Ever Eastward

Before I lose your attention I want to update and amend my post on guardrails in light of new research. NY has a previously-uncatalogued (here) class of guardrail that looks absolutely terrifying. It’s three parallel cables, anchored in the ground, running through loops in the metal stanchions. They are all rusted and look like they are made of tetanus, and you can’t lean or sit on them. I forgot to write about them, but I guess this is my last chance because I did it, y’all. I rode my bike across the country.

It was a beautiful day. Perfect weather, lovely tailwind, a couple of serious hills to climb, though nothing brutal.

I had coffee on the patio outside my guest suite (!) and watched the sky warm and brighten, then hung out with Nate and Laura until Nate left for work; Laura and I squeezed in some more hangs and then got me packed up—she put crushed ice in my water bottles!—and headed back to Orland, where she dropped me with hugs at the community center.

Yesterday I’d had a happy teary moment as I let myself realize that I was really going to do this thing, but then I missed a turn because of it, remembered that feelings are dumb (kidding!), and pushed that to the side. But today I found myself laugh-crying at random in wild joy and disbelief, and it was an incredible feeling.

I had just under 40 miles to ride, and Andrew was driving in from Boston simultaneously, and I took it slowly to relish the last few hours. I enjoyed all of it. I already missed it even as I was excited to see all my people and regain all the ease and luxury of inside life.

I was mostly on US 1/ME 3, and it was a Friday in August, so traffic was brisk, but I was unbothered. The signs for Acadia made me tear up, as did a nice descent.

I took my last sit stop on the road into a Park & Ride about 15 miles from Bar Harbor.

Andrew and I texted a bit to coordinate arrival, and then Josh texted to check in and we text-chatted for a bit ❤️ and then I sat on the ground and snacked and was feral and weird and free until it was time to go to Bar Harbor and meet my babe.

Some wonderful and poignant miles later and one big hill in Mt. Desert that I approached channeling my godson’s energy when told it was too windy to be outside (from the bench on the deck: “You think you can take me down wind? BRING IT ON!”), the sweet long descent following, and I was in Bar Harbor.

I made my way down to the bay through throngs of people and there it was.

I texted Andrew, and he found me, and it was all kinds of feelings, y’all.

We sat in the park overlooking the bay and drank Prosecco, and I could not have asked for a better end to the trip.

I suspect I may have one more post in me, some wrap-up thoughts. Just in case that’s not true, I want to say how much I appreciate every one of you that read along. And to all of you who sent me texts or commented or posted about the trip, it gave me life. To new friends I met along the way, and to those I was able to see, both old friends and ones who came out to visit with me: 💗

Thank you for being along on this adventure with me.

My mood broke today, a huge relief. The weather wasn’t the fix: it rained on and off and often hard enough that I was regularly stopping to put on my rain jacket or remove it and was cool enough that getting real wet wasn’t a great idea. (My feet were on day two of wet shoes, but some problems aren’t solvable.) There was less climbing, “only” 3300 feet, but I don’t know if that was it either; that’s in line with the climbing that made me so miserable the other day. I think that I mismanaged my expectations. Chris had warned me about Maine in East Glacier, as had Bob and Cheryl at Sully Creek, but I did the two big climbs and thought I had it in the bag. And then I was unpleasantly surprised when it was hard. The worst part was I did it one day and then did the same thing again the next day: “okay, NOW I got this.” But by today I’d adjusted my expectations—“well, this is just going to be miserable, so let’s get okay with that”—and BOOM: mood improved. That’s my theory.

I woke up to a puddle on one side of my tent footprint, but a largely dry tent (soaked fly, of course). It was sprinkling such that it took a while longer to get ready; packing my panniers in the tent vestibule so everything doesn’t get wet while I pack it is a cramped and slow process. And although it was misty, the campground was on the actual ocean, and it felt foolish to leave without seeing it, so I walked down to the overlook point.

