we returned to the Sunday school room. Rick stretched his back, Jerry called home, dad updated his journal, and Michael and I engaged in a grueling game of Biblopoly. After that, we all headed off to bed.

Day 59

AUGUST 6 East Middlebury to Brandon, VT

In the middle of the night, I woke to the persistent sound of raindrops on my tent, a few of them finding their way in through my open rain fly. Groggily, I zipped my fly door close, then drifted back to sleep.

By 6:00, I was half awake, listening to the raindrops still hammering on my tent, waiting for them to stop so I could get out of my tent. I waited for an hour and the rain didn't slacken even once. Around 7:00, my whole tent suddenly shook. Ah, great, hear come the winds. I thought, wondering if we were still planning to meet up with Michael and Steve at 8:30. "Hey bud," I heard dad's voice and realized he had shaken my tent, "Time to get up." I mumbled a response, then started packing up my gear.

As I rolled up my thermarest, I noticed that the floor under it was the only wet spot in my entire tent. I put my hand on the wet spot to see how much water had really got in, and the whole floor rippled: a lake was forming under my tent! I redoubled my efforts to pack up my gear and get ready to leave. As I crawled out of my tent, I saw dad already loading bags onto his bike, "I was figuring we'll skip breakfast and pick something up later," I nodded emphatically, my head already soaked from the ten seconds I'd been outside, "How'd your tent hold up?"

"Pretty good. The floor's leaking some, but then there's a bit of a lake under it." I strapped one of my bags onto my bike, "How about yours?"

"Sierra Design is getting a letter from me when we get home. The fly leaked, the floor leaked. I have standing water in their right now." We both rushed to get everything on the bikes, taking down our tents very last. "Y'know, Seth. I'm thinking today would be a good day to find a hotel and dry everything out. We can ride again tomorrow when it's not so bad out." I nodded hesitantly, reluctant to stay behind a day if Steve, Michael, and Jerry planned to keep going.

We got to the gas station we had met Steve, Michael, and Rick at the night before around 8:00. Dad had just pulled out his cell phone to call them about maybe not riding today, when all of them, plus Jerry, rode up out of the rain. After an hour of eating gas station muffins and breakfast sandwiches and drinking gas station tea, Steve had us all at least mostly convinced we should push on (dad still wanted to go find a hotel some where, but I wasn't ready to lose all of them after just catching up the day before, so we pushed on).

At 9:00, we decided that the rain didn't look like it would get much better, and started off, riding toward the Middlebury Gap (what an ideal situation? Going up an incredibly steep climb in a Noah-style deluge.) Nearing the base of the hill, we heard a roar and began catching whiffs of a muddy, rotten smell. Around the next corner, we discovered the source: a river, swollen by the rains and turned the color of hot chocolate by all the mud in it, raged along next to the road. Beneath the the overall roar, we also heard a dull thumping: boulders rolling along the bottom of the river.

We crossed a bridge, but stopped in the middle of it to take pictures of the river. A green Subaru zipped down the mountain, then stopped next to us on the bridge, "Are you planning on going over?" we all nodded, "There's four or five inches of water on the inside of the road, and the outside is crumbling away as you watch-"

He was interrupted by a little white car coming down the road and honking. When it came level with us, it stopped and the driver stuck her head out the window, "You can't stop here!" she said angrily, "It's not safe! Get off the road!" The man in the Subaru shrugged helplessly and drove off. We started up the climb.

Dad and I chugged away up front in our smallest gears for about a quarter of a mile. "Turn back! Turn Back!" Rick started to shout from behind us, "The road's completely washed out!" Looking back, we saw him talking to the driver of a truck.

As we started to turn around, a little blue car drove down the mountain. Dad and I waved frantically at it and it squealed to a sudden halt, "How is it?" dad called to the driver.

"Terrible!" she told us, "Half of the road is gone, and the other half is under three to five feet of water. It was the scariest experience in my life!"

"That makes the decision pretty easy." Michael said as she drove away.

"Yeah, it sounded pretty conclusive." I agreed

Just as we decided to turn around, Jerry came puffing up the mountain, "Whew, what a climb."

