tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117813691079245862024-03-17T20:00:34.319-07:00George the CyclistJeff Potterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03790219160140511776noreply@blogger.comBlogger1705125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-90471601297675088902023-11-17T06:03:00.000-08:002023-12-16T16:48:17.422-08:00Schenectady, New York<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge76TZcyzBKODCSSDpbrisjbCWeIDTqsbLmnWQUu7JolUroAtO5Hy-9R2foCTfg9HPOmoW1oAMwOkxe5se79ghp0WIsflBev2AtqT-5DGLxfi6S34XBCaMqcM9VwLhvS7NoshCreHgvScRwIVigN_JWU1GooI2X4BFUxGiIEbxbbuPRXkU0x28URAH8Gsl/s1099/IMG_2750.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="824" data-original-width="1099" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge76TZcyzBKODCSSDpbrisjbCWeIDTqsbLmnWQUu7JolUroAtO5Hy-9R2foCTfg9HPOmoW1oAMwOkxe5se79ghp0WIsflBev2AtqT-5DGLxfi6S34XBCaMqcM9VwLhvS7NoshCreHgvScRwIVigN_JWU1GooI2X4BFUxGiIEbxbbuPRXkU0x28URAH8Gsl/w400-h300/IMG_2750.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: left;"></span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: left;">I could not have asked for a finer finish to my six-week circuit of the Northeast corner of North America with four final Carnegies, each a gem, beginning with that in Gloversville, butterfly-shaped with a domed corner entrance enhanced by an assortment of frills. It was one of the few, and the first in a while, that had Carnegie in prominence on its facade, rather than merely Library or Free Library or Public Library. </span></div><p></p><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UFN0UWIPpYoiXHqUFP08sHcAGvZ-3ykxudCY0FrlhUQevwlh8dTxQBPUt14R-LRufZ93eA1iU-KRxt7ZOYLQ3bWN5chvTOfha64pMRThbJdVctgKWPAYWTTl7nRxTf4EiAQxy1djjCCF3nd3kdOIpDVFqtJq3eXhlpmCS4qztDBck41VHLr_5ze7dum1/s2708/IMG_2718.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1928" data-original-width="2708" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UFN0UWIPpYoiXHqUFP08sHcAGvZ-3ykxudCY0FrlhUQevwlh8dTxQBPUt14R-LRufZ93eA1iU-KRxt7ZOYLQ3bWN5chvTOfha64pMRThbJdVctgKWPAYWTTl7nRxTf4EiAQxy1djjCCF3nd3kdOIpDVFqtJq3eXhlpmCS4qztDBck41VHLr_5ze7dum1/w400-h285/IMG_2718.jpeg" width="400" /></a><div><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">As with many Carnegies, a water color capturing all the library’s glory could be found within. This one was unique with all its added embellishments, including a horse drawn carriage and people in formal attire walking by. The painter also chose to replace “Carnegie” above its entrance with “Free to All.” The painting was done by the architect, so possibly he made it before the library was constructed when it was later decided to put “Carnegie” on it instead of “Free to All,” as “Gloverville Free Library” was etched above “Carnegie” on the actual library and not in the painting.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1OLHg6SUqpI9dDV23L2uXhhFUdeV43fyHsIPJIk0YOjj3RycbvEerVTgpPKRCKypzXaRKnehRed2qu3gi-2JwVNYB11rCBmbYH76kZbTxHgGhSFNJ2rh_ZxyBro8m195oV3alvgTqWEhlS1fXfWxnPIZ-ZoMqE6Jgcfon7KkxZ3EDtVK2oqfpERXaUnK/s1089/IMG_2752.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1089" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1OLHg6SUqpI9dDV23L2uXhhFUdeV43fyHsIPJIk0YOjj3RycbvEerVTgpPKRCKypzXaRKnehRed2qu3gi-2JwVNYB11rCBmbYH76kZbTxHgGhSFNJ2rh_ZxyBro8m195oV3alvgTqWEhlS1fXfWxnPIZ-ZoMqE6Jgcfon7KkxZ3EDtVK2oqfpERXaUnK/w400-h294/IMG_2752.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>I met a photographer at the next Carnegie in Johnstown, just four miles south, and complained that I didn’t get as worthy of a photo of the Gloverville library as I would have liked shooting into the low morning sun. He said he could send me a better photo and also one of the Johnstown library, as I had to closely crop mine to remove a parked car out front. The person who parked the car didn’t know why I’d left my bike and was walking away from the library across the street to take a picture of it and asked if I was lost. These easterners aren’t bashful in speaking up.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22x0znRe5lbPNuZEf7dhY1mvRJtipA8gZwqSucYPKtRF4DlKT5yLnkJ9HruYRMD5xFsVaHRnVtXuZFL10Q53JGhAg_I2dnmcEWAcTRHkFRZcIW0l9s_ef6bIbIX25Rk9Xtl7SP0Zu0F257-ZKNP-dqSY7vKhIiE75pWSuLKRotzORzzEFDRgoP_KSae0R/s3264/IMG_2708.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22x0znRe5lbPNuZEf7dhY1mvRJtipA8gZwqSucYPKtRF4DlKT5yLnkJ9HruYRMD5xFsVaHRnVtXuZFL10Q53JGhAg_I2dnmcEWAcTRHkFRZcIW0l9s_ef6bIbIX25Rk9Xtl7SP0Zu0F257-ZKNP-dqSY7vKhIiE75pWSuLKRotzORzzEFDRgoP_KSae0R/w400-h300/IMG_2708.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>This first pair of libraries early in the day was removing the sour taste I had from the imitation Carnegie library I had come upon in Valley Falls the day before, the only one in seventy miles on the lightly traveled back roads of New York after leaving Laura and Ken. It dated to 1913 and was funded by a local of wealth, recruited by a women’s group that had only managed to scrape up $100 until he came along and gave $4,200. The history of the library gave no explanation why they didn’t turn to Carnegie. The lackluster exterior was matched by a plaque inside the entry that misspelled library. Funds were so tight they didn’t replace it. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLVaf2ACexEiBxVSDxJi-kGA4O4O0zpkqXzWXP8LRsTJx7t3BXSC3vyrnk8V-PUtbsl5hDig5AuJ19tbHayWpn-uShz2Hsgffij6OYGJ8vy-D9K1639SVLwYZj4V2wLDGxWTGfI1n9PfPRkYU64t__5og9_vS_WGxqVTh2gF66qotwwr9bh9PXr6A7VIMB/s1950/IMG_2707.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1751" data-original-width="1950" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLVaf2ACexEiBxVSDxJi-kGA4O4O0zpkqXzWXP8LRsTJx7t3BXSC3vyrnk8V-PUtbsl5hDig5AuJ19tbHayWpn-uShz2Hsgffij6OYGJ8vy-D9K1639SVLwYZj4V2wLDGxWTGfI1n9PfPRkYU64t__5og9_vS_WGxqVTh2gF66qotwwr9bh9PXr6A7VIMB/w400-h359/IMG_2707.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>A few miles past Johnstown the road tagged along with the Mohawk River which I followed to the next Carnegie in Amsterdam and then to Schenectady. I thought at first it was the Hudson River, but I would have had to continue another fifteen miles beyond Schenectady to meet up with it when the Mohawk merged with it. It was a most welcome flat stretch to end these travels. My legs were finally feeling depleted after two lengthy days of climbing spending a little extra time on the bike to ensure I wasn’t late for my train.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWjB_cDzanJSVmZ-AFVimzkEf4q4S7efwro1i-wWqxieZxR3na66nVRQfTLK3OYAaRpkiwRPx0eulxzwWLC3GgtGu_YRb5awGDngoTTKGmfgYJNURFlfozEtE4wNt4wNhUTlctUj9l-XkxkMYQiXRQdjk9akSzlL6V7jVIZ4kRVEzRA1OizVosfZ8IHCJ/s3260/IMG_2723.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2034" data-original-width="3260" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWjB_cDzanJSVmZ-AFVimzkEf4q4S7efwro1i-wWqxieZxR3na66nVRQfTLK3OYAaRpkiwRPx0eulxzwWLC3GgtGu_YRb5awGDngoTTKGmfgYJNURFlfozEtE4wNt4wNhUTlctUj9l-XkxkMYQiXRQdjk9akSzlL6V7jVIZ4kRVEzRA1OizVosfZ8IHCJ/w400-h250/IMG_2723.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>The Amsterdam Carnegie was perched several blocks up from the river giving it a little extra prominence. When I told the photographer in Johnstown that I was headed to Amsterdam he blurted, “That’s the hometown of Kirk Douglas. There’s a park there named for him.” I wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t mentioned it, as there was no sign to it nor “Welcome to Amsterdam, home of Kirk Douglas.” The park was just a block from the library along a fast rushing creek with a series of waterfalls heading to the Mohawk River. The park was small and its plaque splattered with bird droppings. The park had been renamed for Douglas in 1985 when he came to town to be the grand marshall of a parade celebrating the town’s centennial.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcl8HpwV33ZEV0xetVq8-slOtdyINYcWCAxUvCoe_tike-0ulOCx8wp3haCLK7bzMs74RAnfI4NJ4XAvfCwPazqsZiS8_Xh-ENEWBMBEa5VN_ADEnNd_FXolbJ5uQWb9O_VfF0QONXJB0D4zpYpX-OKIuealM8B6qOYP9mydT_Dd1FUih5hAdjLmaEyn9z/s2473/IMG_2726.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2069" data-original-width="2473" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcl8HpwV33ZEV0xetVq8-slOtdyINYcWCAxUvCoe_tike-0ulOCx8wp3haCLK7bzMs74RAnfI4NJ4XAvfCwPazqsZiS8_Xh-ENEWBMBEa5VN_ADEnNd_FXolbJ5uQWb9O_VfF0QONXJB0D4zpYpX-OKIuealM8B6qOYP9mydT_Dd1FUih5hAdjLmaEyn9z/w400-h335/IMG_2726.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>I was granted a slight tailwind and minimal descent to Schenectady, making the final fifteen miles of these travels all the more celebratory and triumphant, a just reward for the three thousand miles I had pedaled. I’d be arriving in Schenectady four hours before my train’s 7:33 departure, so I had no worries other than finding the Carnegie on the campus of Union College. I had no information on its location or its present name other than it was now a dorm according to the not-always-reliable Wikipedia. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBH3oro_6aEH2cmKMpSLIdjMjOgaiBxBWVv-_22qKYMq_6GJndA_0D4X0HFgYJoy_db5EpvV7yGkh1ue5oP8FKofqqgDF-AQvdUrSsjf0w-UI5a2Bh2ngsNx4YVPKrFRn4B9CwAc-s027tAu55sRwM4TFpAsNoSgD4ugq8XCl8dEWqRqPEolgW8XI7-Iq/s2951/IMG_2727.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1577" data-original-width="2951" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBH3oro_6aEH2cmKMpSLIdjMjOgaiBxBWVv-_22qKYMq_6GJndA_0D4X0HFgYJoy_db5EpvV7yGkh1ue5oP8FKofqqgDF-AQvdUrSsjf0w-UI5a2Bh2ngsNx4YVPKrFRn4B9CwAc-s027tAu55sRwM4TFpAsNoSgD4ugq8XCl8dEWqRqPEolgW8XI7-Iq/w400-h214/IMG_2727.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>With time to spare I thought I could roam around the small campus and recognize the features of the Carnegie, and so I did. Besides the columns and noble exterior it was identified by “Public Library.” That “Public” was a slight disqualifier, and that it was in a corner of the campus, implying it might have been the city library and just incorporated by the college, but it’s new name “Webster House” and locked doors and soft drink machine just inside the doors all confirmed it was a dorm. I went to the new library in the center of the campus to confirm that Webster House had been funded by Carnegie, but the student there couldn’t find the information in her computer or from an older colleague in back. They gave me the email of special collections to pose my queries to. I heard back that it had never been the college library, it just acquired it in 1969 for $40,000 since it was on the corner of the campus when Schenectady replaced it with a larger library. It was used to host student activities for a few years before being converted into a dorm.</span><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHONMCL9oHazBQFTPD4rr8Zkr-Y1UJ1_kmXO-8npxVEkAmFDuqueQ0tiiiViIcgb79OwvacFbwOLjlhPY6InMZURUnG7aUX_zRQpaMgQFAJjheTBRRvtdXlmKq6slArewJdd4SdI137eUNrLd5Th1FOmIslKOPEYJpAWdJFPa84ZArCdsPuNrDfAoj-yx3/s1972/IMG_2728.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1972" data-original-width="1899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHONMCL9oHazBQFTPD4rr8Zkr-Y1UJ1_kmXO-8npxVEkAmFDuqueQ0tiiiViIcgb79OwvacFbwOLjlhPY6InMZURUnG7aUX_zRQpaMgQFAJjheTBRRvtdXlmKq6slArewJdd4SdI137eUNrLd5Th1FOmIslKOPEYJpAWdJFPa84ZArCdsPuNrDfAoj-yx3/w385-h400/IMG_2728.jpeg" width="385" /></a></div><div><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">As dazzling as the Carnegie was a domed building in the center of the campus known as The Nott, a memorial to Eliphalet Nott, the longest serving president of any college or university in the United States, sixty-two years beginning in 1804 at the age of thirty-one until his death in 1866. He assumed the presidency nine years after the college was founded in 1795, the second in New York after Columbia. During his tenure Union was known as one of the “Big Four” along with Harvard, Yale and Princeton. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The construction of the sixteen-sided Nott was begun in 1858 and wasn’t completed until 1879. It contains a gallery and has space for theatrical productions. The person who verified Webster House had been the city library and not the college library included a newspaper article from 2010 on the four Carnegies in the region I had just visited with the information that in 1902 Carnegie contributed $40,000 to convert The Nott into a library, which it served as until 1961 when it was replaced by its present library. He also gave the school $100,000 in 1910 to build its engineering building.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The train station was just a mile away. It took just a few minutes to stuff my four panniers and tent into my duffle, that had served extra duty on the colder nights when I pulled it up over the bottom half of my sleeping bag. That extra layer made a big difference of retaining my body heat. If I jiggled the hood on the sleeping bag so it didn’t fully cover my head, I could feel the warmth surrounding me pouring out as if through a chimney. I didn’t stuff the sleeping bag into the duffle, taking it as hand luggage in case there was space on the floor for me to sprawl and put it to one final use.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Cold was just one of the many features of this trip. All the rural fire stations distinguished this region from others, as did the many small cemeteries.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmN12fEYQeM9cDHQDamRTPjgZk_ZMDG4R2yTEwiAERZS4PIJ0FnQSlAcGbRRbhiHDHWiB5psiIeqKRP6Z8zNQTTk3u-mwQw4SgGyo5LRHuDEiT1C3-vseCqfXdJY1NN-JJ3a-pYGTogSMDSB4rmJez7hQp33hjzybf-g-EPdyhIMmcAWsi0Hrgl2ALA8z/s2990/IMG_2595.