I hit the road around 8, and first thing out was the revelation that I was closer to Rockport than I thought and had already climbed most of a 450-footer, a rough climb, yesterday getting to the campground. Expectations exceeded!

Because of the rain that was predicted all day, it would have been the only time on tour that I wasn’t able to dry my tent during the day, except that it didn’t matter because I didn’t need to sleep in it tonight and could dry it at Nate and Laura’s. So fortuitous!

The riding was classic Maine lovely, and I didn’t hate it anymore.

Camden was cute.

I stopped at the side of the road outside Camden to ogle some tiny islands with correspondingly-sized houses on them. You can’t see the houses in the photos, but each of those copses of trees surrounds a house, and it looks magical.

The map had advised strongly against shortcutting its route by taking US 1 from Camden to Belfast, though the ACA route is significantly longer/less direct, not coastal, and, of course, steeply graded. I took their counsel and, armed with my new fatalism, went at the hills I’d put in front of myself.

It was good riding. Real hard at times, but it didn’t feel as hard as before. I could smirk and say “of course” when I went up a hill, made a right, and kept climbing; this is very different from the things I said in the same circumstances over the last two days, few of which would pass Jennifer’s excellent NYT test for email content (would you be okay seeing it published in the NYT?).

Belfast had a charming misty harbor.

Stockton Springs had a cemetery with a view.

Verona Island, Bucksport, and one brutal country road called Dark Mountain Road I turned right onto and straight into an 11-13% grade, and I was at the Orland Community Center, which appears to be, along with neighboring town hall, all of Orland.

I texted Nate and Laura, and Nate headed over to pick me up. While I waited, I amused myself by standing in the intermittent rain while leaning against a wet picnic table, putting up and taking down the hood of my rain jacket. (Orland’s community center playground does not boast a gazebo or covered patio, to its detriment.)

I loaded my filthy, wet bike into Nate’s car, and we headed back to their place a half hour away (by car). Their beautiful place, with the swankest guest suite and their dog Jeannie and cat Ned (SO SORRY—no photos) and amazing deck, which we sat on drinking beers and talking until it started raining again. Friends ❤️

Then we went to Bangor for dinner and ate the most ridiculously delicious fries, which had both kimchi and pork belly on them? Back to the house for more hangs, followed by reluctant yawns and bedtime in the most comfortable bed, knowing that holy unprintable, tomorrow is my last day.

Though rain was promised starting around 4 a.m. and continuing through tomorrow evening, it’s still dry, if very overcast, when I get up at my usual 5:30. I’m ready to go by 7 and decide to leave to get a head start on the rain, even though it seems silly with a 55-mile day. What I think is a 55-mile day. *ominous music*

It is a climbing day. Lovely, wooded, relatively quiet roads that snake up hills at alarming angles. Lots of the time you’re riding and see something high on the horizon and think “that can’t be the road—it’s too … vertical.” And usually it isn’t. It’s a roofline or the like. In Maine it’s the road. The road really does that.

The rain holds off for the morning, which I appreciate, but The Mood is still with me; as I was texting with Wendy and Emily, I really want to love riding in Maine, and right now I hate riding in Maine. We theorize that the universe is helping me prepare emotionally to be done with tour, but this is, of course, not how I’d like to feel wrapping things up.

It is old. It is cute as all get-out; Cape and Victorian homes abound, and the setting is arboreal in the utmost. It is nostalgia-inducing. Sea air! But it is, excuse my language, hilly as fuck, and I am not charmed.

Late morning I run into another cycle tourist headed in the opposite direction, and we stop to chat. His name is Andrew, and he’s doing a year-long tour around the U.S., having started in Minneapolis. We talk shop, and I share some green beans that were free at the side of the road yesterday. Side note: This is a thing I’ve noticed since Vermont or New Hampshire, I can’t remember which. People leave items or boxes of items at the side of the road or have a sign saying “Free Stuff” pointing into a shed or outbuilding. A vacuum cleaner, fans, children’s toys. I haven’t noticed that elsewhere.

