Days Nine & Ten

It was clear by the morning that my ride was going to be waylaid again at some point soon. This time by Hurricane Lee. I’d initially planned just to make it to Sinclair, which is a quiet vacation community on Long Lake in Maine. But I reasoned that if I could get to the border with Canada, stopping either in Madawaska, Maine or Edmundston, New Brunswick, I could ride out any foul weather in a slightly larger city and have better options for hotels, food, etc., rather than be forced to eat at the one place in town, with the only grocery store miles away. It would be a long day, with some significant climbs, but it seemed like the smarter target to shoot for.

Chris, my Warmshowers host, showed me how to get back on the Bangor-Aroostook trail and shave some miles off the route I’d planned (bypassing the town of Caribou, unfortunately), connecting back up with it up at New Sweden. Also, because it was a railbed trail, it was likely going to be a little less hilly. And as it would be largely lined with trees, there might be less wind (which was picking up quite a lot as the hurricane was pulling in air down from the North to feed it). The winds weren’t crazy - not just yet - but when it’s a headwind you have to fight all day, finding ways to dodge it can make a big difference, obviously.

There was an entrance to the trail right at the bottom of a pathway from their front yard. Getting an early start, I hit the trail, and this section was just as easily passable as the last part I’d ridden into town. It was great riding weather - brisk but not rudely chilly, with the sun struggling to come out. Absent the wind, it would have been perfect. I watched the forest roll by as I dodged potholes and roots.

When the route started to get a bit more rugged, just to confirm that I was on the right path, I checked the trail map that I’d downloaded the night before. I discovered that I’d missed a turn about 3-4 miles back. (The signage can be found a little lacking at some points along the way, but it could also just have been that I was distracted by the views.) Not a big deal, and easily correctable; I turned around and quite soon found a place to jump over between trails. But I’d probably added back some of the mileage I was hoping to save with this route choice. Regardless, I resolved to keep checking the trail map, along the way. Didn’t want to make a habit of getting lost in the middle of the woods when I’m trying to outrun a hurricane.

The path was really pretty gorgeous. Old wooden bridges, which looked like they may have seen a few harsh winters but which also looked strong enough to see a few more without needing much tending, appeared at several points along the way as I rode over the creeks and ponds. The terrain was littered with weatherbeaten tree trunks half submerged in various waterways or scraggly patches of scrub brush fields that broke up the monotony of pine trees standing side by side like soldiers on parade.

Eventually, at New Sweden, I got back onto the route, which now had me riding up state route 161. This was going to be one of those stretches where I’d be sharing the road with cars. To be fair, they were pretty good about giving me plenty of room, but still … feh. It’s fine for a mile or two, but unfortunately, this was going to go on for a bit. Just a feature of the limited options for routes.

I grabbed lunch at a convenience store in New Sweden and got back out on the road. Funny, until recently I hadn’t actually stood for a meal since I ate a Gray’s Papaya somewhere in midtown, but it’s become the norm on this ride in terms of midday refueling; I’ve often had to stand & eat outside various delis and gas stations, balancing a sandwich and bag of chips on my saddle. Just as well, as I usually want to get rolling again as soon as possible, before I cool down too much.

Once I hit the intersection of 161 and 162, traffic lessened. Which was good, frankly, because so did the shoulder. Eventually I was riding along the shores of Mud Lake and then Long Lake, looking at a series of lake houses and RV parks, some which seemed like summer homes, some which may well have been year-round. I don’t know how long the lake is useable for water sports like water skiing or jet skiing, or whether there’s ice fishing in the winter, but I imagine the quiet and respite of a lake house is valuable if only for the idea. It would seem so, given that many of the homes were simple mobile homes or overbuilt sheds. Woodshed or mansion, a house on a lake is a House on a Lake.

All along this stretch, both 161 and 162 as I pulled away from Sinclair and Long Lake, I was met with the inclines that told me I was getting close to the border, the hills I needed to cross before I could get to the St. John River that divides the US and Canada. French Canadian influence was cropping up everywhere. Bi-lingual road signs, distances measured in both miles and kilometers, accented English mixed with broken French among travelers at rest stops, and references to Acadian culture or people in the historical markers along the side of the road.

