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One of the blogs that I follow is called Bicycle Touring Pro, written by Darren Alff. He has lots of information about touring and put out a request for anyone out on tour to send a postcard.
I dutifully did, and he posted my card and note to his Bicycle Touring Pro website yesterday. If you're thinking about touring for the first time (or second or third or whenever), his site is worth exploring. I've added his RSS feed to the right rail of my page, by the way.
This excerpt from an 1795 map printed by Mathew Carey and Samuel Lewis shows the southwestern part of the Province of Maine, the area through which I bicycled in 2010. The map was part of the first printing of an atlas of American by an American printer.
Portland is near lower center; Lake Sebago, unnamed just above it; the "White Hills" of New Hampshire to the left; and Pemaquid Point and Monhegan Island are to the right.
Our meeting house on the road to New Harbor.
July 17, 2010 — SEACHANGE, Maine
Between expectation of the end of the trip and a series of
difficult hill climbs, the last day of tour brought me frustration during most
of the day, but a reward at the end.
When I had talked to Alison the night before, she sounded as though she wanted us to arrive at Seachange, her family’s summer house on Pemaquid Point, at the same time. She and her son, Luke, and brother, Ian, were flying into Portland as I had done a week earlier and then driving up to Seachange. Along the way, they were going to stop for groceries as well as making a traditional stop for fish tacos and lobster rolls in Damariscotta, the gateway to the point.
After figuring out their timing — arrive at 2:30, leave airport by 3:00, drive to Damariscotta, shop for groceries, eat some food — they would be on the final road to Seachange at about 5:30, which meant that I could loll around Augusta in the morning and take my time riding south.
I was partly right.
I ate a continental breakfast at the hotel and then packed up and rolled out by about 10:30 a.m., asking about museums before I left. I rolled down to the Fort Western Historic Site, but it didn’t open until the afternoon. A reproduction of the original fort at Augusta, overlooking the Kennebec River, allows visitors to go back in time, but it doesn’t to skip ahead to the afternoon opening.
So I rode over to the capital grounds to find the Maine State Museum. Very nice museum. Admission was $2 if I remember right. The museum is in a nondescript building with the state libraries and archives. It has four floors of exhibits, everything from paleo-indian excavations to part of the hold of a 19th century ship built in Maine to a two-story working water wheel. It was very nicely laid out and well organized. I’ll have to ask Paul about it the next time I see him.
It was 12:30 by the time I got through and hit the bike path south to Gardiner. I almost stopped in Hallowell, where the Old Hallowell Days were in progress. Funnel cakes and cotton candy down by the riverside, art booths and craft tables up along main street. Instead of stopping, I rode slowly through to see the wares. When I got to Gardiner, I ate lunch.
Back on the bike, I crossed the Kennebec and headed into the rock-ribbed country between the Kennebec and the Damariscotta River. It was rough two-lane roads, mostly quiet because even the motor-vehicle drivers look for easier roads! They dove into a valley and then climbed steeply onto the next ridge, then dove again.
I went through three quaint New England towns (almost forgot to use that cliché): East Pittston, Head Tide and Alna, each quainter than the previous.
The difficulty of the up-and-down riding slowed me down considerably and it looked to me like I wouldn’t make it onto Pemaquid Point on time to see Alison, Luke and Ian. It was 5:30 by the time I got to Damariscotta, and surely Alison had been keeping them moving to see me at Seachange as early as possible.
I thought about stopping for a bottle of Gatorade but kept on going until I found a convenience store somewhere south of Bristol.
Back on the road I came round a bend and saw a car pulled off on the shoulder near a house. The cars’ warning lights were flashing. It took a few seconds for it to sink in, but then I smiled broadly. As I approached, here were Alison, Luke and Ian sitting in a row, slightly hidden from my approach by trees and a rise of ground.
Big hugs and welcomes and how-did-you-time-this-so-wells. Turns out that Alison had seen me pedaling through Damariscotta when they had stopped for food. She yelled at me but I was too far away (or too focused on roadway traffic) to hear her. They finished eating, got groceries and drove down the point, catching me just after Bristol and before New Harbor.
Ian drew me a map to sort through the many splits in the road leading from New Harbor down to their house, which saved me riding to the end of every road on the peninsula to find my way, and which I surely would have had to do without the map.