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2175" data-original-width="2990" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmN12fEYQeM9cDHQDamRTPjgZk_ZMDG4R2yTEwiAERZS4PIJ0FnQSlAcGbRRbhiHDHWiB5psiIeqKRP6Z8zNQTTk3u-mwQw4SgGyo5LRHuDEiT1C3-vseCqfXdJY1NN-JJ3a-pYGTogSMDSB4rmJez7hQp33hjzybf-g-EPdyhIMmcAWsi0Hrgl2ALA8z/w400-h291/IMG_2595.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>Nothing though was more ubiquitous than the Adirondack chairs.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkkXb08Ro2myJrG_ta51MGyyugC3sWcJ2OIC-MqAnOuUD19wdWuCTnF1DYkibsvmrWjpk8_8dwG-8ja45BO7DGqd5xUcZtojbJJVt0XuLASwTZUl-Hhar1GlStI5ihOkHCXvhS0wk_TfEjrsP7cjMXVpJqOfuawY-l2HqWRJh4yXb3AUeaAVOfzPHEDZI/s2721/IMG_2634.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2721" data-original-width="2414" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkkXb08Ro2myJrG_ta51MGyyugC3sWcJ2OIC-MqAnOuUD19wdWuCTnF1DYkibsvmrWjpk8_8dwG-8ja45BO7DGqd5xUcZtojbJJVt0XuLASwTZUl-Hhar1GlStI5ihOkHCXvhS0wk_TfEjrsP7cjMXVpJqOfuawY-l2HqWRJh4yXb3AUeaAVOfzPHEDZI/w355-h400/IMG_2634.jpeg" width="355" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>They were truly everywhere. I rarely saw them being used in these cold times, but they were there at the ready.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKZIhSqbEHonpb7ojfkyMIfyMkOV2qm6jJdYmTSNaX6Rsb2xNt_dXKqkM5XJaWR6mz2iWTno_kf6CTyXMa0UVkxMy7KIEe6xY39jqchctm-K-64WFWQbDvaVkb038n9HZhe1p3pnItLH1sk6FZRkZsnnUIXOj20hFQVuLife86NsqA4d_szOhsAcUKOxZ/s2189/IMG_2646.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1515" data-original-width="2189" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKZIhSqbEHonpb7ojfkyMIfyMkOV2qm6jJdYmTSNaX6Rsb2xNt_dXKqkM5XJaWR6mz2iWTno_kf6CTyXMa0UVkxMy7KIEe6xY39jqchctm-K-64WFWQbDvaVkb038n9HZhe1p3pnItLH1sk6FZRkZsnnUIXOj20hFQVuLife86NsqA4d_szOhsAcUKOxZ/w400-h276/IMG_2646.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><br /></div></span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">There was truly a surplus.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV8rMD6Rnf02Kx7KZ43iR9TTTG9jfVngUZPSA-YiieAV-P3lqNxhlAHO-T1FU_KVYfn_Kqubi5AdWAL8-Ze2KibPFONsVDAxVjAJUw5AR3JmN7cQu64tf6jGV4_N7gLAFBWyWDsmCeWruhdPpbEf5mQ70Z25JhJndeYLQf5VXFnIly5nycz31dkFuBTLh/s3264/IMG_2719.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV8rMD6Rnf02Kx7KZ43iR9TTTG9jfVngUZPSA-YiieAV-P3lqNxhlAHO-T1FU_KVYfn_Kqubi5AdWAL8-Ze2KibPFONsVDAxVjAJUw5AR3JmN7cQu64tf6jGV4_N7gLAFBWyWDsmCeWruhdPpbEf5mQ70Z25JhJndeYLQf5VXFnIly5nycz31dkFuBTLh/w400-h300/IMG_2719.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>I thought they might have an interesting history, but all that Wikipedia had to say was they were invented between 1900 and 1903 by a Thomas Lee in Westport, New York. Its high back and tipped forward seat and high arm rest design was patented by his friend Harry C. Bunnell. The present modified design with a fan-shaped slatted back was patented by another in 1938.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOfCRG2YE7yPjdHhMvm0zFrpvpZkcqkZjJg_G6hkblG9Qe1AHi7WdhYblcpOwMJYwlNRJMUNNdkBNpwJUPfZloOiihRO-R99rYfnifL4MjvYTqjV536v6-FCYVa3j3hllCodAbAyVJT14561qbCxBts_6N9vbnrc9A67cVRitn0jAbd6fwCGObQhzQVex/s3264/IMG_2653.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOfCRG2YE7yPjdHhMvm0zFrpvpZkcqkZjJg_G6hkblG9Qe1AHi7WdhYblcpOwMJYwlNRJMUNNdkBNpwJUPfZloOiihRO-R99rYfnifL4MjvYTqjV536v6-FCYVa3j3hllCodAbAyVJT14561qbCxBts_6N9vbnrc9A67cVRitn0jAbd6fwCGObQhzQVex/w400-h300/IMG_2653.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>The many rock fences will be another lasting image from these travels. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjMDYbq6y8DWLZIur7guJ_xi1bbXcqpiHNY6w5RzNd0Ssau4SzVAd-7HKUf8WO36BlbubK5DYB6Vj82qL1PDhAibm2hPBiRV3jq-Lzl6TJ3xn9o3Spa8JP3QNJbc87tj7Sq0WZvg7LYD76umCKz49opkBzyoNLOsSFKUyKot0c96dpUEhzexPf5P1S7DPI/s2651/IMG_2709.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1870" data-original-width="2651" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjMDYbq6y8DWLZIur7guJ_xi1bbXcqpiHNY6w5RzNd0Ssau4SzVAd-7HKUf8WO36BlbubK5DYB6Vj82qL1PDhAibm2hPBiRV3jq-Lzl6TJ3xn9o3Spa8JP3QNJbc87tj7Sq0WZvg7LYD76umCKz49opkBzyoNLOsSFKUyKot0c96dpUEhzexPf5P1S7DPI/w400-h283/IMG_2709.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>They took many forms. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvAwuF2N-hlxKpFgGdDakxRrBHryw0QhlOFtUuKNfv40Ftz8ZKKQmS-PuyJFEbKvOSWrYVMxrqrBMM20oqaeP32SMJ6a9zuexVPHAe2RXkktnP89KjdxbBrP7niRVNnMO9H4Z_5Al0phil2n79spWhL_Q1MwTlU6c7fmO8D7JSPug5ttregJqjIDGbqjv/s2048/IMG_2736.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1255" data-original-width="2048" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvAwuF2N-hlxKpFgGdDakxRrBHryw0QhlOFtUuKNfv40Ftz8ZKKQmS-PuyJFEbKvOSWrYVMxrqrBMM20oqaeP32SMJ6a9zuexVPHAe2RXkktnP89KjdxbBrP7niRVNnMO9H4Z_5Al0phil2n79spWhL_Q1MwTlU6c7fmO8D7JSPug5ttregJqjIDGbqjv/w400-h245/IMG_2736.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The most enduring image though will be that from the entry to Ken and Laura’s home and of</span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"> course my time with them.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVF6xFYQsDq17RfaSOkogkcl0ukgdficmGeQYDH40Fh2O648sPWPWBU2k_ky4_mqsG4gW2MjQsp_-4unAJUQ92IWswvTGG8l7rNoVVvKI-Rs3OASzxw57hlpLEe6JJ0lA_Q6G8YEJ_0MGUYxfTgCf9wVKxNfZF9JNMG5VERDpWYIeYheDkfjAqtM8AnLE/s2711/IMG_2702.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2258" data-original-width="2711" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVF6xFYQsDq17RfaSOkogkcl0ukgdficmGeQYDH40Fh2O648sPWPWBU2k_ky4_mqsG4gW2MjQsp_-4unAJUQ92IWswvTGG8l7rNoVVvKI-Rs3OASzxw57hlpLEe6JJ0lA_Q6G8YEJ_0MGUYxfTgCf9wVKxNfZF9JNMG5VERDpWYIeYheDkfjAqtM8AnLE/w400-h334/IMG_2702.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">This trip also distinguishes itself as the first of any length in the US that I didn’t find a neckerchief along the road. Evidently they are not de rigeur in the Northeast, unlike the rest of the country. I saw lots of wash cloths and an ample number of license plates, at least one from every state except for Vermont and Massachusetts, the latter of which I was only in for a short spell. It is nice to add New York, New Hampshire, Maine, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia to my collection, and a bonus from New Jersey that made its way to New York. This was my best haul ever. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgke3SPnLtFFptuVSZ93bXsRGicxaCx5HqHPHKKk-rLlC2yTpU2y4RPk70m9AZI-L2EhUvcDsjcyNrCayQLa6OjKL4uD3bRaH7mXtekmk75Hv7KDixW5WNIIlyidGiWhoyeTax0M1ZJpFWHBTtwQawn7ZXA1BEujPmjSH_oM9fSGY39PZ42Ing0e4N_te0G/s3264/IMG_2745.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgke3SPnLtFFptuVSZ93bXsRGicxaCx5HqHPHKKk-rLlC2yTpU2y4RPk70m9AZI-L2EhUvcDsjcyNrCayQLa6OjKL4uD3bRaH7mXtekmk75Hv7KDixW5WNIIlyidGiWhoyeTax0M1ZJpFWHBTtwQawn7ZXA1BEujPmjSH_oM9fSGY39PZ42Ing0e4N_te0G/w400-h300/IMG_2745.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And it was an equally exemplary haul of Carnegies—forty-eight in forty-three days, twenty in Maine, twelve in New York, ten in New Hampshire, five in Vermont and one in New Brunswick, bringing my overall total to 1,163. Plus there was the one that wasn’t in Nova Scotia and a partially funded Carnegie in Augusta, Maine. </div></span></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-78476334046846225552023-11-16T08:22:00.000-08:002024-02-06T20:55:03.736-08:00Williamstown, Massachusetts <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxGAh1vWcJ-v9uImL0rawqy_zhOUg90xgTAn8OVyYCmXWpT5YQ0P_OsSJOlK3gqpVdlv9KWF9ve_vyUxzfKO9rmd6kE8-Ys29DV_1fPM67sQcf3ZrJe6YX1rv_cFDLQ1KGNQ6q7IaZ7ocg1MS3a25MRomSFJsSEeJ6bbEeoDrJgaKuOauORxnQlTW8-Gy/s2711/IMG_2702.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2258" data-original-width="2711" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxGAh1vWcJ-v9uImL0rawqy_zhOUg90xgTAn8OVyYCmXWpT5YQ0P_OsSJOlK3gqpVdlv9KWF9ve_vyUxzfKO9rmd6kE8-Ys29DV_1fPM67sQcf3ZrJe6YX1rv_cFDLQ1KGNQ6q7IaZ7ocg1MS3a25MRomSFJsSEeJ6bbEeoDrJgaKuOauORxnQlTW8-Gy/w400-h334/IMG_2702.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I had to check my blog to see how long it had been since I visited Laura and Ken on a spring bike tour when they were living in Oberlin, Ohio. It seemed like just a few years ago, though I knew it had been at least ten. It was actually sixteen. Having let such a long time pass between connecting with these exceptional friends was a gross negligence on my part, especially since they had been regularly asking when I was going to include them on a bike tour. It seemed as if I was biking everywhere in the US except in their neck of the woods.<br /><br />I first met them some thirty years ago when Ken was working for the Federal Reserve Bank in Chicago and was a fellow volunteer at Facets. We’d seen countless movies together, not only in Chicago, but at Telluride, where I’d recruited them to the volunteer ranks. We also shared a commitment to the bicycle, further deepening our friendship.<br /><br />It was a sad day when Ken accepted a position at the New York Fed, but I was at least able to join Ken driving a U-Haul with all their belongings to Brooklyn, a U-Haul with a faulty fuel gauge we learned when we ran out of gas somewhere in Ohio, putting a bike to use to go to a not too distant gas station for fuel. After ten years in New York, Ken elected to switch to academia, teaching economics at Oberlin for four years before moving on to Williams in Williamstown when it offered him a position with tenure. <br /><br />I had been eager to see their new environment in the northwest corner of Massachusetts, putting it off until I took my Carnegie crusade to New England, which I knew I could do at any time. It had been, “I’ll do it next year,” for all too many years. I was happy it was finally going to happen this year and wouldn’t let the increasingly wintry conditions deter me from continuing on to Massachusetts, when it was tempting to stop biking.<br /><br />The final fifty-mile stretch to Williamstown was over the two longest climbs of these travels, one of twelve miles and another of six. It was the closest I came to five thousand feet climbed in one day and in just sixty miles. Neither climb was marked by a summit sign, though the longest, Hogback, had a scenic overlook and restaurant. <br /><br />When I alerted Laura from the library in Wilmington after crossing Hogbsck that I was thirty miles away and wondered if I had much more climbing ahead, she warned me of one more big climb and if it slowed me enough to prevent me from reaching them before dark, she could come pick me up somewhere along the way. And being ever-considerate, often replying to blog posts with suggestions of places to visit wherever I might be, she added that she could drive me to Schenectady, seventy-five miles west, if I was concerned about making the train I had booked for two days hence. Neither were necessary, but I greatly appreciated the gesture. I reached their home shortly before dark after one last steep climb to their cul-de-sac, so steep that Laura at first didn’t wish to move there when they were house-hunting. <br /><br />The entry to their driveway was marked by a dazzling arched stone sculpture constructed by their twenty-eight year old son Iain, who works for an architectural landscaping firm in Boston. Their yard was also marked by various cairns, just as that of Janina and I. Janina would have liked their grass-free front yard too, turned into a flower bed. The back yard was home to three chickens.<br /><br />Greeting Laura and Ken was a joyful reunion. We eased into a conversation that we seemed to have left off just yesterday as they sliced vegetables for a salmon and dahl stew while I sat in a chair and nibbled on nuts and grapes and pasta. It was like being home and reunited with brother and sister.<br /><br />My post-dinner options were a movie at the local art cinema where they volunteer or a dvd or attending the monthly Planning Board meeting where Ken was the most recently elected of the five members. Nothing would be better than an immersion into local issues. Ken had won the election by going door-to-door in this community of eight thousand along with two thousand students at the college, not a university, as it doesn’t have a graduate program. His lone opponent was a woman of a prominent local family. Not even breaking the stranglehold of the all-male board could defeat Ken, as his rare combination of personal warmth and brilliance of a Harvard PhD prevailed. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrN-X4flDBTf6_nPx_z13bkcpGeKDAWJeKmB8uoeXholhEz8TCzL0jMe_wwLaC75CGAIFGdpME8rTyZDu6nTbl2K59eHKF4VyMXdvhvtL8Bt8ZR14iq8GHNva-jCF9XIST99oqUBZCrDsaA4H2ltrlBQBv00YlYY2gawvj1318M7xkA9Ng-jPvgd-LlPO/s2969/IMG_2701.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2101" data-original-width="2969" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrN-X4flDBTf6_nPx_z13bkcpGeKDAWJeKmB8uoeXholhEz8TCzL0jMe_wwLaC75CGAIFGdpME8rTyZDu6nTbl2K59eHKF4VyMXdvhvtL8Bt8ZR14iq8GHNva-jCF9XIST99oqUBZCrDsaA4H2ltrlBQBv00YlYY2gawvj1318M7xkA9Ng-jPvgd-LlPO/w400-h283/IMG_2701.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>All twenty or so seats in the room were occupied when the meeting began. I sat next to a blue-haired woman who said she had just registered to run in next year’s Chicago marathon. When the meeting adjourned I was the lone member of the audience remaining. The two main topics of the two-hour session were the specifications of a new fire station and the regulations on the construction of smaller homes. Ken had done considerable research on the standards other communities had established for the residential housing. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">It was as fascinating as a movie listening to the board members and the town manager, who serves in lieu of a mayor, hashed out all the details. It was a fine evening other than Ken not being able to charge his e-car at the lone charging station in the parking lot, as someone who wasn’t using it had parked in the spot. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Though it was later than I’d been staying up, I was happy to watch a pair of twenty-two minute mockumentaries from Documentaries Now featuring Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski, a favorite director of ours and his frequent actor. As we talked afterwards Ken reminded us it was getting late and we ought to turn in, especially since I wanted an early start the next day and he had a full day of teaching. It couldnt have been a more relaxing and fulfilling evening, as satisfying a day as if I’d dropped in on three or four Carnegies.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHI22CW8DSXcKLy5bIcPaQnZP_op9kT22Jv2FkJot3b1_qLcXOV-TJTR94CRWuTf_pPb7hBDm1a-G6QHX1Im9b2CTYJGK5n9nBZkBHHw4dWd1lPUw2OnSXqttUQdT7KmQd1L6WK249uhDqvt39u1GTb6heBkl2Tk01QgmL-ufoHoNRM8Og58AUgTW3nf-/s1942/IMG_2691.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1652" data-original-width="1942" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHI22CW8DSXcKLy5bIcPaQnZP_op9kT22Jv2FkJot3b1_qLcXOV-TJTR94CRWuTf_pPb7hBDm1a-G6QHX1Im9b2CTYJGK5n9nBZkBHHw4dWd1lPUw2OnSXqttUQdT7KmQd1L6WK249uhDqvt39u1GTb6heBkl2Tk01QgmL-ufoHoNRM8Og58AUgTW3nf-/w400-h340/IMG_2691.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>As it was, it had been a day without a Carnegie. The only sight-seeing for the day had been a slight detour early in the day to the home of Rudyard Kipling, Naulahka, that he built in 1893 and lived in with his wife and two daughters until 1896. It was on ten acres off in the woods down a dirt road bearing the name Kipling three miles north of Brattleboro. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9jlg8KHZn96tldK63JLeIDf4Ws_v6nQUTMCF33s_6X-I_ZwMPVkBMAviIWk66_ubg9lr1Pb2f172R2EyozcvHpbNGqkJAGlHv-i4GdiBAAMiijrNwCm5ZPmC26ra0bVnSItfttRDCjLDKfOL40GAx9DNOtKEjlGZ6onZtyfmGONZjMN9BFm9UtnW00tG/s481/IMG_2722.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="481" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9jlg8KHZn96tldK63JLeIDf4Ws_v6nQUTMCF33s_6X-I_ZwMPVkBMAviIWk66_ubg9lr1Pb2f172R2EyozcvHpbNGqkJAGlHv-i4GdiBAAMiijrNwCm5ZPmC26ra0bVnSItfttRDCjLDKfOL40GAx9DNOtKEjlGZ6onZtyfmGONZjMN9BFm9UtnW00tG/w400-h270/IMG_2722.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">He was twenty-eight when he settled in Vermont and already an accomplished writer and wrote much more during his time there including the Jungle books. He might have lived the rest of his life there if not for a dispute with his wife’s brother and anti-British sentiment in the US triggered by England being upset with the US invoking the Monroe Doctrine regarding a disagreement between Venezuela and British Guinea over the border between the two countries that remains unresolved to this day. The lack of relations between Venezuela and British Guinea prevented me from crossing into British Guinea from Venezuela when I bicycled to the tepui region of Venezuela. I finally gained entrance to the Guianas several years later when I bicycled three thousand miles through Brazil from Uruguay on my way to the lone Carnegie in South America. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Four final Carnegies await me in the vicinity of Schenectady and then it is Amtrak home.</div><p></p>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-37933053720744437512023-11-14T08:55:00.000-08:002023-12-16T11:49:57.185-08:00Bellows Falls, Vermont<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8-Qsc1LgQffJm0Ep30eZZWbwVW_Bkl-eVSK_76Obfn-j_dJvZ2G0CVqChRiqC15SgKTdpS7mIZn8ZTm30j36ggf9Qo2TxJ_5xn0Pm-NWmisv5o0H84v79dOEhUjVoxfORAZrwnQcrq4NJqhkpGlsJmauQZkME6O-CoDn0aLeaStzvdysV8tKqUVMHPjq/s2194/IMG_2657.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1961" data-original-width="2194" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8-Qsc1LgQffJm0Ep30eZZWbwVW_Bkl-eVSK_76Obfn-j_dJvZ2G0CVqChRiqC15SgKTdpS7mIZn8ZTm30j36ggf9Qo2TxJ_5xn0Pm-NWmisv5o0H84v79dOEhUjVoxfORAZrwnQcrq4NJqhkpGlsJmauQZkME6O-CoDn0aLeaStzvdysV8tKqUVMHPjq/w400-h358/IMG_2657.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">My route north to the Carnegie in Franklin took me through Concord, the third state capital of these travels, less than ten miles from where I spent the night in my tent. It was another morning of cold, just twenty-five degrees, cold enough to turn my chocolate milk into a slushy drink, but the sun was shining, the road was flat, there was no wind nor traffic on this Sunday morning, so my heart was light and bright. I’d had a fine campsite on a thick mattress of leaves and pine needles with a minimal obstacle course of limbs and fallen trees to wade through from the road.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilO0xQ25vYdVen9CDDuWUbxDzWRxxpfZ9dVdskMoJdApxbQ7J0cSyyZrKdxBeo9AbL2Zxr9Znb2DvTfcwztn_xlj2wHJ8PICrvs3BPafyLhpaKyQW9_uZzOIorjHGNUWg2cniJCENh6hl4MmK8Ly-t4P1RJU4GgeQscxu3xYqxRP8KiNNhPMRG63Bq8v95/s3264/IMG_2654.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilO0xQ25vYdVen9CDDuWUbxDzWRxxpfZ9dVdskMoJdApxbQ7J0cSyyZrKdxBeo9AbL2Zxr9Znb2DvTfcwztn_xlj2wHJ8PICrvs3BPafyLhpaKyQW9_uZzOIorjHGNUWg2cniJCENh6hl4MmK8Ly-t4P1RJU4GgeQscxu3xYqxRP8KiNNhPMRG63Bq8v95/w400-h300/IMG_2654.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>The towering, domed capital building was right on highway three passing through the middle of Concord, following the Merrimack River. A plaque stated it was completed in 1819 and is the oldest capital in the US in which the legislature still meets in its original chambers.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtREHBPB2ri9ulM8RulqjNt-M69NCCp0VTdXu9p2seLJnVfY3beqRz_bY6ixLQcrKg2pLGGY6MmwTa06Dr156PQkaK-t3dt70iYU_QdrY1J3f6vgx2YVpOBQxwBBSJG4Bw-80LABOSYNlWo3qxVs3l2safD59YxzyRWnU0vv7ElbgBoHkWL-MF_Fv-UWN/s2239/IMG_2671.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1795" data-original-width="2239" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtREHBPB2ri9ulM8RulqjNt-M69NCCp0VTdXu9p2seLJnVfY3beqRz_bY6ixLQcrKg2pLGGY6MmwTa06Dr156PQkaK-t3dt70iYU_QdrY1J3f6vgx2YVpOBQxwBBSJG4Bw-80LABOSYNlWo3qxVs3l2safD59YxzyRWnU0vv7ElbgBoHkWL-MF_Fv-UWN/w400-h321/IMG_2671.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>Highway three took me within a mile of Franklin, just a little ways to the east. A tributary of the Merrimack, the Winnipesaukee, wound through Franklin right past the Carnegie. As so often happens, that first glimpse of the unmistakable Carnegie from a block or two away gave me an instant jolt of pleasure and was equally impressive as gazing at it head-on. And as with a good many of the Carnegies, its majesty was no less impressive than the ostentatious capital building twenty miles south.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88Yk66oKgC2oejovXE0h0Bm9XScJ7UotoN4EItHsw2RAzvOUyENRzU6iEfPPeKNY9uWeDziO4IufiXpGZpObo702iWB_nR4aEyGDfDnmyXs_B9riJl90mxGsOeufQCSdSKYtHY7q6sW6LTFTJ8KlyvLev1g3vpWVd1ksVS50M4EyNnsguUAeiExH5asAO/s2145/IMG_2659.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="2145" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88Yk66oKgC2oejovXE0h0Bm9XScJ7UotoN4EItHsw2RAzvOUyENRzU6iEfPPeKNY9uWeDziO4IufiXpGZpObo702iWB_nR4aEyGDfDnmyXs_B9riJl90mxGsOeufQCSdSKYtHY7q6sW6LTFTJ8KlyvLev1g3vpWVd1ksVS50M4EyNnsguUAeiExH5asAO/w400-h260/IMG_2659.jpeg" width="400" /></a>‘</div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>My flat start to the day was broken by an unexpected several mile climb in the middle of my next forty-two mile leg northwest to Lebanon on the border with Vermont. The temperature dropped as I climbed to just above freezing. Patches of unmelted snow from several days before lined the road confirming the cold. The forecast was for the coldest night of the year, twenty-one degrees, and possibly into the teens. Lebanon was a large enough city to have a handful of hotels to choose from, thanks as well to its proximity to Hanover and Dartmouth seven miles north. If need be I could bundle up and survive the cold, but I’d gladly avail myself of a hotel on this night.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Txay9ZmiqmTYbNCAIOobmKzwq5oLh1kNMkRW6A8KN66iANt1NCcAAdcjQStX43xoeMJwu1M6xAUo3xJhVCoZU4OjAnHaZQO6i7dB1raaktUeO_4ZYs1ejVnj2EEOGfZxDgKQiR9aX9lTO0DyHI4wnCzLH9E3MYlWKiNUT4e2wAfSptkxAoXoFySVFKbr/s3264/IMG_2672.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Txay9ZmiqmTYbNCAIOobmKzwq5oLh1kNMkRW6A8KN66iANt1NCcAAdcjQStX43xoeMJwu1M6xAUo3xJhVCoZU4OjAnHaZQO6i7dB1raaktUeO_4ZYs1ejVnj2EEOGfZxDgKQiR9aX9lTO0DyHI4wnCzLH9E3MYlWKiNUT4e2wAfSptkxAoXoFySVFKbr/w400-h300/IMG_2672.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>If not for that long climb I would have reached Lebanon just ust before dark, but now I knew I would fall fifteen or twenty minutes short. I thought I was saved from biking in the dark when I passed a two-storied ten-unit motel masquerading as a B&B eight miles before Lebanon several miles past the descent from the summit. I had to brake and circle back to it. As I pulled into the parking lot a SUV pulled in just after me. An older lady opened the door and asked if I was all right having seen me turn around and knowing full well that no one in their right mind would be bicycling, let alone touring, in such conditions.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I said I was just looking for a place to stay this night and asked if she was the proprietor of the B&B. She was. Then came the the all-important question, “How much do your rooms go for.” </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">“$199 plus tax,” was the answer. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">This was the off-season and there were just a couple of cars in the parking lot. “I’ve been camping,” I replied, “but tonight is going to be a little too cold for that. Would you take $100 if I didn’t use the bed and put down my sleeping pad and bag?” </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">“We don’t do that,” she replied. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">A few miles further with dark further descending I came upon a campground full of RVs. A campground with a heated rest room and perhaps a common room would suffice. Unfortunately a sign on the office of the proprietor’s house read “Closed for the season.” All those RVs were parked for the winter. I could see someone inside, so asked if I could just pitch my tent. He was no less accommodating than the B&B woman, telling me it was just four miles to Lebanon where I could find a motel.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Though it was nearly dark I was heading west into a sky with a slight tint of blue giving me the illusion that there was still some light to bike by, though there wasn’t other than the passing headlights and occasional street light. Fortunately the traffic was light and I had an adequate shoulder with a white line to help guide me. There were no cheap motels on the outskirts, so I had to continue over to Vermont and the Hotel Coolidge in White River Junction. It was a classic old urban hotel with rooms down long hallways like a college dorm.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHZ4Xq1zockfa8BR1UTWNAXE1R9YFfOUfPtAFD2I1u0kaM8_pqPwNaTZMwj4qZK9AN1Myl45tjJBJJMhPDHix_vHa0_Y68xclMbbeNg7vL6Hb3z2wfQVodBM52EaxGzu2LuhZNXK9bUR0oJwUhd4wjtzAzSENNaLMJ-O82pzpJxnjbAzKjatrAAEnP_8c/s2525/IMG_2679.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2525" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHZ4Xq1zockfa8BR1UTWNAXE1R9YFfOUfPtAFD2I1u0kaM8_pqPwNaTZMwj4qZK9AN1Myl45tjJBJJMhPDHix_vHa0_Y68xclMbbeNg7vL6Hb3z2wfQVodBM52EaxGzu2LuhZNXK9bUR0oJwUhd4wjtzAzSENNaLMJ-O82pzpJxnjbAzKjatrAAEnP_8c/w388-h400/IMG_2679.jpeg" width="388" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>I leaned my bike up against the window, but before I could pass through the double doors the desk clerk greeted me most hospitably saying it would be best to bring my bike right in. He said he had an economy room for $99 which he could reduce to $79 with an AARP discount. I’d at last met a benevolent soul. The room came with a $4.50 voucher for breakfast at an adjoining restaurant. That wasn’t such a bargain, as it had a limited menu, mostly deluxe smoothies that went for $9.50. I didn’t learn that until the next morning when it opened at seven. If I’d known I would have gotten a little earlier start.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SYVOAWI3eFheuoVqAEVyDKgUMsdnx4K5n9Gvqny2ZHcHWugmFCVAHOpLVF1AdjLzVbo1yhxaXX-sdhNATai6wqPxoz7Y2C0qadqQOXaPJoD1N_z4V7hrlxr1_IN-nvBh5SBK72zN6Mmc4LIDi7U5biF7EaBc7WSWLZvaevSPVhUB_TOni0oXbF6ybtWb/s2740/IMG_2680.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1983" data-original-width="2740" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SYVOAWI3eFheuoVqAEVyDKgUMsdnx4K5n9Gvqny2ZHcHWugmFCVAHOpLVF1AdjLzVbo1yhxaXX-sdhNATai6wqPxoz7Y2C0qadqQOXaPJoD1N_z4V7hrlxr1_IN-nvBh5SBK72zN6Mmc4LIDi7U5biF7EaBc7WSWLZvaevSPVhUB_TOni0oXbF6ybtWb/w400-h290/IMG_2680.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>The day otherwise got off to a great start with being able to see Lebanon’s first-rate Carnegie in the light of day after having only glimpsed its shadowy majesty in the dark the night before. It had an addition tacked to its back referred to as a “wing” and bearing the name of a governor. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">It was hilly-going the next twenty-two mikes to fhe next Carnegie in Claremont. Having been denied an anticipated breakfast I stopped at a McDonalds for the McGriddle special, two sausage sandwiches with thick hot cakes forming the bread—920 calories for three dollars. A sign said, “Sorry, lobby is closed.” There was a line of eight or nine cars for the drive-up window so I went over to the nearby KFC/Taco Bell for some breakfast burritos, except the Taco Bell had withdrawn from its partnership with KFC and left town. I couldn’t spare the time for a sit-down meal at a restaurant, so just made do with my chocolate milk and cereal.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqRG-M_23Szo5kpyxQ2P0EUVRP6m-ani7f4zcrhUetfjkkHIyieJXGnv2KGm_ntTsP5JD8s2ZpfjYDhIkxApcHnkZsb6-VEvO4KyOUYCN8tIvLj1_8PI_TNpKlFWvgxnuRfCH8FGRN4L-l1Vxfgny_DDUnu5pGsCeCA3GJZzftdZ-0PU9vGa9KGcSL9um/s3047/IMG_2681.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1902" data-original-width="3047" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqRG-M_23Szo5kpyxQ2P0EUVRP6m-ani7f4zcrhUetfjkkHIyieJXGnv2KGm_ntTsP5JD8s2ZpfjYDhIkxApcHnkZsb6-VEvO4KyOUYCN8tIvLj1_8PI_TNpKlFWvgxnuRfCH8FGRN4L-l1Vxfgny_DDUnu5pGsCeCA3GJZzftdZ-0PU9vGa9KGcSL9um/w400-h250/IMG_2681.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The Carnegie was only slightly less majestic than its counterpart in Lebanon and had a much smaller seamless addition from 1923, twenty years after the library had opened and hadn’t needed another since. A bearded older guy librarian wearing a mask pointed out a couple of framed photos of the interior of the library from its early years. It hadn’t changed much other than the addition of computers and DVDs on the shelves. </span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmMhlFtnCKzQNleKU-WQ8DnQbEJAhgCUNggshGo4iEeSCpgPQTV2sEAU_-J3eBPRGeRQ2xhcamy_uw1utlbK_2qr1wqKucMG02KZt8gjyiPauspKxNZRrblVjuqn_wXUpFiAmGZtnQinM0YVwo2XnN_oE6UCkFyxr5SQ0k6neghobE_w2zDmCl1spjZYu/s2711/IMG_2685.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1759" data-original-width="2711" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmMhlFtnCKzQNleKU-WQ8DnQbEJAhgCUNggshGo4iEeSCpgPQTV2sEAU_-J3eBPRGeRQ2xhcamy_uw1utlbK_2qr1wqKucMG02KZt8gjyiPauspKxNZRrblVjuqn_wXUpFiAmGZtnQinM0YVwo2XnN_oE6UCkFyxr5SQ0k6neghobE_w2zDmCl1spjZYu/w400-h260/IMG_2685.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>With Claremont I completed all the Carnegies in another state and two hours later I completed Vermont with the Carnegie in Rockingham. Unlike most, It’s addition was to its side, slightly undermining the majesty of the original. At least one could still enter up the steps as it was from the beginning.</span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Finishing off two states on the same day was a first. That’s twenty-two done. Many of the others, such as California and Arizona and Nebraska and Florida and Georgia I have nearly completed. A ride up the coast starting in Orlando would make quick work of Florida, Georgia, the Carolina’s, Virginia, Rhode Island and Maryland. Another ride starting in Denver would finish off Nebraska, the Dakotas, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Washington and the three in Northern California I have yet to get to. Before long the US portion of the project will be complete. Then I can swing through Australia and New Zealand for a bunch more.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></span><br style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;" /><p></p></div></div></div></div></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-13858299653291959732023-11-12T08:11:00.000-08:002023-12-16T11:33:25.892-08:00Raymond, New Hampshire<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqeN8rtnvhm6xSaRwBdetXycnDMj50rBuxBKMds6Z_PP9a9IukQU9wX0Z-LKXm_OE5yEd3MsqOQS3cZ3hnUGfNiJ-OBYAhN1u47RKMOUD7HJjpf1tNxVamkCgZ2BaVc-HLA-pvFnXD5BcKLtN38RElI4z1stnvDQDTf08hGXdG-xMboXN1TnGIT7FpdqW8/s2588/IMG_2622.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2082" data-original-width="2588" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqeN8rtnvhm6xSaRwBdetXycnDMj50rBuxBKMds6Z_PP9a9IukQU9wX0Z-LKXm_OE5yEd3MsqOQS3cZ3hnUGfNiJ-OBYAhN1u47RKMOUD7HJjpf1tNxVamkCgZ2BaVc-HLA-pvFnXD5BcKLtN38RElI4z1stnvDQDTf08hGXdG-xMboXN1TnGIT7FpdqW8/w400-h321/IMG_2622.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I completed Maine’s bounty of Carnegies in Freeport, home of L.L. Bean. The Carnegie was in the center of town next door to the outdoor company’s mothership surrounded by canoes and kayaks. The modest Carnegie was the only one in the state that no longer served as a library. Its present tenant is an organic market, which rents the building from the city.</span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"> </span><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kifN18xQ_GA23mmHjolnYZWKXKDRQs3_UnJn5nZP9OQKrc7OtrEFLkoYtvuZceIpGrp7cKrbCyv8ThrdmcsMgfrwOMXGAQl5RjT0IKNSl4DPz2_Dbg6NqFUjsox7jLIsxWMvKUSkonPtyJLCtxHZeBTCNdEk6KKkoKpfI7uFJ5LujnwxlXnaT_m2RHs4/s2852/IMG_2624.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2083" data-original-width="2852" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kifN18xQ_GA23mmHjolnYZWKXKDRQs3_UnJn5nZP9OQKrc7OtrEFLkoYtvuZceIpGrp7cKrbCyv8ThrdmcsMgfrwOMXGAQl5RjT0IKNSl4DPz2_Dbg6NqFUjsox7jLIsxWMvKUSkonPtyJLCtxHZeBTCNdEk6KKkoKpfI7uFJ5LujnwxlXnaT_m2RHs4/w400-h293/IMG_2624.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>In most states not even half of the Carnegies continue in the capacity in which they began their existence. Maine would have the highest percentage by far of its Carnegies still serving as libraries if it were not for Vermont and New Hampshire, which are at one hundred per cent. Maine can still thump its chest, as it has considerably more Carnegies than its neighbors with eighteen compared to New Hampshire’s nine and Vermont’s four.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">These states are also notable for not having torn down any of their Carnegies. Only five other states can make such a claim, all with much fewer than Maine, Eleven states have torn down more than New Hampshire has standing. The two preeminent non-preservationists are California, which has razed fifty-eight of its one hundred and forty-two, and Texas twenty of thirty-two. Illinois and Indiana have lost eighteen each of their more than one hundred. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I managed to escape Freeport without succumbing to any of its many stores. So many tourists are drawn to Freeport that Patagonia and Banana Republic and the Gap and other recognizable brands have stores. The Main Street is lined with a multitude of shops, including the Mangy Moose Emporium, seeking to capitalize on the influx of shoppers. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I continued down the coast on highway one thick with traffic and semi-urban sprawl for a dozen miles before turning inland as I approached the big city of Portland. It took a few miles to escape the hubbub that will soon be my lot when I return home. I was bearing down on New Hampshire, not quite making it before dark. My final night in Maine was spent behind a row of old trailers in a parking lot on the fringe of a paltry forest.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCaA2GpOya21XXchW51Op4yW6hT0BKvh0gIHshvYfDoq0mJTT1ndv2m5znUtYUJbsvrPN_3fxvt22DH0lbbmnrVqZwtl2GNWz3JMtaGmWSajtt0yT5Tnt5iE3KhzQJESowC9D6Awi7h4rY6uHIrEGPtDrfN1XWG3NyKHfQCl8rycPVm76P0Glj4-EykFq/s3264/IMG_2633.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCaA2GpOya21XXchW51Op4yW6hT0BKvh0gIHshvYfDoq0mJTT1ndv2m5znUtYUJbsvrPN_3fxvt22DH0lbbmnrVqZwtl2GNWz3JMtaGmWSajtt0yT5Tnt5iE3KhzQJESowC9D6Awi7h4rY6uHIrEGPtDrfN1XWG3NyKHfQCl8rycPVm76P0Glj4-EykFq/w400-h300/IMG_2633.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The welcome to New Hampshire sign was in French and English. The state’s motto of “Live Free or Die,” as adorns its license plates, harkened to an interview I just heard of the ever-outlandish Werner Herzog on Fresh Air, where he was promoting his memoir “Every Man for Himself and God Against All.” He said he’d rather die that undergo psychoanalysis and the same for wearing a toupee. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix6QDAHGFr5aQma20CDpOXnjgaLJT2OHbymEUtiHiniKhjYKN56aRVHiGd4uJv3y_ejz45MxKd8EXjsgk6-2ryV3yYMu02_Os6hBbtVH207X0a6IVzNlKq3Q2nnqHs6RSHXc9n5HwYmoOVY1YsJuITL1j7aJwNlWUV0v6_UMeTbrs5ko8y2JXN-Gf3q8hF/s2422/IMG_2635.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2312" data-original-width="2422" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix6QDAHGFr5aQma20CDpOXnjgaLJT2OHbymEUtiHiniKhjYKN56aRVHiGd4uJv3y_ejz45MxKd8EXjsgk6-2ryV3yYMu02_Os6hBbtVH207X0a6IVzNlKq3Q2nnqHs6RSHXc9n5HwYmoOVY1YsJuITL1j7aJwNlWUV0v6_UMeTbrs5ko8y2JXN-Gf3q8hF/w400-h381/IMG_2635.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>A few miles across the border I arrived in another Rochester, where the first of a quick string of four Carnegies awaited me. The gallant front hid an extended expansion behind it. I had gotten an early post-dawn start, so even if it weren’t Veteran's Day I would have been more than an hour early for its opening. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgir6AQ2q1QEePiio6QMzvKarx_vIuSL9WvSkiepUQEmgBmWFg8oVoWThwa4TEB5ZsmXkpAcB5QPW_vFYhQ9MWlBqRdQ3qDk8Du8UKvoUaAS7hOBIH7aO7zpbMaeK59l4DpZ9LorfGnuPPCQ3ZrF__beXbmCfYG0qxqj_22D0IYaukdgPYejHJN0_Z7e2IN/s2147/IMG_2637.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1666" data-original-width="2147" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgir6AQ2q1QEePiio6QMzvKarx_vIuSL9WvSkiepUQEmgBmWFg8oVoWThwa4TEB5ZsmXkpAcB5QPW_vFYhQ9MWlBqRdQ3qDk8Du8UKvoUaAS7hOBIH7aO7zpbMaeK59l4DpZ9LorfGnuPPCQ3ZrF__beXbmCfYG0qxqj_22D0IYaukdgPYejHJN0_Z7e2IN/w400-h310/IMG_2637.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I arrived at Dover’s similarly gallant Carnegie ten miles south after it should have opened. In my brief time there two others came by not knowing it was closed for Veteran’s Day. Members of the high school band in their uniforms were gathering in the parking lot preparing for a Veteran’s Day event. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAAsS8iAOmpUYdnJeRmOxKm2MCn3C5CEDl9zdiRZFHftmmr4sEbb2Xl4digoCPqxaxJije5JH9MqJ-Te7LY8M7ftUwTeYe9JiAQ1PgwEXJXol6kPAh-g9uvSkpaKspgbPFdKpTN05Qf3I7vzUDBNpBtUGgkW09gUHAEHIJwHcWns5Z7snM2V_WIH9We8F/s2985/IMG_2641.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1803" data-original-width="2985" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAAsS8iAOmpUYdnJeRmOxKm2MCn3C5CEDl9zdiRZFHftmmr4sEbb2Xl4digoCPqxaxJije5JH9MqJ-Te7LY8M7ftUwTeYe9JiAQ1PgwEXJXol6kPAh-g9uvSkpaKspgbPFdKpTN05Qf3I7vzUDBNpBtUGgkW09gUHAEHIJwHcWns5Z7snM2V_WIH9We8F/w400-h241/IMG_2641.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">A plaque beside the entry to the library didn’t relate to its benefactor or status on the National Register of Historic Places, as such plaques generally do, but rather acknowledged those who occupied the land before those from the other side of the ocean came a-conquering.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDXg1TOy92DR8l3FzSh570oiaiTVRoagS8-J8ifYAPnKmR4pNxnXhklE8QdjB7jl-LIYiXQ0vwCT7K5Ho3uqWR3b23r0JLsRoYAXAArTrjzEUpL-9zkznwoApd4aCfH7cTWi5tlONLfbtxEFG0cWRI3J7z7Egkl4zSI1BSePyZFg4zd8BusAv6f2PntME/s2233/IMG_2642.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1892" data-original-width="2233" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDXg1TOy92DR8l3FzSh570oiaiTVRoagS8-J8ifYAPnKmR4pNxnXhklE8QdjB7jl-LIYiXQ0vwCT7K5Ho3uqWR3b23r0JLsRoYAXAArTrjzEUpL-9zkznwoApd4aCfH7cTWi5tlONLfbtxEFG0cWRI3J7z7Egkl4zSI1BSePyZFg4zd8BusAv6f2PntME/w400-h339/IMG_2642.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The next Carnegie resided on the campus of the University of New Hampshire five miles south in Durham. After being replaced as the library it took on the name of Hamilton Smith Hall and was converted into classrooms. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1HlrIxpnnIghZQAlDecWl7ARUWI9ZPYXYD1VcHyjWeZk3FHLOe7n1-b4IqPHpe_-gOuT5PQg-tckDyxpThjntvmvtMKUV0eQBimL6NMyNEbd2HkQcWBIsnAn1TpDYtJ6pPl5sW4AZCwreScoATlWL8CcdIvg0FHoP-hiYPz9w45gejcTnVG01MDyWGgW/s2472/IMG_2645.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2047" data-original-width="2472" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1HlrIxpnnIghZQAlDecWl7ARUWI9ZPYXYD1VcHyjWeZk3FHLOe7n1-b4IqPHpe_-gOuT5PQg-tckDyxpThjntvmvtMKUV0eQBimL6NMyNEbd2HkQcWBIsnAn1TpDYtJ6pPl5sW4AZCwreScoATlWL8CcdIvg0FHoP-hiYPz9w45gejcTnVG01MDyWGgW/w400-h331/IMG_2645.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I had to do some sleuthing to find it. None of the students I asked knew of the former library or a Carnegie building. Finally a student behind the counter at the Recreational Center searched on the internet and found the answer. I should have recognized it when I bicycled past it by its stately columns, the only such building on the campus. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEcv-euAZMKDhklQ0KatBGjK88_Y6_xXJSl8mDfpO9-ZkK__CCz2cyi9VvWGuIa_ZFjJpYt8tLXMvoxh-ARyVtTsrZjI_O-tANgD3-HSODdu1_krdRIPilzeHE_IJRfZZf9SSWdEhV2ugfDWZr3lFf0X2LQJicLQfjJvpT5gXO8jhVDRV-dEvaYVuKk5H/s2849/IMG_2652.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="2849" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEcv-euAZMKDhklQ0KatBGjK88_Y6_xXJSl8mDfpO9-ZkK__CCz2cyi9VvWGuIa_ZFjJpYt8tLXMvoxh-ARyVtTsrZjI_O-tANgD3-HSODdu1_krdRIPilzeHE_IJRfZZf9SSWdEhV2ugfDWZr3lFf0X2LQJicLQfjJvpT5gXO8jhVDRV-dEvaYVuKk5H/w400-h283/IMG_2652.