Finally, the last stretch of unpaved road I was destined to ride in the United States (on this trip, anyway) began at the foot of a long, grueling hill of two miles, climbing over 1,500 feet (with several dips and recoveries along the way) on an incline that topped out at around 9% at points. At the bottom of the hill was a warning that this road is closed during winter months. I didn’t doubt it. I wouldn’t want to be gingerly sliding down it on a sheet of ice in the middle of January. But to get around it would have added too many miles, and incurred too much traffic. This option was as voluntary as it was brutal.

The thing about Maine, though, is that - on the whole - it’s a flat state. By which I mean that any elevation gained on a hill is usually matched quite soon with a roughly equivalent descent on the other side. You don’t typically climb somewhere here and stay at a new elevation - the hills, challenging though they are, are just interruptions in the terrain, rather than ramps into a new level. And I had a great slalom down the other side into the industrial town of Madawaska, right on the border.

Then, I turned a few corners, a left at one deli, a right at an industrial building of some sort, rode a quarter mile through a drab industrial stretch, and boom - I was on the bridge to Canada. I could have been on a bridge to another side of town, for all its lack of hoopla. I could have maybe made a pedestrian crossing and just walked my bike, but I rode across. Funny how some transitions seem so huge for so long until you get to the point where you’re actually, finally, making them.

I didn’t amuse the border guard when I couldn’t tell him where in Edmundston I would be staying, where in Québec I would be staying, or even when the date of my departure was. It’s certainly not illegal to enter Canada with uncertain plans, but … I think they’d rather you had one. Oh well, too bad.

Crossing the border, I went to get a scoop of ice cream and look for a hotel. It was only when I got the register that I realized, in my joy at having made it all the way to Canada, that I had forgotten to change any US money into Canadian dollars. So I paid for an ice cream cone in US without taking advantage of the exchange rate (ah well), and sat down with my phone, scrolling through the limited hotel options I could find.

The hurricane seemed to have encouraged everyone to find a place to hunker, but I managed to find a room at a Comfort Inn in a more industrial stretch up the hill from the town center, and I rode straight there. That night, I watched whatever weather reports on the storm that I could find as I charged all my devices, and I went to sleep knowing I’d just have to see what the situation was in the morning whether I decided to push on or stay in place for a day as the storm passed by.

The next day, I woke up early and went downstairs for breakfast. Stepping out the front door of the hotel, I checked the weather. Though still dry, storm clouds poured and the wind sharply snapped the New Brunswick flag on its pole in the parking lot. Looked like an ‘enforced day of rest’ for me. Heading back in for coffee and whatever was on the menu, I figured I’d be alone. It was just after 6am, as I’ve gotten into the habit of rising early to maximize daylight riding hours. I could read the paper on my phone, or whatever. Walking past reception, I saw sitting on a table outside the breakfast room I saw what looked like four oddly folded black napkins, each in the shape of something like a vase or upside down bonnet. “Odd,” I thought to myself. Then I walked inside.

Twelve older Mennonite (I’m guessing?) folks sat silently fueling up for their trip at an hour to which, I’m guessing, they were not nearly so foreign as I. All of a sudden I felt like I’d walked into a farm kitchen - one that just happened to have an orange juice machine and waffle maker. Now, I share the same fascination as anyone might with the concept of ‘the other’ - it’s a curiosity that calls into question my own habits of how I go about my life as much as it does about how they go about theirs. I also wonder how much of any of us structure our environments and behaviors intentionally or habitually. And whether a deviation from a specific norm can seem radical within one culture while unnoticeable in another. For instance, why did some women have simple, black, seemingly handmade shoes while others had sneakers? Is it a nothing difference to them? Is there a financial reason? Does it signify anything about a resonance with (or resistance to) the more commonly seen secular culture around them? And is there any difference between that variation and that of the four young teenagers sitting in the other corner, three with black goth denim and spikes and one in a pink sweater and gold jewelry? The things that link what we perceive as internal differences are maybe the dialog which should define someone within a particular culture, rather than what we perceive as the difference between that culture and our own. We are born into a culture - we move through each culture, and make choices within them, as individuals.

Fed and caffeinated, I went back upstairs to watch more weather. I sat down on the bed … and woke up at noon. Clearly I wasn’t done resting. And I went out just long enough to find an ATM to get Canadian dollars and to find a truck stop where I could use a hose to wash the grit off my bike.

I returned just as the weather thrown off by Hurricane Lee was hitting, and I spent the rest of the day tending to things. Laundry, re-packing, charging devices, catching up on the blog. I fell short in my photo record, because … well … we all know (or can easily imagine) what the inside of a room at a freeway Comfort Inn can look like, yes? #nuffsaid