And so I am arrived at Seachange, the summer house designed by Alison’s dad, Herb Fowler, for his sister, Deedee, and which now is shared by a half dozen cousins of the next generation.
The surf is in constant flux outside, the tide rolls in and
out with the weight of the moon, the lobster boats come and go with their buoys
and traps, and the whole of the world changes without ever really changing.
The Kennebec River with downtown Augusta on the left.
July 16, 2010 — AUGUSTA, Maine
After waking up Friday morning and rubbing lots and lots of sleep out of my eyes (that's what not having a shower will do for your beauty sleep), I rode out of my graveyard and back onto the highway.
I fully expected to find a campground or Motel 6 at the bottom of the next hill, but did not. I don't think I saw a hotel until I got to Augusta, the capital of Maine. By the way, that's always a good trivia question. Everyone remembers Portland and Bangor, but no one remembers Augusta.
It's a very pretty town on the banks of the Kennebec River.
I ate some lunch beneath the shady trees surrounding Capitol Park, a broad lawn sweeping downhill from the Maine Capitol nearly to the river. I debated whether to travel further toward New Harbor, my final destination, or to stay at Augusta. The next large town downstream is Gardiner, and a six-mile Kennebec River Rail-Trail runs south from Augusta to Gardiner.
I finally decided I could ride down, see if there is a hotel in Gardiner and then ride back if there isn't. Which is exactly what I did. No motels in Gardiner. Nearest one is probably in Augusta, I was told. So I came back to Augusta and now have a room at the Senator Inn and Spa. Rough life. Did I mention the restaurant and the seafood medley and Spanish Torres wine? Well, I am on vacation.
Headed for New Harbor down on Pemiquid Point today. I can't believe none of my conspiracy-theorist friends haven't wondered why I'm on the coast of Maine at the same time as President Obama. Well, someone needs to give him advice on the National Bicycle Route System, of course. Not that he needs a lot. Ray LaHood, the secretary of transportation, has expressed a lot of desire to increase bicycle opportunities and increase funding for bicycle lanes and and paths.
Arkansas is one of two states that the Adventure Cycling Association does not have a route going through, in part because of the condition of our roads. The U.S. Bicycle Route System will have routes through Arkansas, but Arkansas is pretty far down the line compared to states that have embraced the notion that highways and roads can serve both automotive and bicycle traffic.
Ten tombstones, their owners sent to heaven;
As tired as Charlie is, will he become eleven?
July 15 — HAINES CORNER CEMETERY, Maine
I bicycled out of Gorham under sunny skies and skipped off the main highway, crossed the Androscoggin River and followed the North Road, which parallels U.S. Highway 2 but is a small, shady road with almost no traffic. The woman at the visitor center also said I would have a better chance of seeing moose. I saw a woodchuck.
The Androscoggin River meanders southeasterly, the same direction I was going and it means that my path is downhill on the whole, but there's only 700 feet to lose between here and the coast, so it's not like I'm on a superslide.
I quickly passed the Maine border and eventually reconnected with U.S. 2 at Bethel. The legs are firming up and pedaling seemed to go well. Like usual, my shoulders still suffer, but everything else seems good.
I had planned to stop at Rumford Falls for the night. There was a motel on the west side, well before the downtown of the city, so I kept going thinking surely I would find a hotel or motel closer to downtown. No luck. I kept pedaling assuming I would find a hotel at the next large town, Livermore Falls. No luck again.
Both Rumford and Livermore seemed to be built upon the lumber industry. The smell of paper mills was the same as what I had encountered in Pine Bluff and Nashville, Ark., many years earlier.
I kept going. I rode through Mexico and Peru. Really. I kept on until I was too tired to keep going. I pulled over and pitched the tent between a vacant house and a graveyard.
And I fell asleep after eating a Quaker Chewy Granola Bar.
The Gorham city commons, train depot and the Coos County court building.
July 14, 2010 — GORHAM, N.H.
Another short day of riding coming up the valley of the Israel River, over a slight divide at Bowman and down the valley of Moose River. To the south of me, somewhere swallowed by the clouds were the Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Eisenhower and Washington mountains.
A front moved through last night, brought rain overnight and low, dark clouds for most of my ride today. The rain held off until late in the day by which time I was happily ensconced at the Top Notch Inn.
I just finished piling a bowl of pasta into me. The pasta. Not the bowl. So I'm pretty happy.