"Bad news, Jer." Rick said, "We have to go back down. The roads washed out."

"We have to go back down? Aw, gee..." We all did an about face and rode through the continuing rain back down the road, stopping at the bottom of the hill in a small parking lot. Steve went inside to ask for an alternative route, Dad called a bike store to ask for direction, and Michael looked over his map. The rest of us watched as a road crew drove up and stopped in front of the parking lot. They unloaded a "Road Closed" sign from the back of their truck and began shutting down the road and re-routing traffic. An hour later, we left the parking lot headed south, hoping to cut over the Green Mountains down the road. The weather cleared as we pedaled, and eventually we had all stripped off out rain jackets and thinking we might actually make some miles before the day was over.

Apparently we had hoped too soon: a few miles down the road, we pulled into a small convenience store, big clouds growing overhead. Steve wandered in to ask directions to a hotel or camp ground. He returned a few moments later, "Well, they're saying the road behind us has been washed out, and the road we want to turn on has standing water a couple of feet deep. We can camp here, or there's a campsite a coupla miles down the road. And there're two B&Bs around here."

"We can't really camp." dad said, gesturing at himself and me, "Everything we have is soaked. It would be completely miserable."

"Why don't we look for the B&B's?" Michael suggested.

"If everything's flooding, they'll be full." Steve waved off the idea, "Lets try and ride on. We either make it over the gap or stay at the campground up the road."

"Seth and I can't camp." dad said.

"And that standing water..." Michael said, "It won't be just standing still. It'll be rushing across the road."

"Well, if it's rushing, we won't go through it." Steve said. At that point, there wasn't much use left in arguing. We tried dissuading him for a few more minutes, but before long we were back in the saddle, riding on towards the Green Mountains.

By the time we had reached our first patch of water, about 100 feet across and clearly rushing, Steve had changed his mind, "Ah, that doesn't look so bad! I'm gonna try going across." He pedalled off, water spraying up behind his back wheel.

Michael shook his head, "Y'know, they say not to do that in a car! And here Steve is on a bicycle."

"I think Steve likes all this shit!" Jerry said.

"I know Steve likes all this shit!" Michael agreed.

Before any of the rest of us followed Steve across the water, a sheriff car pulled up, "Where ya all headed?" the man inside called to us.

"We're going to Bethel, over the Brandon Gap."

"No you're not." the sheriff said, "I just came down this road, and I past through at least a dozen spots like this. And I haven't even been to Goshen; it's always worse up there. You'd be crazy to try to go over the gap today. Your best bet is probably Brandon, about five miles south of here."

"Is there any hotel there?" dad asked.

"Yeah, the Brandon Inn. It's pretty nice." We thanked him and headed off, but not before asking a car driving across the water to tell Steve (who was already out of site) where we were going.

The Brandon Inn was a beautiful brick building first built in 1786. Before long we were checked into our rooms and spreading our gear across the furniture to dry. For the rest of the afternoon we lounged about, eating lunch at a local cafe, and wandering the town. A river runs through Brandon, over a small set of rapids; when we first saw it at lunch, it had over flowed its banks, flowing the same muddy color we had seen that morning. The pub situated above the river, which normally had a nice view of the waterfall, was closed in case the supports gave way under the torrent of water. After such an eventful morning, it was nice to have so much free time in the afternoon (although I didn't get a chance to write on my blog since the Library closed down it's computers in case of lightening strikes).

After checking in at the library, I wandered back to the hotel and crawled into bed for a nap. When I woke up, the room was empty. I wandered the halls, searching for dad, Rick, Michael, or Jerry, but I couldn't find any of them. When I couldn't find him in the inn, I became more frantic, expanding my search to the neighboring buildings: the bookstore/cafe, the antique/ice cream shop, the library (where I asked if the librarian had seen any other cyclists dressed in goofy clothes come through). I even walked down to the waterfall and the surrounding restaurants.

As I walked back to the hotel, beginning to panic (the dark sky had already set the mood, and I was beginning to wonder if I had been dropped into some horror movie, and everyone else had been axed) a woman in a pink sweater, wearing a gaudy white necklace, stopped me, "Have you been to the water works?"