As Andrew and I are parting ways, a light sprinkle starts, and then it rains on and off—mostly on—for the rest of the day. I ride through rain over hills. I am not happy about any of it, including meta-unhappiness at my unhappiness.

For the first time on tour I sample the selection in the hot case at the gas station, and the beef and cheese empanada (taco trucks on every corner!) warms me briefly. Did I mention that it’s also not warm? Maybe low 60s, low enough that, damp from sweat and rain, I feel unpleasantly chilly on my short, fast downhills. WHINE. The hills don’t exceed 350 feet at any point, but they are constant. And it rains, and I pass through lovely coastal towns that I hate.

Mid-afternoon, I arrive in Waldboro and pull over for a dry-off at The Narrows Tavern, where I order fried cheese curds and a PBR and contemplate my options. Which turn out to be not great. When I split up the final days, I was probably moving a little fast because I wanted to, you know, hang with Andrew. And I’m guessing I used Googlemaps as a rough mileage guide, rather than doing the work of adding up the mileage sections from the map, as I usually do. Well, this is a section where Googlemaps (which is always wrong as against any other bike route option) and the ACA route are in about 25 miles of disagreement, not in my favor. I thought I had maybe 15 miles left, and it’s more like 40, and I don’t know that I can do that today. And also it’s going to be raining. I find a motel closer than my original campground destination whose price makes my eyes water enough that I can’t commit to booking it. And then I move on.

The headwind intensifies, as does the rain, and the climbing continues unabated. Checking the map (from inside its ziploc, where it and my phone have lived all day) I see that there’s a spot between Thomaston and Rockland where the route jumps off US 1–which it’s on from time to time—and onto back roads, adding 15 miles to the route, and I’m sure it’s a beautiful and pacific way, but I’m kind of miserable and don’t care. And it’s RAINING. Also headwind. The shoulder on 1 has been wide and clean, and though the sound of cars whizzing by incessantly is even more maddeningly loud in the rain, I go for it. Which, just to preclude any concerns, is fine and a good choice.

Outside Rockland, I stop at a gas station to cave and book the motel, but the listing is gone, so I call, and there is one room left, and it’s now $180, and I swallow hard and can’t do it. I say I’ll call back and yank out my phone and start looking for any option. And there, just a few miles ahead of me—not on the ACA map because I’m off route—is a campground.

I call the Megunticook Campground, get myself a site, and get back on the road for my last five miles of rain and climbing.

Amazingly, it stops raining for a while right as I arrive, and I’m able to set up my tent and walk to and from the showers not in the rain, which is huge. It’s too dark to make dinner by the time I’m organized and showered, so I crawl into my tent for a call with mom.

Today was rough. There was my foul mood, but there were also real circumstances the waves of my mood crashed against. Rain, my miscalculation (mistakes that are my own fault are the worst), and what turns out to be over 5500 feet of climbing, the second climbiest day of the whole trip. Including Washington Pass. I mean.

So that was hard, and I adjusted and coped and got myself where I needed to get. And I’m dry in my tent talking to my mom before bed and seeing Nate and Laura tomorrow and Andrew in just two days. And I suddenly realize it’s my last camping night of tour, and that is a wild thought to fall asleep with.

Today was climbier than expected and featured a headwind, and I was grouchy about it.

It started great! I woke up to beautiful morning at Linda and Jan’s, and they made me coffee and a breakfast of all kinds of fruit and yogurt. We talked home rehab, getting Big Linda out for a visit, and the NYT games array. Then they filled my water bottles (and added ice!), and I headed out into the day.

The grades are steep, and there are lots of turns—downhill momentum doesn’t get me far. The country roads the route takes—now Bike Route 1—are named things like Snow Hill Road, Range Hill Road, Fox Ridge Road, Bald Hill Road…you get the idea.