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I completed my quartet for the day in Raymond, turning west into a wind for twenty miles. The small town had been granted a tiny grant of a mere $2,000 from Carnegie, barely a quarter of the next smallest grant in the state, the only other of less than $12,500. Though it is a rare Carnegie not constructed of brick or stone, it has endured over a century and is a most attractive building. Its interior was more characteristic of a Carnegie, with a large wooden circulation desk and wooden tables and shelves and striking light fixtures. My peek through the windows, however, did not reveal the portrait that always adds a final touch of grace.</span><br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-40792850825911260102023-11-10T06:12:00.000-08:002023-12-16T16:17:26.692-08:00Auburn, Maine<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrrasoYoqsEz7p3opF77vPI9cNMUEF-7wEYeeSIGIrVLT3iy5BEJ_x9Bmah0OjcgPjGI0BinN_Zx-48a9zWXR6hQVTIGJA47HCU6QX2HUji3NJWTF_Pr61Dw9sxamgcovnWUIOnlzZNxEcFYhEHOyqj2VLlIcZvNNem0O9FrXjRU0AlFTlhLqh94cGlyg/s2699/IMG_2579.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1708" data-original-width="2699" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrrasoYoqsEz7p3opF77vPI9cNMUEF-7wEYeeSIGIrVLT3iy5BEJ_x9Bmah0OjcgPjGI0BinN_Zx-48a9zWXR6hQVTIGJA47HCU6QX2HUji3NJWTF_Pr61Dw9sxamgcovnWUIOnlzZNxEcFYhEHOyqj2VLlIcZvNNem0O9FrXjRU0AlFTlhLqh94cGlyg/w400-h254/IMG_2579.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">There are six ferries a day to Vinalhaven, fifteen miles out in West Penobscot Bay, where the lone Carnegie Library on an island resides. If I didn’t make the third ferry of the day at 10:30 I’d have to take the noon ferry and return on the 3:15 pm ferry, the last of the day, arriving back in Rockland after sunset. I was so intent on making that 10:30 ferry I set my alarm for 5:45. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I was camped thirty-three miles away with lots of climbing ahead of me. I had hoped to get to within thirty miles, but I had my first flat since the beginning of these travels over two thousand miles ago half an hour before dark. I hurriedly replaced the tube, deflated by a patch gone bad at a most inopportune time, and continued riding until it was too dark to continue.<br /><br />There were more hills than I would have liked on my morning push to make the ferry, arriving with just five minutes to spare. Twelve cars boarded before me, as many as the ferry could accommodate. Bikes are charged $17.50 for a round trip, and the passenger goes free. I, of course, was the lone cyclist. About halfway there when we reached open water the ferry began swaying dramatically. I had to lay down and curl up to ward off the motion-sickness I am prone to. I nearly fell asleep I was so depleted from the effort I’d sustained to start the day. After twenty minutes or so when the ferry came within the embrace of Vinalhaven I could arise and appreciate our picturesque entry to the ferry dock.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4p-a2U4JEeeSDvHgePYH3hzbGdYEHSyKDjpNd7UB6wsbEvypGXYAQvjQmVOmgddCX41NFtccm7i6TP0pHI0PfZdcvguuRKmdjGmXoPzVPbqoGUZjlTqTEvyOqplUtTPbfSC5h9RUmrZ9KDh6btRCf1xnzSQfew-2Hl4L3JZp6QRRw_avIWbq3wjG9qPf/s3264/IMG_2576.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4p-a2U4JEeeSDvHgePYH3hzbGdYEHSyKDjpNd7UB6wsbEvypGXYAQvjQmVOmgddCX41NFtccm7i6TP0pHI0PfZdcvguuRKmdjGmXoPzVPbqoGUZjlTqTEvyOqplUtTPbfSC5h9RUmrZ9KDh6btRCf1xnzSQfew-2Hl4L3JZp6QRRw_avIWbq3wjG9qPf/w400-h300/IMG_2576.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I had an hour and forty-five minutes to check out the library and explore the island a bit before the 1:30 ferry back. The library was less than a mile away past a harbor full of boats. There were stacks and stacks of traps for lobsters, the primary source of income for the island’s 1,400 residents, which doubles in the summer months. The Prairie-style library, the lone such in Maine, was constructed of granite quarried on the island back when that rivaled lobsters for the island’s chief income. The high-quality granite lives on in many prominent buildings including Chicago’s Board of Trade, the State Department building in the nation’s capital and the Washington Monument there, and the Brooklyn Bridge.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNW0r5Hmhh_HoEIJmS6luDn0i2BOb8CIuin57gAQHOF8Ua9l3cV-zGj-xDKse-b0mXn54Mi_IhNxju3TdCdlc05zJVdtMLNvYFLFE2zDtnpysy979ubG11dzsmgdpfv48wehHhoKMpISip97EMn8e0gsZZXFjCwQqevOphDh3ATqKJttzcDXdxwEOzOau/s3151/IMG_2575.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1956" data-original-width="3151" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNW0r5Hmhh_HoEIJmS6luDn0i2BOb8CIuin57gAQHOF8Ua9l3cV-zGj-xDKse-b0mXn54Mi_IhNxju3TdCdlc05zJVdtMLNvYFLFE2zDtnpysy979ubG11dzsmgdpfv48wehHhoKMpISip97EMn8e0gsZZXFjCwQqevOphDh3ATqKJttzcDXdxwEOzOau/w400-h249/IMG_2575.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The library had an addition behind it from funds raised by the locals in 2007. The librarian expected a busy winter, as she said it had been a poor lobster season, meaning it would be a long, lean winter for many of the fisherman who would take advantage of the library more than usual. As I meandered around the island, the prime feature was neatly stacked piles of lobster traps in front of the small white-painted wooden homes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">When I began the day I had hoped I might arrive in Rockland well enough before the 10:30 ferry so I could visit its Carnegie enabling to be directly on my way out of town when I returned from Vinalhaven to pile up the miles in the ninety minutes before dark. But since I arrived in Rockland with no time to spare I had to visit its library after Vinalhaven, cutting into that valuable riding time.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflj8ouzE9wrU2shrqTfEJ_R5e984g8CUNs82tz8QpMYiVRwosf4TjAVtjhiCjNhXLZwgWhaWSe6m8MFu-TRLU0cVipVPmoA92Z0cdjljsE9zot1ZwIEbBujdtkmOwwK9vHKchHq-Nn4jOrmZlat89z-qgqyp6KVYln1hsZ8KosoJN4WXp3UBf5yWWN2bD/s2614/IMG_2581.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1858" data-original-width="2614" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflj8ouzE9wrU2shrqTfEJ_R5e984g8CUNs82tz8QpMYiVRwosf4TjAVtjhiCjNhXLZwgWhaWSe6m8MFu-TRLU0cVipVPmoA92Z0cdjljsE9zot1ZwIEbBujdtkmOwwK9vHKchHq-Nn4jOrmZlat89z-qgqyp6KVYln1hsZ8KosoJN4WXp3UBf5yWWN2bD/w400-h284/IMG_2581.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The castle of a building looked out on a large expanse of grass. Behind it was an expansive addition. It guarded its Wi-Fi with a password of love2read. I wanted to check to see if there had been a change in the forecast of rain starting at nine the next morning. It had been pushed back to ten, just what I needed to reach the next Carnegie In Gardiner forty miles away before I started getting wet. I was glad I hadn’t rushed to see it before the ferry, as I might not have been able to appreciate its palatial domed entry overseen by the Carnegie portrait.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-8P9FhHNuuoUl_sMORN1tPUfJ-KTnZMNO_Ncw6EvacJjE5Oiea7Tz4KAomOuejYvBaey-6CVd-9Ddsii8AchlQmGUUWWG-5cWkWdQfK071T3BfBR7CNi7MEhkHwARGsLM7efpD0t1sAv0HogGE82WhVDeKMQiyB5qNeBQyecv3v2jSQl0Jq9ZPM4pYHa/s3264/IMG_2582.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-8P9FhHNuuoUl_sMORN1tPUfJ-KTnZMNO_Ncw6EvacJjE5Oiea7Tz4KAomOuejYvBaey-6CVd-9Ddsii8AchlQmGUUWWG-5cWkWdQfK071T3BfBR7CNi7MEhkHwARGsLM7efpD0t1sAv0HogGE82WhVDeKMQiyB5qNeBQyecv3v2jSQl0Jq9ZPM4pYHa/w300-h400/IMG_2582.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>If I didn’t need to get down the road as far as possible, I would have stopped at the Walmart for a half gallon of chocolate milk and other supplies, but I didn't wish to spare the time. As it was, I closed to within thirty miles of Gardiner before camping and got another early start. The precipitation came a little early at 9:30 and with it just above freezing it was some light flurries, not a nuisance at all. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTHek4jKzqLPtJKX5hujNN00ZJdn3nH-3SqRQBg3zq2Nh5KSa7cQbj-4QLwxgHCcQfryBEXJBjnfQ45TaqqLhDOEmqbRY-QcBVYUhERGWc9mTGmZ1kRcTfidj0sOpEtbXHPS_n-5iQv89uCsFNR-j3L9Sx9xsPU-fK-R5dKcHBkNmOkdx_RnJFa_fkgn7/s2386/IMG_2596.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2386" data-original-width="2293" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTHek4jKzqLPtJKX5hujNN00ZJdn3nH-3SqRQBg3zq2Nh5KSa7cQbj-4QLwxgHCcQfryBEXJBjnfQ45TaqqLhDOEmqbRY-QcBVYUhERGWc9mTGmZ1kRcTfidj0sOpEtbXHPS_n-5iQv89uCsFNR-j3L9Sx9xsPU-fK-R5dKcHBkNmOkdx_RnJFa_fkgn7/w385-h400/IMG_2596.jpeg" width="385" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I was surprised to see a year of 1881 above the entry to the library, two years before Carnegie's first funding of a library in his Scottish hometown of Dumferline. I asked the librarian if Carnegie had funded the library. She said no. Wikipedia wrong again. She didn’t leave it at that and checked the mainememory.net website for more information. It stated that Carnegie supplemented the Gardiner in construction in 1887 with a grant of $2,500, his smallest in Maine and perhaps anywhere, and acknowledged that many don’t consider Gardiner a Carnegie, including the librarian who was helping me. She said she had previously worked at the Lithgow library in Augusta, six miles north, and Carnegie had contributed $7,500 to it. Wikipedia didn’t include that among the twenty Carnegies in Maine, nor did the Maine Memory website, though it qualified more than the Gardiner library.</span><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTHlliraBogYvIeZasaEcx6Z_sIbf1R4Kv8VJJJKa00-b86GkVA2-so0h-jIIAJjg5l6KgfB5YTIOCEIs8HFk-W9Of6Dc9z1_KgrSsaedrcPmwQLgM7Q7pfzzBEc3e5f2Ga_24JBIHAIRvV_dqOeRBPEEtabnsb10HlCGVuzdhGjrFi7LCVaG0y7iuZpm/s3264/IMG_2601.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTHlliraBogYvIeZasaEcx6Z_sIbf1R4Kv8VJJJKa00-b86GkVA2-so0h-jIIAJjg5l6KgfB5YTIOCEIs8HFk-W9Of6Dc9z1_KgrSsaedrcPmwQLgM7Q7pfzzBEc3e5f2Ga_24JBIHAIRvV_dqOeRBPEEtabnsb10HlCGVuzdhGjrFi7LCVaG0y7iuZpm/w400-h300/IMG_2601.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I had been disappointed that Augusta hadn’t been listed as having a Carnegie, as I would have liked to visit the state capital. Now I could. It was a pleasant ride on a bike path sandwiched between railroad tracks and the Kennebec River, though a periodic semi-blanket of wet leaves restrained my speed. It was a steep climb up from the river to the granite fortress of a library, which had a whole block to itself, a good portion of which was a grassy field. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtC1_XgRIoiLtuyoHzOHuF05Vy27IGAZjiJaEZ6wLNTG-gPGLu6d8Z0R3TXaWkcBvef_6lN57YI98FX2iUwz2DcTSzRFjD6ceuoUbVOj_ES50_u6dU4btes2orWefcDgOaN7LWN5jpRPvsfSGfUqOIEDdlc4uyDfBV5636FUss0Xu6X2MNl5pOwlrjeV0f/s3079/IMG_2602.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1591" data-original-width="3079" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtC1_XgRIoiLtuyoHzOHuF05Vy27IGAZjiJaEZ6wLNTG-gPGLu6d8Z0R3TXaWkcBvef_6lN57YI98FX2iUwz2DcTSzRFjD6ceuoUbVOj_ES50_u6dU4btes2orWefcDgOaN7LWN5jpRPvsfSGfUqOIEDdlc4uyDfBV5636FUss0Xu6X2MNl5pOwlrjeV0f/w400-h206/IMG_2602.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The librarian there wasn’t sure of the Carnegie connection, but a newspaper article she dug out from 1990 tracing the history of the library acknowledged that Carnegie had made the largest contribution for its construction, supplementing the $20,000 that Llewelyn Lithgow, a local businessman, had left in his will for a library to bear his name. The librarian said that there are those who believe Llewelyn pays visits to the library, not the first haunted library I’ve come upon.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5M6nVHxRU-wnPt4ko3LggbZzwckEf4dHlwvCqqp79G0z1bdpYZgYOj8aOchX_BFBCwrG-RlONkEO9uv3JT6U-nzoREdzXUObxdRyM5oYILSCZB3jMPsfmuMsA0voIszb_0mYyxUCbcEGz31bopKFe4F9jS3GYPMKPf5UrpUI3XNHkMAt3AQqlkEAPZKs/s2788/IMG_2606.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2788" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5M6nVHxRU-wnPt4ko3LggbZzwckEf4dHlwvCqqp79G0z1bdpYZgYOj8aOchX_BFBCwrG-RlONkEO9uv3JT6U-nzoREdzXUObxdRyM5oYILSCZB3jMPsfmuMsA0voIszb_0mYyxUCbcEGz31bopKFe4F9jS3GYPMKPf5UrpUI3XNHkMAt3AQqlkEAPZKs/w351-h400/IMG_2606.jpeg" width="351" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>A mile a way on State Street past a roundabout stood the domed capital building, the second of these travels. Vermont’s in Montpelier is topped by a little more striking golden dome.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM58hX3bzaxs75RkFYL9XUgkoC1_1rcMFX09rjS2vVvaxjL2vtUMHND0Jqzmt-ThHiy9gwxl7-j-Irq3fUDvmHSe0euiBATyIjxnYy1KnmaCvFmA_9v2p41304rb5Hx5R8Ulk6_CQqBVMxg-K4a0YUY7Dq-DTW1WPeZtqtChtFRvkuro4xMcKNNfjQ2Vsx/s1749/IMG_2618.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1289" data-original-width="1749" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM58hX3bzaxs75RkFYL9XUgkoC1_1rcMFX09rjS2vVvaxjL2vtUMHND0Jqzmt-ThHiy9gwxl7-j-Irq3fUDvmHSe0euiBATyIjxnYy1KnmaCvFmA_9v2p41304rb5Hx5R8Ulk6_CQqBVMxg-K4a0YUY7Dq-DTW1WPeZtqtChtFRvkuro4xMcKNNfjQ2Vsx/w400-h295/IMG_2618.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The thirty-one miles from Augusta to Lewiston was on a busy road. The snow flurries were into their third hour by now and though they weren’t collecting there were snow plows out spreading salt driving along at a slightly slower speed than the traffic. Each was tailed by a long line of cars. It made it a little treacherous when this long procession came up from behind me, led by the monster truck with the extension of its plow encroaching upon the space between us.