Day 64. Newcomb to Ticonderoga, 53 miles

I woke up once at 3 to a tiny stampede of feet and rustling foliage outside my tent. I wasn’t alarmed; as Andrew commented, bears are not surreptitious creatures. And my food was in the bathroom. But I did want to make sure my dismissal of raccoons in my previous post hadn’t summoned legions now prodding my panniers with their strangely hand-like paws. Nope. It was likely ground squirrels. I got back in my tent and promptly fell right back asleep. In the morning, all was cool fog and soft edges. My tent was, miraculously, pretty much dry but for the footprint. I packed up slowly and a little regretfully: this is definitely one of my favorite campsites of the trip. Before leaving, I sat looking out at what had been the lake before a curtain of mist obscured it, and a tiny hummingbird came and did its business with the water flowers.

And then I set off into the morning. It was chilly enough that I didn’t mind some hard work first thing, a good frame of mind since I climbed right away from that pretty little lake.

I did some leisurely riding, with ups and downs and all of it pleasant. The sun came out and burned off the fog, but it was that perfect temperature where you kinda want to be in the sun because it’s warm, but shade feels nice too.

I was starting down a hill and saw a couple of cars parked in a pullout, which was odd because there was no sign indicating a parking area; I glanced over and saw a waterfall down the embankment. Screeeeech. (Not actually—my brakes are doing great; thank you, Steve.) I pulled over, spotted the trail to the falls, stashed my bike, and trotted on down.

Magic. There were a couple of sets of small falls, and I was warm enough from the climbing and the sun to take advantage. I found myself a rock, took off my shoes, and hung out for a while cooling my toes and listening to the water. Then I clambered around for a bit before heading back to my bike to continue the day’s ride.

It was hilly, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Mostly it was just pretty and rural; real towns were a fair distance apart. I wish you could smell it. [Insert my customary lament about the non-existence of smell prints.] It’s a piney smell, but not that sharply astringent winter pine smell (which I also love!). The heat mellows it and makes it muskier and rich, and I keep breathing deeply just to inhale the scent.

More lakes, including Paradox Lake, whose main paradox appeared to be the large stretches of its beach that were private and this sign I had to practically bushwhack my way to.

There is a state park, so maybe that’s it? Or what’s left of it? Perfunctory internet research turned up nothing, unsurprisingly.

I arrived outside Ticonderoga late afternoon, still lollygagging, because I could.

The Brookwood RV Resort was expensive (more than Joyce and I paid for motels when we started touring!) and perfectly pleasant. The store sold good single beers!

But also the shower cost 50 cents and its water pressure was the worst. The worst of the trip, of any campground, of maybe my life.

As I finished my ablutions around 8, it started pouring, so I hid out in the bathhouse until it stopped then dashed to my tent for the night.