I nodded distractedly, "Yeah, they're pretty full. Have you seen any other cyclists around? Four guys wandering around somewhere?"

"I haven't, but I'm going up Franklin Street, so if I see them, I'll tell them.... what was your name?"

"I'm Seth."

"I'll tell them Seth was looking for them. Where are you riding to?"

"We want to get to Bethel, over the Brandon Gap."

"Oh... I think 73 and all of 100 are closed. Those are the roads over the Gap." her tone changed slightly, "Don't go near the water: it's so dangerous! I saw some boys over by the falls looking at the current. I warned them to be careful. This water just scares me! Well, Seth, good luck finding your friends." I thanked her, promised to be careful, then walked into the hotel.

As soon as I stepped in, I spotted dad in the back. I hurried over to him, and discovered that he, Rick, Jerry, and Michael had been in the bar all along. "Always check the bar first!" Rick told me. We went out to dinner (bland shepherd's pie) at the tavern over the waterfall, now open for business because the water had receded. Then, we went back to the inn, organized our gear, and went to bed.

Day 58

AUGUST 5 Middlebury to East Middlebury, VT 15 miles

Another lazy day as we planned to visit Middlebury College that afternoon, then only ride a little way out of town to spend the night in a campground just before the Middlebury gap. We lounged around our hotel room until we were forced to leave at noon, then made our way to a bakery to pick up lunch. As we rode through town, a man by the side of the road waved us down; we slowed to a stop before realizing it was the miss-matched-sock-man from the night before. "I saw you riding!" he called, "Too bad, if I'd known you were staying in town last night, I could have found you a place to stay. I have some pals at the AA hall who'd 'a bin more'n happy to let you stay there." As he spoke, I noticed he was still wearing his clothes from the night before, miss-matched socks and all.

"Ahhh...." dad managed, trying to sound regretful. "too bad..." his voice trailed off as he decided not to even try.

Luckily, the man didn't seem to notice, "Now, come over here an' tell me where yer goin'." Reluctantly we rode over and pulled out our maps. He didn't bother to look at them. "You should go down to Manchester. It's a bit outta yer way, but ya miss all the hills that way, an' there's a good place to stay. The Friendlies. Tell 'em yer on bicycles an' they'll let you stay with them." Dad and I nodded politely as he spoke until we managed to disengage ourselves.

"So, wanna stay at the AA hall?" dad joked as we rode away.

I shook my head emphatically, "And Manchester..." I started, "It's all the way at the bottom of the state. Probably a hundred miles away!" Both of us laughing, we picked up sandwiches at the bakery, then ate them sitting on a lawn at the college.

Middlebury was one of the neatest colleges we've seen. They have awesome language and international studies program, a quidditch team, and a beautiful campus. Our tour ended at three, and both dad and I changed into our bike clothes then set off into the overly-hot afternoon sunshine.

Midway through our short ride, dad suddenly stuck out his arm to signal a turn, then darted across the busy road into a gas station parking lot. Sighing, I made to follow, wondering what dad was playing at, when I saw Steve standing at the edge of the parking lot, leaning against his bike. "Hey buddies!" he called, "Long time no see!" Dad got off his bike to give him a hug while I hung back sort of awkwardly (for some reason, I'm always nervous about hugging people). "Let's go get some snacks and sit out here on a bench!" Steve said, as enthusiastic as ever. We all walked over to the convenience store and leaned our bikes against the stucco-textured wall. As dad and I took off our helmets, Steve (who still wore his) suddenly stared at my head, "Whoa! You have hair!" I grinned as we all walked into the store together.

Eating our snacks outside the gas station, we saw Michael and another cyclist ride past. "Hey!" Steve yelled, then got up and ran over to wave them over to where we sat. Dad hugged Michael and we both introduced ourselves to his friend, Rick, who had ridden with them since Buffalo, New York. In a way, it felt monumental to meet back up with them after weeks a part. But another part of me felt like it was completely natural and we were just picking up where we left off. After 15 minutes of talking, with no sign of Jerry, Steve was itching to get back on the road. While the rest of us sat and talked, he was straddling his bike and trying to encourage Michael and Rick that it was time to go. They gave in and headed off to the hotel they were staying in for the night; before they left, we all made plans to meet at the East Middlebury post office at 8:30 the next morning.