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I arrived in Lewiston over an hour later than I expected having to make a detour up to Augusta. Dark was closing in. The library was just off a narrow street that was a virtual pedestrian walkway lined with shops and cafes. The substantial granite building was overwhelmed by a huge multi-story addition to serve the city’s 37,000 residents, second most in the state. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSTddOrJmppRjDLIDVi5wYbP-4hS0NRpkgC-Z3a-VfgWW5fLnkB_P_Ou35AdyQDyoQzQLdmR6eLnKPUYjWUnWqeVZkEYZldINPXGQXw0NLdXYLxPSQ9gCaeYl0IZ47_s1Uif8cjwH0tZ8Nnc82sY0P1mh4HerfX9mL8IegmsIYLQrITN9jWKPJiyXgHkM/s3155/IMG_2608.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1713" data-original-width="3155" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSTddOrJmppRjDLIDVi5wYbP-4hS0NRpkgC-Z3a-VfgWW5fLnkB_P_Ou35AdyQDyoQzQLdmR6eLnKPUYjWUnWqeVZkEYZldINPXGQXw0NLdXYLxPSQ9gCaeYl0IZ47_s1Uif8cjwH0tZ8Nnc82sY0P1mh4HerfX9mL8IegmsIYLQrITN9jWKPJiyXgHkM/w400-h217/IMG_2608.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I was damp, and with the temperature never getting much above freezing all day I was in a need of a motel. Travel Advisor listed an Econo Lodge with breakfast six miles south by the airport in the direction I was headed. But first was the Carnegie Library in Auburn, sister city of Lewiston, just across the Androscoggin River. With a substantial population of 24,000 it’s library too had had a large, but less obtrusive addition. It had a tower and entry of arches virtually identical to the Carnegie in Waterville. I was surprised there was enough light to capture a photo of it.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOviXK9GLA0hKkC9-uFzHJzSOUlkSYIsuCbxm841dPvCHKAO4Po-UWugmOo_E552H2exbG5-IJqoD8rF0jFZlts2lTtaeeo8lMeh7pqtgwsOZKLMru2woZ_2RGhvSYCW0el-JlwNRWfAkOSdR_N-OsxQAi5Kg4ipnmp5klT0uaZ7EI37VeFV2ApRKqtv1H/s3264/IMG_2612.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOviXK9GLA0hKkC9-uFzHJzSOUlkSYIsuCbxm841dPvCHKAO4Po-UWugmOo_E552H2exbG5-IJqoD8rF0jFZlts2lTtaeeo8lMeh7pqtgwsOZKLMru2woZ_2RGhvSYCW0el-JlwNRWfAkOSdR_N-OsxQAi5Kg4ipnmp5klT0uaZ7EI37VeFV2ApRKqtv1H/w400-h300/IMG_2612.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I was lucky there was a wide shoulder on the road to the Econo Lodge, and also that I had brought along a reflective vest, which I have gotten a lot more use of than I ever expected. With it dark by 4:30 and less than ten hours of light a day, I very much need it. I was passing through a forest that called out to be camped in, but I didn’t dare. And no worries of the Econo Lodge being full, as it was a huge two-story complex with only a few cars and large trucks from the nearby Maine Turnpike parked down the two long flanks of rooms. There is no precipitation in the forecast for the next week, so hopefully this is my last indoor sleeping until I stop in on Laura and Ken in Williamstown in five days.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><p> </p>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-88031864370345432102023-11-08T09:47:00.004-08:002023-12-16T10:49:15.093-08:00Waterville, Maine<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhof4v_MX_WeEQu-yjpC7BEXZucveEOnBLltxB0ZiP5D5DcZDsW8voHqOCsaC7V7YW8YH3SMfGyIAs_NJL0ELYVKA-HET0xAQY4aIwyAy6nmyngBHKcMEu0bMI4wVp7qhqDLi21AX6bvSvdvhTbh09u1kBnGHaeqWUeBMswkwKaTAgiLwMExVLcXdpjSOS4/s2928/IMG_2552.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1669" data-original-width="2928" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhof4v_MX_WeEQu-yjpC7BEXZucveEOnBLltxB0ZiP5D5DcZDsW8voHqOCsaC7V7YW8YH3SMfGyIAs_NJL0ELYVKA-HET0xAQY4aIwyAy6nmyngBHKcMEu0bMI4wVp7qhqDLi21AX6bvSvdvhTbh09u1kBnGHaeqWUeBMswkwKaTAgiLwMExVLcXdpjSOS4/w400-h228/IMG_2552.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr">When I reached Bangor and the more populous southern third of the state the Carnegies started coming fast and furious, two the first day and four the next. The first came on the campus of the University of Maine in Orono, eight miles north of Bangor. The sprawling campus of 11,500 students resides on an island formed by the Stillwater and Penobscot rivers. It was largely populated with red-brick buildings. The monumental Carnegie was the lone exception constructed of grey stone accentuated by two monolithic columns. It stood alone on a slight rise in the center of a large quad as if it were a place of worship. It ended its days as a library in 1947 and has been renamed Carnegie Hall, serving as home to the Virtual Environment and Multimodal Interaction Laboratory (VEMI). </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3MAy3YdZe027gf9ttnlRbeNdxd95mG8m3FpVXF6rbBFnvobcabnCEuaTob05S7sOoutk3Oah-1FXNmu9tF_S0gRXoDAmCc_Go4dC0MhZhoOeoO9q21pMHb0x7Tu3U1PNQBhXMFN8EmqplrNta-j-4Hop9GB5_bgwdyl57s_o3FUQr1fvReJ1t4-gM2qgS/s2556/IMG_2528.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1564" data-original-width="2556" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3MAy3YdZe027gf9ttnlRbeNdxd95mG8m3FpVXF6rbBFnvobcabnCEuaTob05S7sOoutk3Oah-1FXNmu9tF_S0gRXoDAmCc_Go4dC0MhZhoOeoO9q21pMHb0x7Tu3U1PNQBhXMFN8EmqplrNta-j-4Hop9GB5_bgwdyl57s_o3FUQr1fvReJ1t4-gM2qgS/w400-h245/IMG_2528.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">Just five miles to the north in a town bearing the name Old Town was a public library funded by Carnegie. It was a monument of a building too, though of a more modest scale. The entry stated “Open to All,” but one had to enter around back through a large addition beside a sizable parking lot. The ride from Orono and onward took me past several ice rinks. With skating a popular pastime the university is a hockey powerhouse having won the national championship twice. </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJic-GJuBcSD4jvvZdXxDfaNuUWyGHJHvx0HqJUGOzn7KRCl6gNH3ewTG-PHSzwJ-YoPeZd8ppcyqB6LgpANv_7PpB7aHabGEsXxoVaVOG5hipmYrI8ntvt5Eko1yNKwMOveS8efmUger2ya4ddnbBbTURwsYXTh9XrKzZG0Iw0lqeqCeI55Fc7Us1ZFV_/s2905/IMG_2554.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2195" data-original-width="2905" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJic-GJuBcSD4jvvZdXxDfaNuUWyGHJHvx0HqJUGOzn7KRCl6gNH3ewTG-PHSzwJ-YoPeZd8ppcyqB6LgpANv_7PpB7aHabGEsXxoVaVOG5hipmYrI8ntvt5Eko1yNKwMOveS8efmUger2ya4ddnbBbTURwsYXTh9XrKzZG0Iw0lqeqCeI55Fc7Us1ZFV_/w400-h303/IMG_2554.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">I would have had a third Carnegie for the day in Pittsfield, forty-five miles southwest, but the imminence of rain forced me into a motel eight miles before I reached it. </div><div dir="ltr">I could have pushed on, as Pittsfield had lodging as well, but it was a higher-priced inn. I was happy to opt for a typical small-town motel emblematic of Americana rather than something more opulent. It didn’t offer breakfast, but had a couple of bowls of leftover Halloween candy that I took full advantage of. </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbuG2b09zFEfOxLuFhaSVzRF9lkaq_ggSDIT4jBVDev9slBeZxPEAmbBTCAgOkHB-jrrxh6L7paOwPRc2fkDuXMS9SzLwYGYR-WYMTOeWSVxixfinO1Wsr5p0OfU9djfetEFudvNpqXUNks2Q_Ss1Klgx-8XROma8NzYz1EzDxChSt3VXXpD8hBBR6Txm/s2353/IMG_2562.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1732" data-original-width="2353" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbuG2b09zFEfOxLuFhaSVzRF9lkaq_ggSDIT4jBVDev9slBeZxPEAmbBTCAgOkHB-jrrxh6L7paOwPRc2fkDuXMS9SzLwYGYR-WYMTOeWSVxixfinO1Wsr5p0OfU9djfetEFudvNpqXUNks2Q_Ss1Klgx-8XROma8NzYz1EzDxChSt3VXXpD8hBBR6Txm/w400-h295/IMG_2562.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">The next morning when I reached the exemplary domed Pittsfield Carnegie at eight a.m., two hours before it would open, I was somewhat regretting I hadn’t pushed on the afternoon before and paid the premium of staying at the inn so I could have had the pleasure of standing under the dome of the Carnegie and marveling at it’s interior as well as exterior. As the Carnegie in Old Town, it had a large, unobtrusive addition.</div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wCV_AqLy0UbDNRnxe1lbPLtBGqIILiu83Bz8j13Xeir9qLoAwVHad-x4NPDW6bV8FdwfHaZ6HieHqYdzTa_XoYeoZiXsZ0pqejLSCOL-DwX7CarlarZDiE_y6OJ9g2GWFzU4aYiEFValeDw_7ZcpLjo8YH8xMMqClyWljFZmdBEHf7REFdkWHFuZt8Hi/s2224/IMG_2564.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1406" data-original-width="2224" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wCV_AqLy0UbDNRnxe1lbPLtBGqIILiu83Bz8j13Xeir9qLoAwVHad-x4NPDW6bV8FdwfHaZ6HieHqYdzTa_XoYeoZiXsZ0pqejLSCOL-DwX7CarlarZDiE_y6OJ9g2GWFzU4aYiEFValeDw_7ZcpLjo8YH8xMMqClyWljFZmdBEHf7REFdkWHFuZt8Hi/w400-h253/IMG_2564.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">It had been one stunning Carnegie after another and the next kept the string going. It was almost too much for one day. It is the first building one encounters on the campus of Good Will-Hinckley, a charitable organization founded in 1889 by George Hinckley dedicated to educating youth and changing lives as a boarding and day school. The library now provides space for offices and classrooms. When I rolled up on my bike an administrator entering the building regarded me with suspicion and asked what I wanted.</div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKR_wdCQvislIBBTqGsDUG2bypqx5G08Pc9n1qw9p0C2MEzU6uK7dR0MORg7yS7n5aMgewYoIZZ_rHYfgj2KJAj5MubcFtyCZD2qdbkHQtCAaMRiPHSg3Ai4lbz5Uzi4O6HcTMCmvKnSaHYzGJwe0kjhCR9sXhUZK4U2F5Jd7qT5ke7NtzhTnP9sfaW0cU/s2753/IMG_2565.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1977" data-original-width="2753" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKR_wdCQvislIBBTqGsDUG2bypqx5G08Pc9n1qw9p0C2MEzU6uK7dR0MORg7yS7n5aMgewYoIZZ_rHYfgj2KJAj5MubcFtyCZD2qdbkHQtCAaMRiPHSg3Ai4lbz5Uzi4O6HcTMCmvKnSaHYzGJwe0kjhCR9sXhUZK4U2F5Jd7qT5ke7NtzhTnP9sfaW0cU/w400-h288/IMG_2565.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">It was twelve miles south on a hilly, trafficless road to the next Carnegie in the small town of Oakland. It was on a more modest scale than the previous four, but continued the neo-classic style with a pair of columns. It had an addition behind it. I was happy when a woman parked her car on the street in front of the library rather than going into the parking lot behind and walked right in, as I feared it would be another expanded Carnegie requiring entry on the side or in the back. Just inside the door a plaque gave credit to Carnegie and a woman who provided the land for the library. </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZS8E3fjFd2C2qzVoz0O9fZkzjiPfnIdqUkkKXHaL-1LFMPWDzTlWvVIDLkJD9464abRe75YNSzc7i7TqX7JUafSabu4xcLQmcjkn4wXBHqBPZdwtIy9dBw2iSvsVWuGptCFMF6uGDyAEssmBmNic2h3LJKY2xuAWGnr9Ece0At2AovjOh2tWrSZNmu3xP/s2176/IMG_2567.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1746" data-original-width="2176" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZS8E3fjFd2C2qzVoz0O9fZkzjiPfnIdqUkkKXHaL-1LFMPWDzTlWvVIDLkJD9464abRe75YNSzc7i7TqX7JUafSabu4xcLQmcjkn4wXBHqBPZdwtIy9dBw2iSvsVWuGptCFMF6uGDyAEssmBmNic2h3LJKY2xuAWGnr9Ece0At2AovjOh2tWrSZNmu3xP/w400-h321/IMG_2567.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">Just five miles away over a long climb and under Interstate 95 I had my fourth Carnegie for the day in the large city of Waterville. Rather than columns it had a tower. Including the lower level, it had four floors, double even the larger Carnegies. The fourth floor had two reading rooms. The floor below had a fireplace accompanied by the portrait of Carnegie with an open book on his lap. An addition to the side and the back were so seamless it was hard to tell they weren’t part of the original building.</div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">Of the twelve remaining Carnegies on my sweep of New England only three will require a jaunt of more than twenty-five miles. One however is out on an island that will take an hour and fifteen minutes to reach by ferry. I’m already looking forward to that usual jolt of pleasure upon my first glimpse of it, knowing that the anticipation will be building while at sea. </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">I have my route plotted all the way to Schenectady, where four final Carnegies in the vicinity await me. I’m somewhat regretting I won’t be catching the train home in Rochester, as I just learned from Diane Jenks on her latest edition of The Outspoken Cyclist Podcast that Rochester is the home of the women-specific Terry bicycle company. If I’d known before I set out on these travels, it would have been my first destination when I got off the train. </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">It was founded in 1985 by Georgena Terry, who traced her career in her wide-ranging conversation with her long-time friend Jenks on the podcast. She’d been a mechanical engineering student at Carnegie-Mellon in Pittsburgh. When she graduated and began work in Rochester with Xerox, she began making bicycle frames for friends with geometries better suited for women. Within a couple of years her business grew from a handful of frames to hundreds. Before long she she expanded her business to other woman-specific cycling gear, including saddles, pioneering the middle cut-away.