Day 68. North Woodstock to Bridgton, ME, 70 miles

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.