The scenery here is simply gorgeous. The White Mountains seem to mix the luscious green of the Ozarks with the granite ruggedness of the Rockies. The highway followed some rolling hills before dropping into the Israel valley. I must have passed two dozen or so bicyclists riding west in four or five groups. Never saw anyone going my direction today. Too bad for them.
Almost forgot. Santa's Village. It's not at the North Pole. The North Pole is here in New Hampshire, on U.S. Highway 2. I stopped at the parking lot, which was packed. I was surprised to find that it was as humid as the rest of New Hampshire. I won't stop there again. It took me 15 miles to get "The Little Drummer Boy" out of my head.
July 13, 2010 — LANCASTER, N.H.
I took a rest day of sorts. Monday was such a long, hot and tiresome day that I decided to forego my plans to head north to Island Pond and instead took a short ride up the Connecticut River from Littleton to Lancaster, about 30 miles. I did take the time to cross the river on an old covered bridge just so I could ride in Vermont for a short spell.
It was also the flatter route.
My occasional posts by iPhone will cease, unfortunately. I lost the phone somewhere along the way today. So don't bother texting me at the moment. Or calling. I'll be running silent for a little bit. I needed a new iPhone anyway.
As a result, I'll try to hit wifi spots along the rest of my route back toward Maine to add updates. The weather here is quite warm and as humid as Arkansas at the moment. So I'm fairly glad to have made the option for shorter days, and hopefully easier roads.
The last six miles, I rode into Lancaster with a local named Tom who told me where to find groceries, get pizza, and directions for tomorrow's ride.
July 13, 2010 — Vermont
I skipped into Vermont briefly. Originally, I had planned to bike north to Island Pond, which has been described to me as very pretty, but my body was aching after the ride into Littleton and I decided that I should shorten my days a little, let my legs recover and enjoy the scenery.
While riding from Littleton, N.H., to Lancaster, N.H., I zipped across the Connecticut River on another one of them wooden covered bridges. This one, the Mount Orne Covered Bridge, had been relegated to pedestrian and bicycle use because a couple of dim-witted truck drivers had tried to steer semi-tractor trailers across it.
I happened to meet a cyclist at the bridge who gave me advice about getting to Lancaster, mainly that I should ride the Vermont side of the river. The New Hampshire side would get hilly between the Mount Orne bridge and Lancaster. The Vermont side proved to have nice wide shoulders, a bit more traffic.
The cyclist who rode with me told me that they had had a shooting recently. The farmer on the hill apparently didn't like the stink of manure that another neighbor farmer in the dell was spreading on his cornfields. Having ridden past the aforementioned stink, I find great sympathy for the hill farmer.
But back to New Hampshire where the motto is "Live Free or Die," which would make sense if there were a choice to be made.
The White Mountains of northern New Hampshire.
July 12, 2010 — LITTLETON, N.H.
Overnight, the bear came back, but I slept right through it.
And apparently none of my food did appeal to it.
I headed back onto Kancamagus Highway under blazing blue skies. Soon, I arrived at Sabbaday Falls and made the short hike to see them. They reminded me of Indian Creek near Kyle’s Landing, except even prettier. Legend is that the falls were named by workers who were building on the original road. The named it after the Sabbath Day, but it got shortened to Sabbaday.
Just after the hike to falls, the roadway kicked up to a 9 percent grade and I slowed down to 3.6 miles per hour for the next hour or so until I made it over Kancamagus Pass, elevation 2,855. The ride down into Lincoln was a blur. I hit 40 mph at some point on the long downhill stretch.
From Loon Mountain ski area, I found a bike path paralleling the highway into Lincoln. I grabbed some lunch at Lincoln. The temperatures had been so hot and the sun so bright, though, that food didn’t really feel very good on the stomach.
Lincoln seemed like a town built mostly on tourism, summer sports like hiking, bicycling, kayaking; winter sports like skiing, snow-shoeing and ice skating; and fall and spring touring through the mountains by car or motorcycle. Lots of shops welcoming bikers. About half the people at Kancamagus Highway overlooks seemed to be from Canada. Guess that's what happens when one country's economy takes a dip and another swims above the current.
I headed out from Lincoln west toward Woodsville, a slight diversion since my goal for the end of the day was Littleton to the north. But there was a rail-trail between Woodsville and Littleton that I wanted to ride if it was suitable. I had read about the trail but couldn’t find out whether it was paved or not.