</div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">The podcast was a most informative and entertaining conversation between two feisty, outspoken women who have been in the bike business for decades. Terry is ever mindful of the female perspective. Her website states: “I hope I’m part of a movement that encourages women to think for themselves. To be stubborn. To break the rules. And not be afraid to be a pain in the butt sometimes.” </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">On the podcast she pointed out several differences between men and women. She says she’s never had a woman request a carbon-fiber frame, saying that men always want the latest technology, while women are content with what has worked in the past. She said many of her clients are women who tell her they always wanted a Terry bike having heard about them years before. Jenks chimed in that women remember things, while men don’t. Georgena added, “And men don’t always listen.” It was almost as if they’d both just seen “Barbie” and couldn’t resist lampooning the patriarchy. </div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /><div><br /><div dir="ltr" id="AppleMailSignature"><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p></p>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-11512764115183158112023-11-06T07:12:00.004-08:002023-12-16T10:49:40.635-08:00Bangor, Maine<p> <span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BR8FP2EN3B8JgnUUSmOFVGvF3Z69ruJiLCho24Qwp2ZEsbT9LLYz5T1Iz8CnMAsafKxdt3uQBcP0fME8VKySlKV-iW935kqR4ONoz0TG8Pmr82E7ZPBnroPMdpEmfo-vmKJiAAy1N6rrp8O3ns-OoCw7dz-QqnCP9m7uTA-o7nLmArZb7smZqZYvOGpl/s2812/IMG_2526.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2033" data-original-width="2812" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BR8FP2EN3B8JgnUUSmOFVGvF3Z69ruJiLCho24Qwp2ZEsbT9LLYz5T1Iz8CnMAsafKxdt3uQBcP0fME8VKySlKV-iW935kqR4ONoz0TG8Pmr82E7ZPBnroPMdpEmfo-vmKJiAAy1N6rrp8O3ns-OoCw7dz-QqnCP9m7uTA-o7nLmArZb7smZqZYvOGpl/w400-h289/IMG_2526.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">There were nine cars ahead of me on the bridge over the Saint Croix River from St. Stephen in Canada to Calais awaiting to enter the US. I checked my watch to see how long of a wait it would be. It was 5:17, soon to be 4:17 when I crossed into Eastern time, forty-five minutes before sunset. And I’d have to set my watch back another hour the next day with daylight savings, forcing me to stop riding two hours earlier than I had been for the past two weeks. I had done well to arrive in time to get into the US and out into the countryside to camp before dark. If the headwind of the day before had persisted I would have had one more night in Canada.<br /><br />It was taking over a minute for each car to be let in. After the second the official in the guard house noticed me. He stepped out and waved me forward, saying I could go inside and be taken care of there. Three uniformed officers, two women and a guy, sat behind two counters, each facing a computer. They too were as cordial and welcoming as the officer outside, not a grim, authoritarian face among them.<br /><br />As one of the woman entered information from my passport into her computer, she engaged me in conversation rather than interrogation, as one is generally subjected to at border crossings. She wondered how long I had been a touring cyclist, not how long I had been in Canada or what had drawn me there or if I had a criminal record or what I might be bringing back into the US. I would have been happy to tell her I wasn’t bringing back anything I had bought, just two license plates from Nova Scotia and two from New Brunswick and a Canadian flag attached to a car window antenna that I had found along the road.<br /><br />The woman commented that I reminded her of an Irish guy who had run around the world pulling a cart who had passed through a few years ago. She had followed his travels and wondered if she could do the same with mine. She was nice enough to have been Canadian.<br /><br />I asked if many Canadians came over to shop at the Walmart in Calais. She said lots do especially for milk and eggs. I said I had been surprised how expensive milk had been in Canada and wondered why. None of the three officials could provide an answer other than it might be because they put less hormones in their milk. I said my first stop in the US would be at the Walmart for half a gallon of chocolate milk, and hoped it wasn’t sold out. <br /><br />The parking lot of the Walmart was half-filled with cars with New Brunswick license plates. The shelves were still well-stocked and there was lots of milk and not at an inflated price. A half gallon of chocolate milk was still $2.12, quite a difference from the $5.58 I had been paying in Canada. I was happy to see an eighteen-ounce jar of peanut butter was $1.84, the first time I had seen it under two dollars on this trip, and back to what it had been in pre-inflationary times. Maybe inflation had finally ebbed during my time away. The best find was a rack of mini-sweet potato pies on sale for forty-four cents, marked down thirty cents. Before inflation hit they had been fifty cents, a remarkable price for 270 calories of tasty eating.<br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1bE0xemeJ_qf5FQIl4MIZDdUPclD-3Eu6clImbInpAl4O1RD_nhs8aQOhwsTlaTONBGEHNP4BQXhZCEDzES0OIpvubHc14PpYURp3WDMvHIXhmKYq9ZQBfCyS6etO_QdwvWL7sZyD7Ow-WzgG2ywtbzEB4BBpQ0pe8pAozPRgZ3S1Fwmt8VHiwP_QZV_i/s1419/IMG_2515.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1419" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1bE0xemeJ_qf5FQIl4MIZDdUPclD-3Eu6clImbInpAl4O1RD_nhs8aQOhwsTlaTONBGEHNP4BQXhZCEDzES0OIpvubHc14PpYURp3WDMvHIXhmKYq9ZQBfCyS6etO_QdwvWL7sZyD7Ow-WzgG2ywtbzEB4BBpQ0pe8pAozPRgZ3S1Fwmt8VHiwP_QZV_i/w400-h353/IMG_2515.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>My final seventy miles in Canada included a short stretch along the Bay of Funday. I had to take a minor detour from the only road connecting St. John to Calais to ride along the water, enticed by a sign that promised much more than it delivered. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYefbUmlPMbpgjzAzkvm0iKgPQ2Y5iyDgOa06pyOVwJv0vLWIP4HGsGJ_deU1FpfwV-Y5K_Nxa35DqO8UvbX8EDlSigbKaPaZjcCw0S9rGVioiW4WjebD5K0hwOs5V9EyroMYJtOVpBcNKQF3QvEM3AGSqtDjX7Sp1Ls1sa0Y9cGFbjgfnKdC_ThxNDqa/s2692/IMG_2516.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1957" data-original-width="2692" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYefbUmlPMbpgjzAzkvm0iKgPQ2Y5iyDgOa06pyOVwJv0vLWIP4HGsGJ_deU1FpfwV-Y5K_Nxa35DqO8UvbX8EDlSigbKaPaZjcCw0S9rGVioiW4WjebD5K0hwOs5V9EyroMYJtOVpBcNKQF3QvEM3AGSqtDjX7Sp1Ls1sa0Y9cGFbjgfnKdC_ThxNDqa/w400-h291/IMG_2516.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">The road only included three miles of shoreline, the rest just more forest. I was about the only one making the detour, so that was its best benefit, fifteen miles of no traffic. It was low tide, so I could see evidence of its legendary biggest tide on the planet.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRUBmMiROHyckROuJ-U4SRCao2FJ1n9RYZmYRFhl9atx8Xu5AQ3BN4s0Gbg36K9Z7DxJqPYVi6Orx8jR3Q0eZNolHJnWtRyLn3RmLe3Ibidw0m3AuLG7QRnkzTppnfvZP3Ty6pZxbzZnZeGsh_n8hHD5u6OPdCiszY7gF7ivIX_RhWrXh57SWPjbElvIn/s2724/IMG_2519.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2054" data-original-width="2724" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRUBmMiROHyckROuJ-U4SRCao2FJ1n9RYZmYRFhl9atx8Xu5AQ3BN4s0Gbg36K9Z7DxJqPYVi6Orx8jR3Q0eZNolHJnWtRyLn3RmLe3Ibidw0m3AuLG7QRnkzTppnfvZP3Ty6pZxbzZnZeGsh_n8hHD5u6OPdCiszY7gF7ivIX_RhWrXh57SWPjbElvIn/w400-h301/IMG_2519.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>My final Tim Hortons came forty miles from the border. I was hoping to spend the last of my Canadian change. I knew I had a two dollar and one dollar coins and a few quarters and nickels. My change had been supplemented by the first coins I had seen on the road in St. John and afterwards. I thought I might have collected enough for two muffins. I was thirty-five cents short, so had to settle on a muffin and a cookie. I didn’t realize the cookie I selected was deluxe and cost a dollar more than the ordinary, so I had to change my choice. I told the cashier I was leaving the country and trying to spend the last of my change. He charged me for the cheaper cookie, but gave me the more expensive one, a final act of Canadian kindness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">The ninety-five miles from Calais to Bangor was much like my riding the past two weeks in Canada through thick forests and undulating terrain with just small dots of civilization, except there was a lot more climbing, with 4,735 feet for the day, the most of the trip, ten per cent more than the previous high. There were no service stations, just a lone diner attached to a motel and campground after fifty miles where I was the only patron. I stopped at the diner hoping it would have Wi-Fi, as I hadn’t encountered any all day. The waitress confirmed there was Wi-Fi, so I ordered a burger. After I sat down and spent several minutes trying to connect, she said it didn't always work. It was the first time in the month of these travels I went a day without Wi-Fi. The satellites must not hone on this area, as when I set out in the morning it took my Garmin a mile to pick up a signal, the longest by far I’ve experienced just about anywhere.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz0MptDjPPF9R2sbh48QVQkOYzywiuhExoiV2Whmj5jSSl2WFT5eQnKfsX9f3g08jVUh-p9SRM6ndO6Dd-M-LGyWwZ6TGWEe779L-bphnOmyl5S21ErMsYZlEOiLl4qZS4VkSSNI4FsINFf5ylVb_awsZA4DX3_eF1uF9srnJZ5G14VtnOK9uZ_1G0vEu/s2535/IMG_2523.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2155" data-original-width="2535" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz0MptDjPPF9R2sbh48QVQkOYzywiuhExoiV2Whmj5jSSl2WFT5eQnKfsX9f3g08jVUh-p9SRM6ndO6Dd-M-LGyWwZ6TGWEe779L-bphnOmyl5S21ErMsYZlEOiLl4qZS4VkSSNI4FsINFf5ylVb_awsZA4DX3_eF1uF9srnJZ5G14VtnOK9uZ_1G0vEu/w400-h340/IMG_2523.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>On the outskirts of Calais came the official welcome to Maine sign with the state motto of “Welcome Home.” I was feeling it without having to be told. I felt as if I were in the home stretch of these travels, although I could be on the road a couple more weeks getting to Schenectady with twelve Carnegies to gather in Maine, seven in New Hampshire, one in Vermont and four in New York. Back on home turf I could start looking forward to movies with Janina and time in the forest with Jan, Chris and Kurt cutting out honeysuckle and buckthorn and riding with Tom, Mark, John, Julie and the rest of the gang and hiking with Marj and Jeff and catching up with others.</span><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-12401300812511603472023-11-04T09:57:00.001-07:002023-11-04T09:57:08.353-07:00St. John, New Brunswick <p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjB5uOCm_Sh0IxTjyAnNUCLFTuZ7L1mfBS5GXos1G5OP5AGGkNW52_FK8-YY2YlvTb_SkuSU9gKmblKB6xAtcRx8GFJSEwFM00g9LJf4kH6ACi9u05JDKcdM0E5g7aJ9gjJCcCIb9fxcZtgNoMA78LeAmpQSRHpn263g6G1_nW6Yx_GIypI-AVORUNqt-I/s3264/IMG_2509.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjB5uOCm_Sh0IxTjyAnNUCLFTuZ7L1mfBS5GXos1G5OP5AGGkNW52_FK8-YY2YlvTb_SkuSU9gKmblKB6xAtcRx8GFJSEwFM00g9LJf4kH6ACi9u05JDKcdM0E5g7aJ9gjJCcCIb9fxcZtgNoMA78LeAmpQSRHpn263g6G1_nW6Yx_GIypI-AVORUNqt-I/w400-h300/IMG_2509.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">If the library advocates in Sydney, four hundred miles away at the eastern end of Nova Scotia, saw the majestic library Carnegie provided St. John in 1904, a year after they had their Carnegie Library in-waiting derailed by its city council after having approved it, they would have been distressed beyond description. Here was an edifice of great renown that could have graced their town if not for the shortsighted of their town council.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZPqJJ9XanuFQ49JYIN4vtj4TnoB3vpvXZtTRYLh5DC4grFDJnKrUy5UBQ6ElGWXvhDc5yEu8Apg_DfOVNAbaa_YdsoZE9fbX-T3eCOsdKIcymrfRklYjbQWNDD9WVcP3eZKSCJcrOY-DyGrk8PG6doJlSmuPxJCdNABNLqNfkJO4msHGUomsXFSRAmam/s3264/IMG_2510.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZPqJJ9XanuFQ49JYIN4vtj4TnoB3vpvXZtTRYLh5DC4grFDJnKrUy5UBQ6ElGWXvhDc5yEu8Apg_DfOVNAbaa_YdsoZE9fbX-T3eCOsdKIcymrfRklYjbQWNDD9WVcP3eZKSCJcrOY-DyGrk8PG6doJlSmuPxJCdNABNLqNfkJO4msHGUomsXFSRAmam/w400-h300/IMG_2510.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">It would be beyond any sensible person’s comprehension that such an incredible, long-enduring gift could be rejected. One can’t help but look upon the beauty and stature of St. John’s library and have their spirit elevated and drawn into its equally majestic interior highlighted by a domed foyer. It is another of the hundreds of Carnegies that is the center of a community and something to be proud of. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFzY9flHo7r0FXgKPWgEkIe-GlYjSHhuVK2DNnDnCe4ws532joFKMX0w31kEw1yzDnsWJgMxJEjfuS_eM-eTvGk_rpWeBPSafB596uItSH7vHShaohAIknTOL6L55qvLb-RiWC-I20ZX8SW1z-F4UxEQyt86tVYkaEWsM3O84_XoYt5VMy3JfbhBbB2uO1/s3264/IMG_2512.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFzY9flHo7r0FXgKPWgEkIe-GlYjSHhuVK2DNnDnCe4ws532joFKMX0w31kEw1yzDnsWJgMxJEjfuS_eM-eTvGk_rpWeBPSafB596uItSH7vHShaohAIknTOL6L55qvLb-RiWC-I20ZX8SW1z-F4UxEQyt86tVYkaEWsM3O84_XoYt5VMy3JfbhBbB2uO1/w400-h300/IMG_2512.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>It was replaced by a much larger library in a vast mall on the waterfront a few blocks away in 1983, but continues to serve the community as an Art Center. It was a hive of activity late Friday afternoon with an early evening opening just commencing. I rushed to the replacement library fearing it would close at five, and was a few minutes late, delayed a blocked road due to construction. I had hoped to make it to St. John by four, but was deterred by a ferocious wind off the Bay of Fundy, so I missed out on the opportunity to ask its librarians if they were aware of the sad saga of Sydney”s Carnegie.