Dad and I wound up staying in an expensive, 'resort' campground that night, in a small spot sandwiched between to other two other campsites. Dad went off to shower and I started in on dinner. I set up our stove, then carefully allowed a little fuel seep into a holding cup; you're supposed to light this on fire to warm up the metal before starting the stove up all the way. A lit a match and touched it to the fuel. Flame sprang up, then reached beyond on the little stove, a plume of fire flickering towards our fuel bottle. "Oh, Shit!" I muttered as a snatched the fuel bottle out of the way.

"I heard that!" a dark haired woman in the site to our left scolded. Then she smiled, "I'm just kidding. I don't mind, the kids aren't around to pick it up."

"Sorry anyway." I said glancing over at her, "The fire just sort of shot out..." I went back to cooking, "By the way, what book are you reading?" I asked.

"Oh, just some fantasy novel. I read anything with swords and magic and dragons." We talked about fantasy novels until dad got back and took over with dinner while I went for a shower. When I got back, she had given us a zucchini and offered us sausage for breakfast the next morning.

After dinner, a man wearing running shorts and a jersey unzipped to his belly-button, and eating gruel from a little metal bowl came over to out site. "'ello! Other bike tourists! What-do-you think about the sites. Twenty-six dollars for a night! Dirty rotten swindlers! It's scandalous! Just came over to say 'ello!"

"Hi. What's your name?" dad asked.

"Ah, I'm Smilin' Joe!" Smilin' Joe had left Portland on June 10th, came up through Seattle and "Spokin", then stopped in Cour'de Lane, where he volunteered at the Iron Man wearing a grass skirt and a coconut bra. Then he went down to Wyoming and Yellow Stone and cut his way back up to Michigan, "Only they wouldn't let me go inta Canada because... well, I have a bit of a record, and the papers I needed to get through hadn't arrived yet, so I had to go aroun', down through Michigan right by Detroit." He suddenly turned to look at me, "You keep your hinnie strait! You don't want no criminal record! It'll come back to bite ya latter! Ah... the bug's are comin' out, so I hafta keep movin' fellas. G'night!" Smilin' Joe made his way back to his site and dad and I crawled into our tents to escape the mosquitoes. As soon as we were inside, the woman in the campsite to our right (who we hadn't met yet) walked over.

"I know you can't carry any wood on your bikes, but I have a fire if you want to come over and sit by it" When dad and I arrived, we found her sitting in a campchair, a puzzle book in her lap, in front of a large tent with two young girls inside. "I'm Katheryn." she introduced herself, "I bet you have some pretty crazy stories!" For the next twenty minutes she listened intently, watching us with eager eyes, as we told her about our trip. Finally, dad and I said goodnight, then retreated to our tents. I wrote for a while, then went to sleep with the door to my rainfly folded open to let in a little breeze.

Day 57

August 4 Fort Ticoneroga NY to Middlebury VT

Exhausted after our ride into Fort Ticonderoga, dad and I slept in till nearly 8:00 the next morning. When I woke up, my tent was full of sunlight and I heard dad talking to a couple in the next camp site. Ron and Suzanne were just on a weekend vacation up to the Adirondacks from their home a couple hour drive away. "We've had some weird weather." Ron told us, "about six days of sunshine in all of June. The rests been all rain."

"There was even a tornado up in Vermont last year!" Suzanne put in. This trend of strange weather had been true all across the country: the great plains were a lot wetter than usual, which explained why they were so green (I expected North Dakota to be a dead brown) and why there were so many mosquitoes; Ontario, and now New England, were being doused by rain; and every time we called home to mom, she told us about the weather in Oregon, which certainly didn't sound normal. The odd weather did have some pluses: we never rode in extreme heat (I expected 120 degree days, but the worst we had was in the upper 90s); and the humidity, though annoying, was never absurd.