It turned out to be the wrong day for diversion.
The road between Lincoln and Woodsville went straight up the valley of Lost River and over Kinsman Notch (sounds like the storyboard for a Johnny Quest cartoon, yes?) By straight up, I mean it had a grade that made the Kancamagus seem as flat as Kansas. The last mile or so,
which was somewhere around 11 or 12 percent, I had to push the bike. I simply
couldn’t pedal anymore. The heat didn’t help, but the grade was just too much.
The long ride downhill to the Wild Ammonoosuc River valley was pretty but not worth the pushing on the back side. I stopped at Scooter’s Mini-Golf and Grill for a cup of vanilla ice cream. That was almost worth the push.
Sadly, the rail trail from Woodsville to Littleton wasn’t suitable for a touring bicycle. A mountain bike would probably handle it, but the old railroad bed still had lots of sections over which large gravel and ballast were left over from the railroad days. Highway 2, which followed the same valley, proved to be a nice ride and even a little shady by the end of the day.
I needed the shade by the end of the day. The sun and the mountains took their toll on me.
I’m booked into the Littleton Motel, the oldest motel in New Hampshire, a dubious brag. Thayer’s Hotel just down the street opened about a century earlier, so perhaps every year means something for a motor hotel. The little motel was really quite nice: knotty pine paneling, a view of the Dunkin Donuts, close proximity to downtown.
Sleep. Now sleep. Dream of donuts.
July 11, 2010 — PASSACONAWAY CAMPGROUND, N.H.
Light came too early. I kept my eyes closed and tried to
savor the last bit of sleep.
Then the inevitable. I packed up. The rainfly was damp from sprinkles during the night, but everything else went onto the bike in quick order.
I was on the highway by 8:30. I wanted the early start because I knew this would probably be a little bit longer day than most. I didn’t know how long.
I missed a turn and continued around the north side of Lake
Sebago rather than heading west toward Conway, N.H. The mistake probably added
10 miles to my ride, which is like an extra hour in human years. Getting back
on the right path, I had to go over two fairly steep mountain roads. One of
them was called Long Hill Road, and the name was neither metaphorical nor ironic
save for the use of the term “road.” The “roads” in Newton County
put Long Hill Road to shame. While I’m on the subject, many of the secondary roads in
Maine are really bad. I understand the economy of not providing shoulders, but
many of these roads could just use lanes.
Anyway, I made it into New Hampshire not long after noon and
found much better roads. From the state line to Conway, the shoulders were
about three feet wide. The morning hills had worn on me, though, and there were
a few points where I thought my legs might cramp. I began weighing whether to
stop in Conway for the night.
The thought of a hotel room and restaurant food were nearly overwhelming, but I got into Conway a little faster than I expected. The legs weren’t perfect but had done much better since I had been on the wider shoulders and could pedal at an easier pace.
So I kept going.
Out of Conway, I followed the Kancamagus Highway. (A quieter
road called Passaconaway Road paralleled the highway, but I couldn’t find it on
the state maps, and my iPhone lost service once I got out of Conway.)
Nevertheless, the Kankamagus Highway proved a nice ride. It follows the Swift
River upstream, slowly gaining elevation as it climbs into the White Mountains National
Forest.
Along the way are historic sites, hiking trails, picnic areas and beautiful views of the Swift River. I stopped at several places, once to plop down in the river and cool off.
My favorite spot, though, was the Albany Covered Bridge,
built in 1857. It’s gorgeous and still used for traffic. A brief rainstorm sent
me scurrying for its cover, and soon I was joined by four motorcyclists trying
to avoid the rain. After about a half hour the rain stopped, and I headed back
out on the highway.
I’ve come to rest at Passaconaway Campground. It is nearly empty and quiet and shady. I can hear dozens of birds in the trees, chirping chipmunks on the forest floor, and the occasional snapping of tree limbs as a black bear wanders through. OK, I can’t really hear the bear, but the campground hosts stopped by my campsite to ask whether I had any food a bear might like.
Is there any food a bear does not like? My response was not taken in the vein of good humor that I had intended.
Apparently there’s a black bear that likes my campsite and was rummaging through it and a couple adjoining campsites yesterday, scaring the living daylights out of the families who were here for the weekend.
Truth be told, I don’t have much food a bear would want. I barely have food that I want.
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