When all is said and done, I climb 3600+ feet—nearly as much as yesterday with its last mountain—without ever breaking 600 feet of elevation. I have few photos because I was pretty much always going up a hill, recovering from a hill, or going down a hill. Unlike my Adirondacks days, where the downhills felt longer than the uphills, today it feels like I’m always climbing and have always been climbing. The headwind doesn’t help, and try as I might I can’t seem to break my lousy mood.

I also still had no reception and couldn’t get my accommodations for the night squared away, which left me anxious, particularly since I’m in the only area where the ACA map affirmatively recommends reservations.

So I did what there is to do in this situation: I pedaled.

And the same thing happened that always happens when when I do that for long enough: I arrived. I got to Brunswick and finally had cell service again. I was able to call the campground and confirm there were spots and make a reservation (an amusingly inapt concern, as it turned out when I arrived soon after—the tent area was nearly deserted).

Thomas Point Beach Campground was a kind of strange place, with a central plaza featuring a train-car snack shop and other whimsical amenities.

But the tent area was in a quiet pine grove apart from the rest of the place, and there was one other tenter all the way at the other end (and a guy who came and sat in a camp chair for an hour or so, then left).

And, as Andrew excitedly pointed in a text that slipped through during a blip of service during the day, I hit coast today! I hadn’t even realized it was the day. But I did, and my campground was on water, and I smelled salt air and I walked by salt marshes and the beach and dipped my feet in the water and tasted it, and it was salty, and holy crap I hit the east coast.

So many lasts today, most notably my last state and my last mountain, the latter of which takes much of the morning.

Leaving the campground I continue my descent into North Woodstock, followed closely by Lincoln. These appear to be White Mountains recreation hubs, all breweries, breakfast places, and outdoors outfitters. At 7:30 a.m. it’s not yet in full swing, but bright-eyed nature explorers are everywhere about, and the traffic is intense.

I have a creeping feeling that by the time I get to Bar Harbor I’ll be ready to be off the road; summer recreational traffic is no fun to ride with, and though I don’t see the massive, ludicrously house-sized campers much out here like I did in the Midwest (more Subarus and van-life vans), the constant approaching roar and receding whine of traffic is wearing. And all the beautiful trees mean logging trucks, so those are back, laboring loudly up the hills.

But first I have to climb this last mountain, whose 2800-foot Kancamagus Pass is my only named pass of the East. (Middlebury Gap was named, but was not a pass. What makes a pass–elevation? Not being coy here; at time of writing I haven’t had cell service for two days and have relied on occasional wifi, so research isn’t within my current capabilities.)

In any case, I climb. It’s real climbing—2800 feet isn’t 5500 feet like out west, but it’s also not nothing. As I’m working my way up, a guy and a woman pass me, and the guy gives me a thumbs up and the woman yells “you’re doing awesome!“ New Hampshire cyclists are so supportive! It feels good and gives me a little boost.

Quiet sit spots are hard to come by here. Even on a Monday morning, every pullout is parked up, every trailhead parking lot full. At one point I pass 10-15 cars parked alongside the road, and look as I might I can’t figure out what they’re all there for. The license plates are New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts—all out tromping around in the woods, enjoying the lakes and rivers and multitude of trails that run through the White Mountains.

I climb some more, and the views get more impressive: sharp-topped green mountains with exposed rock faces, deep valleys filled with wildflowers: Queen Anne’s Lace, goldenrod, purple loosestrife.

As I’m really starting to tire of climbing, the two cyclists who passed me on the way up pass me going down and shout “you’re almost there!” ❤️ And I was. Suddenly I was at the top of my last mountain, with the sweet relief that turns to joy of my last long descent ahead of me

So I lingered. I dried my tent footprint, ate a snack, and hung out until another cyclist out for a day ride crested. Then I got in my lowest gear and went for a fast ride.

Back in the lowlands, I took a riverside sit break.