Dad and I took a lazy morning, stopping for breakfast in the town of Fort Ticonderoga (I had some blueberry pancakes that left me nauseous for the rest of the morning) then rode a short ways to visit the historic fort. Leaving the fort at about 11, we crossed a cable-ferry into the state of Vermont (state number nine!) The ferry deposited us on the opposite shore, and we rode off along narrow winding roads, through rolling farm land and wooded hills. The scene, with the sun shining as it hadn't for the past week, looked like it came out of a story book about quaint, rural America. Unfortunately, the roads steadily deteriorated the farther we got into Vermont: after stopping for a picture of an 18th century blacksmith shop, fissures and pot holes began appearing in greater numbers, ready to grab our wheels and pull us to the pavement. After 20 miles, our shortest 'riding' day of the trip so far, we entered the town of Middlebury, home to Middlebury college, and full of stone buildings and surprisingly patient drivers.

Dad and I maneuvered our bikes through the streets, searching both for a bike shop to fix my rack, and a hotel to stay in. We found a bike shop first, and I went in to ask about replacement parts while dad tried phoning hotels in the town. "Ah, excuse me." I said to the mechanic, "I'm on a bike tour and my rack's broken... you wouldn't happen to have any replacement parts, would you?"

"Oh, I bet not. But how but we take a look at your bike and see what we can do." He came out to look at the broken supports and shook his head, "Nah, the best I could do is sell you a new rack, and that's probably more than you want to spend on this. Hmmmm... You could try the bike shop just down the street; they usually have more of these spare parts just kicking around. And if they don't, c'mon on back. I have some zip ties and we'll see what we can do."

"Thank you." I said, beginning to panic that I would be stuck with a broken rack all the way to Maine. I picked up dad and we rode over to the second shop.

The second shop looked much more like a true, hard-core bike shop: where the first had been on the main street, advertising skies, snow boards, and bikes in the window, this one was tucked away on the far side of a little plaza; it's single window was plastered with bicycling posters, and the inside was dark, lit by a dull yellow light coming from in back. Bikes lined the floor, and hung from the ceiling, and bike posters covered the walls. The mechanic, a white haired man, leaned on the counter talking to a customer about an up coming bike race. As I walked in uncertainly, my eyes adjusting to the dark interior, the customer looked over, "Looks like you have some business." he said to the mechanic, "Talk to you later."

"You too." the mechanic replied, then turned to me, "So, what can I do for ya?"

"I'm on a bike tour, and the support from my rack to my seat stay is broken... do you have a replacement part?"

"I bet so... Let's see the bike." he followed me outside and waited as I took off my panniers. He glanced at the broken parts and nodded, "Yeah, I have some of those." he wandered back inside and reappeared moments later with the pieces I needed, "En garde!" he said, waving one in the air and then handing it to me. He and dad watched as I sweated (partially from the heat, partially from the scrutiny) to remove the broken pieces and replace them with the new ones.

"That piece there looks like it's been held together." the mechanic said, pointing at the contraption of bolts and washers.

"Yeah, a mechanic in Ithaca did that. He said that it should hold together until we got to Bar Harbor. He was sort of right: that was all that was really holding the rack together till now."

"This mechanic... was he an older fellow?"

"Yeah, probably in his 50s or 60s. He's a machinist at Cornell and runs a bike shop at night. I guess he used to be a pretty good bike racer."

"Yeah, I know him." the mechanic nodded, "Glen something or other. I used to be faster than him."

"So, are all the roads round here as bad as the one we came in on?" dad asked,

"You think the one you came in on was bad? That's the good road for around here. Wait till tomorrow... you're going over the Middlebury Gap, right? That road is terrible. And steep! It starts out at 18%. And going down the other side..." he shook his head, grinning bemusedly, "just as steep and the road is even worse! You have to be really careful." I finished the repairs and dad paid the mechanic 3 dollars total for the pieces, and then we went off in search of our hotel.

The Middlebury Inn was a ritzy hotel, but then, all the hotels in Middlebury are pretty ritzy; the whole town is a bit of a tourist trap. We got to the hotel just in time for afternoon tea. When dad checked in, we both took a couple of the complimentary scones, then, after dropping off our bags, we returned for more. We sat in the fancy, high backed chairs in the lobby, feasting on scones, cookies, and lemonade, leaving a healthy halo of crumbs. "This is probably the last time they let cyclists stay here!" dad joked.