I rode some unpleasantly busy road, NH 1, I think, and then the route threw me onto a country road, Passaconaway Road. Sometimes the route is like “here, jump off the main road for 3/4 of a mile—it’s nicer!” And I ignore it because why. But sometimes it’s a worthwhile 3-5 mile stretch of relief, and in this case it was one of the loveliest bits of road of the trip. It ran along a river and was quiet and shady, and I enjoyed the heck out of it.

And then Maine! My last state. I feel some kind of way about this, but I’m not sure what that way is.

I stop at a Subway in Fryburg and get on their wifi—I still haven’t had service, no matter the size of the town I’ve passed through, and I’m anxious about the night’s accommodations. ACA recommends reservations through this area. While still near Lincoln, I had called the state park, and they were optimistic about having sites, but don’t take reservations; they said to call back in the afternoon to check again. I’d also emailed a private campground, and they’d written back that they had a site, but I hadn’t had service to respond.

Among the texts and emails coming in is one from Linda, my mother in law, saying her childhood friend who lives in Bridgton—where I’m planning to spend the night—had guests cancel on her and would be happy to host me; Linda had apparently asked awhile back on my behalf. ❤️ In short order I was texting with Linda No. 2–Little Linda, as she later told me she was called, because she was two years younger than her best friend, my Linda—and getting directions to her summer cottage on a lake. (I’m in the lake region now, as every business name reminds me: Lake Region Nursery, Lake Region Auto Repair, etc.)

I let the private campground know I don’t need the site and head out, with the promise of dinner, good company, and a bed ahead of me. It’s a nice trail out of Fryeburg.

… and then around Bridgton there’s some more climbing. And then some more. And I’m sweaty and tired and ready for the shower and salad and chicken. And I do some more climbing. And then I’m at Linda and Jan’s unbelievably charming cottage on tiny Lake Adam. They take me in like I’m family and give me an adorable room and towels and point me to the shower. Once I’m cleaned up they feed me a salad full of veggies with grilled chicken and squash and white wine, and we talk and I hear stories about Linda and little Andrew and Jill. After dinner we sit on their screened-in porch and talk more and watch night fall over the lake and hear a loon. And I feel some inkling of how fortunate I am.

In the morning, I sat outside with the wildflowers for a bit enjoying the chilly and beautiful morning.

Katrina made me coffee with foamed milk, a delightful luxury, and then we loaded up my bike for the drive back to East Thetford. I pull my things together in the parking lot of the Irving Oil.

After several hugs, we part ways, and I ride off into the morning basking in the warm glow of reconnection and Katrina’s excellent company.

My first move of the morning is crossing the Connecticut River into New Hampshire on a car bridge of dubious structural integrity.

I ride green rolling hills, enjoying New Hampshire’s heavy, sweet, musky fir scent. It’s a Sunday, so everyone is out recreating; the White Mountains are alive with outdoor enthusiasts.

Outside Piermont, a smallish hawk alights on the road inches from my feet as I start to accelerate on a downhill. Startled by its miscalculation, it frantically and awkwardly flaps off into the low foliage at the side of the road.

A few minutes later one of two women coasting downhills as I began a big climb shouted across the road to me “you’re amazing!” 💗

I get maple candy at long last, and it’s as delicious as I remember.

I climb a number of hills to get to and through Haverhill, unsurprisingly.

My biggest climb of the day is 2500 feet, and at the top I take a sit break.

Then it’s back down again at a slightly terrifying but exciting 12% grade.

I glide into North Woodstock, a couple of miles short of the bottom, and get to my campground, the hideously expensive Lost River Valley Campground. As I am setting up, every boy child under 14 in the place gets involved in a rowdy game of cornhole across the way; when it devolves into flailing limbs, punches, and name-calling, I intervene and go fetch parents, and there is merciful relative quiet.

It settles right down promptly at 10, though, and I am out like a light.

My mother has lodged an objection to my characterization of my prior travels in Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire, and I wish to correct the record. We spent a lot of time in this region in my childhood and teen years, and I have even ridden in Maine before, on one of the two summer bike trips. I love this area and have a great deal of nostalgia for it. This is my first time riding through it on tour as an adult is probably a more accurate and better way to say it.

Let the record stand corrected. I love you, mom! Thank you for all the northern New England vacations of my youth ❤️

Today’s song and energy: “Get Out the Map” (Indigo Girls).

Today’s fact: Firewood costs $5, whether a bundle, a bin, a rack, a square, or any other name for the standard measurement. That is the cost of firewood (or camp fire wood or camp wood, soft, dry, kiln-dried, premium, however) everywhere across the northern U.S. Somebody please employ that fact for something useful; I have worked very hard in the data gathering process.

I woke up to a dewy tent. The inside was dry, if a bit clammy, but the fly and footprint were soaked and the bottom of the tent damp. It was also quite chilly—low to mid 50s when I emerged. I was glad not to have sent home the down jacket, though just days ago I’d been grousing to Andrew about having held onto it. Not wanting to get my bike shoes and socks soaked, I shuffled around in the grass in my sandals, my feet wet and freezing, as I went about my morning business.

I had hoped to get going around 8 to get to Thetford on the early end and get max Katrina time, but the sun came out as I was gathering my things, and given the forecast for an overcast day it seemed prudent to give my tent and towel some drying time. Plus there are only so many items you can bungee to your panniers and trunk rack bag for drying—limited real estate back there. And I do like to maintain the fiction that my towel is clean, which is hard to do if I’m riding around with it outside my bag collecting road dust. But also being cleaned by the detoxifying power of the sun!

The stories we tell ourselves aside, I thought it best to give my items a chance to dry off and me to take advantage of the WiFi, since cell service had gone scarce again since I got back in the mountains.

So I hung around until nearly 9, succeeding enough in my drying efforts to get my tent and footprint packed away, with room for the fly and towel on my bike’s bum. A glamorous life. Leaving my leggings on (!) and casting a second glance at my Smartwool before packing it up, I set out into the morning and glided the rest of the way downhill into Hancock proper.

Today is Saturday, and each day of the week is now my last my last one on tour: today will be my final Saturday riding, and I have all the mixed and bittersweet feelings you might expect: relief, a sense of pending accomplishment, excitement, sadness, disbelief, and an autumnal melancholy. I am also in my first new state since Montana, I realize; I’ve ridden through NY when Joyce and I did Big Apple by Bike, though I covered a lot of new territory there this time around, but Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine are all new to me. There’s a nice symmetry to wrapping up tour with new (mountainous) states, just as I began it. But before it’s in the bag I have some riding to do, some steep northeastern hills to surmount. Onward!

In Rochester, I got provisions, including a replacement plug for my USB cables. After hanging onto that small, important chunk of plastic for two months (!!), I’d left it at Brookwood or lost it somewhere along the way. Since the zipper on my trunk rack has finally given out, and the bag is held shut by the bungee cords across it, the latter is a distinct possibility.

I also stopped in Rochester for a sit on the White River, which I followed for most of the morning.

Bethel had some cool fish mosaic murals.

I passed through some Royaltons—North, plain old, South.

Late in my riding day I got to my major climb, a steep 1500 foot hill. I had been all “1500 feet, whatever,” but in the offing I was internally whining about how long it seemed to be going on when suddenly I crested and was on the exhilarating and sweet rush down. I hit 39 mph! WHEEEEEEEEE!

I couldn’t refrain from stopping at the river every good chance I had, and I saw little reason to. At Post Mills, just a few miles shy of Thetford, where Katrina was meeting me and with time to spare, I found a particularly lovely little spot on the river where I munched on sugar snap peas and Snyder’s (Hot Buffalo Wings, sorry folks).

I lingered, knowing I had only a few miles left, but I hadn’t looked closely at the elevation map after the big climb and found myself puffing over two more real hills (duh, I guess there’s a reason it’s called Thetford Hill) before my final destination. Whoops. I got to East Thetford red and sweaty and texted Katrina, who arrived a few minutes later. After hugs and hellos—we hadn’t seen each other in nearly 30 years!—she helped me load my bike into her car and we headed for her place about 15 minutes away.