"They should expect this if they offer us free food." I replied.

Dad and I lounged for the rest of the evening, going out for pizza and wandering through the cute little town. As we wandered down a side road, a man with matted blond hair and mismatched socks stared at us, not looking away for even a second. Disconcerted, we hurried on, stopping to look at the town's waterfall before returning to the hotel to go to bed.

Day 56

AUGUST 3 Blue Mountain Lake to Fort Ticonderoga, NY

As I loaded my panniers onto my bike the next morning, I noticed a little problem: the supports from my rack to my seat stay had broken, just like in Ithaca. Only now, the only thing holding my rack in place was the little contraption of screws and washers that the mechanic used to fix my rack in the first place; if that broke, my rack would likely fall backwards, hit my wheel, and send me flying into the pavement. Not a very happy scenario. "Ah, dad? My bike's broken."

Dad walked over and I pointed at the broken rack, "Ughh. Why do we only notice these things right when we're getting ready to ride!" He tried to imitate the mechanics jerry-rigged support, but the parts we had didn't quite cut it. "Oh! I know!" dad suddenly said, walking over to a stump on one side of the camp site. He picked up a little piece of string that had been left there be some earlier camper, "It's funny, when we first got here, I had a feeling that this string was important." he said as he walked back and began to tie it around my rack. When he was finished, the string connected my rack to my seat post, "Now, at least if the last support does break, the rack won't immediately fall off. Still, we need to find a way to fix this really soon. I don't want to be stuck in the middle of no where when the rack goes." Despite the fix, dad and I spent a half hour sullenly silent, both of us terrified that the rack would break.

I'm sure some of this is beginning to sound a little repetitive: we rode all day and the sky was gray; it rained some; we stopped for a second breakfast in town X (in this case, in Long Lake, and the timing was perfect! As soon as we were inside, the sky split open and it rained the entire time we ate, but stopped before we got outside); it rained some more. The truth is, the time in New York, though beautiful, largely was repetitive! That said, every day was different, and something special always happened. The special part of August 3rd was our descent out of the Adirondacks.

All day we had been climbing short, steep hills, that were always followed by short steep descents, which left us feeling like we were back at square one. Apparently, the descents weren't quite as far as the climbs, so by the end of the day we found ourselves on a hill overlooking the town of Fort Ticonderoga. The clouds were big and purple, glossed lightly yellow on the bottom by the sun; the road twisted out of the hills and forests of the Adirondacks, dropping to the valley and fields below; the town was visible in the distance. Exhausted, and fearing the impending rain, dad and I didn't stop to appreciate the view: we took the hill head on. As the road slanted away, I felt myself picking up speed and thoroughly enjoying it. I coasted most of the way into Fort Ticonderoga. It was only after we had stopped, at the bottom of the hill, that dad and I bothered to enjoy the view: behind, the road wove its way back into the green and gray of the mountains, fog rose off the forests, and the sun glowed faintly behind it all.

We stopped for dinner supplies in town, then rode a couple of miles off route to a camp ground. The first camp site we were assigned to was all mud, with large puddles and patches of muck that sucked at your shoes. As we set up our tents, dad finally shook his head in frustration, "You finish setting up the tents and I'll go see if there's an open spot nearby that we can switch to." He walked off and I finished setting up my tent, then put on the rain fly, then put on dad's rain fly... what seemed like a long time later he returned, "Well, I've got some good news and some bad news. Good news: I got us a dryer site; bad news: it's on the other side of the campground."

"Isn't there one just over there?" I asked, pointing at a vacant site just across the road.

"It's reserved. C'mon, lets just bundle the tents up... no need to roll 'em up... then we can strap 'em to the bikes." We repacked our tents then slowly rode to the other site. "Oh... I think this looks too wet!" dad joked, "I'll go see if we can switch."

I glared at him, "There could be a lake in this site and I wouldn't move!" I said, "I'm dead." We put up our tents, and I went to shower while dad made dinner. When dinner was over, I did dishes as the sun sank below the trees, finishing in the dark. Without my headlight, I fumbled my way to my tent, flopped inside, and fell asleep without bothering to write.