Her place, which was lovely and peaceful and charming, with huge picture windows overlooking a wildflower-covered hill. And at which we sat outside and caught up and moved past catching up to talking just like old friends. She made me salad ☺️ and pasta with pesto and gave me delicious local gin, and it was a perfect evening.

I left the Brookwood RV Resort around 8:30 and began what was essentially a four-mile descent back to the route. (Expensive, bad showers, AND off route. But beer!) There was a cemetery that had caught my eye on the way in (Have I mentioned I love cemeteries? So quiet and peaceful.), so I stopped there even thought I was literally five minutes into my ride. I truly am taking my time, stopping in gas stations, at the tops of hills, at cemeteries and parks whenever I feel like it.

What had originally called my attention was a beautiful pale pink flowering tree, a hydrangea, I think? It was the only flowering plant in the place, and I was curious about whom it shaded and sheltered.

There was a birdhouse hanging from it, and it overhung the graves of what I assume are a mother and daughter, with a space for the granddaughter who would eventually join them. It was startlingly moving.

As I wandered around, another gravesite caught my eye; it had elaborate ornamentation, creating a shrine-like feel.

After a nice sit, I made way back to Ticonderoga, where the last map section of my trip begins. It is a Very Historic Place (and, of course, home to the Ticonderoga pencil).

There were also some nice-enough falls, but I paused only briefly because a way more fun water feature was coming up: a ferry across Lake Champlain!

While I waited for the ferry, I used the available facilities to dry my tent and towel.

After a too-short ride (it’s a cable crossing—not exactly an epic journey), I was in Vermont.

Vermont! My heart swells with VT. I ride through green hills and sweet towns, Middlebury-bound. Leaving Middlebury I’ll have one of my two big eastern climbs to the Middlebury Gap, which I’ve been hearing warnings about since Washington. I alternate between intimidation and arrogance (it’s only 2500 feet!), knowing neither feeling serves me: it’s gonna come and be what it is, and I’m going to climb it. In the meantime, I enjoy views and snacks.

I love Vermont. It’s utterly charming and quirky, all dark greens, deep blues, and cool shade. Eastern upstate NY had resonated deeply within my heart and memory; we spent good chunks of childhood summers on driving vacations there, and the names of the towns all echoed familiar. But Vermont is one of my favorite places, with its maple syrup and snow and hippie vibe. I exclaimed aloud my love for the place, and it gave me a Green Mountain with what I am later told is a 15% grade on its opening volley. It’s “only” 12% on the other side, so I have doubts, but the first part of the climb was brutal. I had to walk two short stretches of the most extremely-graded portions, and it was a long and sweaty climb.

I passed through Bread Loaf, the Middlebury College graduate writing campus, which felt a little eerie, with its matching buildings and completely deserted streets: no people, no businesses. Just large yellow houses with green trim, looking like the set of a horror movie before night falls.

The gap came with no sign or marker, only this indicator that the deed was done.

And indeed it was a steep, fast glide—33 mph max—halfway down the slope to Little Emma’s Sweet Retreat, a small private campground run by an older couple. They showed me around and pointed me to a path down to the river, which, after setting up, I went to explore.

I also spent some time with Bumpus the dog and Duncan and Teddy the donkeys.

It was a lovely place.

Jamie, the veteran cyclist I met by Seventh Lake, had warned me it was very damp, likely because of its location in the valley, but it was, given the miles I wanted to do, the only place to stay. And indeed by the time I was bedding down for the night my tent had a gloss of dew that already come up. But! I had suddenly realized the day before that a high school friend, Katrina, lives in Vermont very near where I’d be staying and had gotten in touch with her and was going to see her tomorrow! She’d kindly offered to pick me up in Thetford and ferry me to her place and back in the morning, and I was very excited about spending time with her. We texted a bit about details, and then I called it a night.