<br /><br />Even with a population of 70,000, the second largest in New Brunswick behind Moncton, the Carnegie remains the most prominent building in the city, facilitated too by its location in a central plaza on a hill. St. John is Canada’s oldest incorporated city dating to 1785. Its population was inflated after the Revolution to the south by a mass of Americans who wished to remain under British rule. Along with the distinction of having the lone Carnegie in the Martine Provinces and the eastern most Carnegie in North America, St. John can also lay claim to Donald Sutherland, who was born there in 1935 and went on to have a storied cinema career starring in M.A.S.H., Klute, 1900, Ordinary People, The Hunger Games and countless others. In 2017 he was given an honorary Oscar. He is considered the most noteworthy actor never to have received an actual nomination. <br /><br />Other than the late-in-the-day headwind that picked up as I neared the Bay of Fundy, I’d had a fine day, the first in six days where it had warmed up enough that I could shed my puff jacket. It was just twenty-four when I started the day with two frozen solid water bottles on my bike. I wondered if they’d thaw by the day’s end. It was all garb on deck when I set out, wearing two pairs of socks, two pairs of gloves and the hood of my jacket over my wool cap, forcing me to open the tightening strap on my helmet as far as it would go. <br /><br />As has happened in the past, I had found a large insulated workman’s glove with a rubber exterior the day before which was just what I needed. It was left-handed, just what I needed as my right glove was larger than the left and could accommodate my thinner glove, so I could wear them both when the temperature dropped to freezing. My thinner glove wouldn’t fit under the slightly smaller mismatched left heavier glove i had set out with for when the temperature dipped below forty-five. The only extra layer I could use with it was a plastic bag, so finding the glove on the road was a godsend. It was nice to learn I could easily survive sub-freezing temperatures on the bike and in the tent too, though I had to put on extra layers when I zipped myself into the sleeping bag for the night. My feet were fine, but for the first time I awoke with cold hands and had to put on gloves.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierOmF9TcrjzHUab9K9C3RDuH2U-8Kzr_4HtJL0tSOR6_wJercGyCTEWbRxjLO3c-7-NeSpHC2vr8ahAN6L3IDqXe6taXTerXWMMbyHU8HzA65VlvVdU4BrepoCzFJ8d5-gdTu1kfoRLm5EUDzIG0jJVaMELVC_s4Wxjwe32Lv1OrbT8ED6p_BG_QJ10-b/s2951/IMG_2498.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2074" data-original-width="2951" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierOmF9TcrjzHUab9K9C3RDuH2U-8Kzr_4HtJL0tSOR6_wJercGyCTEWbRxjLO3c-7-NeSpHC2vr8ahAN6L3IDqXe6taXTerXWMMbyHU8HzA65VlvVdU4BrepoCzFJ8d5-gdTu1kfoRLm5EUDzIG0jJVaMELVC_s4Wxjwe32Lv1OrbT8ED6p_BG_QJ10-b/w400-h281/IMG_2498.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>I finished off my candles before I fully wrapped myself in my sleeping bag, so was happy to come upon a Dollarama in the morning, where it would be much less of a hike around its aisles than the nearby Walmart to find them. A clerk stocking knew exactly where they were. It was the first dollar store I’d ventured into in Canada, so didn’t know they only had one aisle of food and no dairy. It hardly seemed a dollar store without ramen or peanut butter or baked beans.<br /><br />I had to go to the Walmart after all for chocolate milk, which meant I could avail myself of its Wi-Fi, which Dollarama didn’t offer, unlike some of the dollar stores in the US. The dollar store may not have had milk or Wi-Fi, but it at least had a garbage can out front, which none of the three chains of US dollar stores provide, a most customer-unfriendly cost-saving measure, almost enough reason not to patronize them, though I often have no choice out in small-town America. <br /><br />From St. John it’s just seventy miles back to the US. It won’t be any warmer there, but I’d like to think it will be less rainy. As long as I’m dry I can manage the cold. After riding in twenty and thirty degree temperatures, fifty seemed almost toasty. It took several hours to get that warm, and when it did, all was well with my world. The fifty held all the way to quitting time. It’s no hardship whatsoever to slip into the tent when it’s fifty, even if it’s going to drop into the thirties, <br /><br />After a night in a motel the tent is all the more welcoming. I may have gained a little extra benefit staying at the Holistic Healing Center. I’d had an inexplicably sore and inflamed shin for several days. I don’t know whether I bumped it, or a limb had scratched it or poisonous leaf brushed it in the forest in the night when I got up to take a leak or if it might have been bitten by a spider or some other insect. By days end it was slightly painful to walk on or to pedal with much exertion. <br /><br />It always felt better in the morning, but the swelling hadn’t gone down and was still slightly painful to the touch. After several hours of pedaling the pain would gradually make itself known once again. I was tempted to have the master healer give it a look and maybe perform some acupuncture on it, but I didn’t want to be told to take a day off. Turns out I didn’t need to as after my night in his premises, the the positive vibes was all the healing it needed. I didn’t want to think my hours and hours of daily pedaling had exacerbated something, as this had never happened before.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-55034986204519902862023-11-02T09:01:00.002-07:002023-11-02T09:01:35.310-07:00Amherst, Nova Scotia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1Gtecyb5WkNycU3BQ0a9C4F1Vkh6aH7_fMcHTffrZ246vBn2uQ8AA2uI3xnySFQXV5lvUSHhFuUPF8AP7I4-6w1dqnXVxpRM_XaB0P2m4dkOTfbEJIFwrOkEyHQstV_EyTHikUjX8z4YjykSOiAq2DymtvbNI66fBZYWkAgXqwvpVoRsflPuFqPcrSPT/s2646/IMG_2486.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1922" data-original-width="2646" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1Gtecyb5WkNycU3BQ0a9C4F1Vkh6aH7_fMcHTffrZ246vBn2uQ8AA2uI3xnySFQXV5lvUSHhFuUPF8AP7I4-6w1dqnXVxpRM_XaB0P2m4dkOTfbEJIFwrOkEyHQstV_EyTHikUjX8z4YjykSOiAq2DymtvbNI66fBZYWkAgXqwvpVoRsflPuFqPcrSPT/w400-h290/IMG_2486.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">A second wintry blast of cold air dropped the temperature to below freezing once again and this one brought some snow with it. It was no fun biking in wet, sleety flurries that soaked into my leggings. It came in mid-morning and fortunately only lasted an hour. There was no escaping it out in marginally settled Nova Scotia. Though it had me shivering, once it passed I quickly dried out and warmed up and regained the pleasure of being on the bike. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">It wasn’t so easy to stay warm the next day when I began riding at 7:30 with a temperature of thirty-two degrees that never got warmer than thirty-seven, not warm enough to melt all the lingering snow from the day before.</span></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqTpGCm6Z1_2S8XcgvfhSjcL9jtYPXT0UqQ2MX_96ELyraoFie9yTQQecmpXvOVm4K6yf4zU_7U6bh0oDjAuGit0vvH-LxRC5OQH3qAUe_g-8W0aIYrtgAublPwrhdHVXpSWuiSA13vYCXrToM7Tyjl0qKON3Cl2EQpLF4UqzNkZSTRfX4a_XvgNKHlH5/s3264/IMG_2487.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqTpGCm6Z1_2S8XcgvfhSjcL9jtYPXT0UqQ2MX_96ELyraoFie9yTQQecmpXvOVm4K6yf4zU_7U6bh0oDjAuGit0vvH-LxRC5OQH3qAUe_g-8W0aIYrtgAublPwrhdHVXpSWuiSA13vYCXrToM7Tyjl0qKON3Cl2EQpLF4UqzNkZSTRfX4a_XvgNKHlH5/w300-h400/IMG_2487.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I stopped after a couple of hours for a slice of pizza and didn’t remove a single garment, not even my wool cap and helmet, in the half hour I spent out of the cold. My hands at least gained full feeling and having been fully thawed managed to stay warm after I resumed. Though I slipped into my tent the night before when it was thirty-nine and was able to ward off the cold with a candle, raising the temperature in the tent to fifty, I didn’t care to retreat to a tent after a day of borderline warmth and a predicted night time low of twenty-three, so availed myself of a hotel for the second time in three days. I was lucky I had a cluster to choose from in Amherst after sixty-one miles for the day just as another wave of flurries came through.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgw96XB0SSNSexj1OmLf97T-KzXm7Sfof5HZ4Ndl1twO4uJt34VKlcYs7uZ4wJc_mNPLOLS_eExPM8GHCFHwQbifIQc-Jp4rAGnSDtXM5jvEFZryCEl8flK-sSXcOhiKL-sBzJhfHYlLCKeddD-SZiyc30DhuAdDzPK47ndqcHFJuVjEQLfeOq49qHKuH/s2749/IMG_2490.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="2749" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgw96XB0SSNSexj1OmLf97T-KzXm7Sfof5HZ4Ndl1twO4uJt34VKlcYs7uZ4wJc_mNPLOLS_eExPM8GHCFHwQbifIQc-Jp4rAGnSDtXM5jvEFZryCEl8flK-sSXcOhiKL-sBzJhfHYlLCKeddD-SZiyc30DhuAdDzPK47ndqcHFJuVjEQLfeOq49qHKuH/w400-h281/IMG_2490.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"> Booking.com revealed accommodations at an Indian-run Holistic Healing Center in the middle of the town. Nothing on the front of the building advertised that there were four rooms on its second floor available for lodging. The proprietor said he originally made them available for out-of-town clients, but began advertising on-line for others. With a shared bathroom his rate was less than half of other nearby motels along the Trans-Canada Highway, also known as the Highway of Heroes and Miners Memorial Highway.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">He’s happy if he manages to rent one a night. That’s enough to cover his daily expenses and helps supplement his healing income. He moved here two years ago from Toronto to escape the “concrete jungle” and his heavy overhead. There he had ten or more clients a day. Here he is lucky to get ten a week. Amherst has a population of eight thousand, though he attracts clients from as far as Halifax and Sydney, mostly the elderly with aches and pains that if they went to the hospital they’d have to wait twelve hours or more to be tended to. And they could wait days if they wanted an appointment with a family doctor. He does acupuncture as well as massages and herbal remedies. Most of his clients are referrals. He doesn’t expect to see a client a second time, as he likes to think he can heal them in one visit. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I was hoping the psssword for his Wi-Fi would be something exotic, but it was merely Guest123. As in Burlington, Vermont, he warned me to lock my bike as there were a lot of drug addicts in town. There were none hanging around the library or out and about in the wintry weather.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The temperature will be back into the fifties by the weekend, but the nighttime lows will still be dipping into the low thirties and twenties. I may have to avail myself of Amtrak in Bangor. I’ll have ridden over two thousand miles by then, my usual fall quota. I’d hate to forego a string of Carnegies in southern Vermont and New Hampshire and a visit with Laura and Ken in Williamstown in the northwest corner of Massachusetts, but it’s November, later than I’m usually touring. They can await another tour that will include Carnegies in Schenectady and the northeast corner of New York.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbaw0hV0b4urfupodfdi06f-cPt_EGozDOOPXJbuQ0r3xWvXymVbzYE3RkxyEY46vuL0gf7LBNh00b_evAWEd6lSnjvdheDrKz9FBQHT6x1TZPJuQEypkx8XAMzHtqQmT2FgEMrQuG_VEvCYWWqGuVMDOObw0bHxqteXdEPj3Ozomv9mDPxPDWT90l_b8/s2148/IMG_2482.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2148" data-original-width="1818" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbaw0hV0b4urfupodfdi06f-cPt_EGozDOOPXJbuQ0r3xWvXymVbzYE3RkxyEY46vuL0gf7LBNh00b_evAWEd6lSnjvdheDrKz9FBQHT6x1TZPJuQEypkx8XAMzHtqQmT2FgEMrQuG_VEvCYWWqGuVMDOObw0bHxqteXdEPj3Ozomv9mDPxPDWT90l_b8/w339-h400/IMG_2482.jpeg" width="339" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I should be able to cope with the cold a little better in the US with small town libraries and franchise food outlets more plentiful as places to warm up. Nova Scotia and New Brunswick are so sparsely settled I can go all day without any such refuge. Small, isolated homesteads are scattered here and there. If anyone had been out in their yard yesterday evening I would have been tempted to ask if I could pitch my tent in their barn and maybe borrow a blanket for extra insurance against the cold. My sleeping bag proved adequate enough that I didn’t need to put on leggings or extra layer on my torso. The extended head flap was all I needed.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">No one has expressed concern for someone biking in such harsh conditions. Those carving out an existence in the semi-wilderness would think nothing of it. They may regard me as one of them. I haven’t been inflicted with any belligerence from passing motorists, not a single get-off-the-road blast of a horn, just an occasional friendly, affirming toot, most often from vehicles coming towards me.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">When Rick of Lansing bikes this way next summer he’ll have a fine time with the long days and warm temperatures. It will be hard to stop biking. I’ve done just fine in less than optimum conditions and am glad I didn’t heed his warning to stay away in October. Thankfully he didn’t go on to tell me how much worse it would get in November, as then I might have been deprived of this wonderful experience. As it is, I have put in seven or eight hours a day on the bike in the little over ten hours of light available to me to limit my overlap with November.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva8n4QFi5ZCOQFahlxVLUFzJO9iUZA4Z300gW9UtCD25qjYE5IMsJlwwwpkBI_BbwZAxgs1WTH-lUTlr2iJh5DgBQHWIW0Wgs6AgTX9VVsRgi6_r81FRnHawa4YVBKJIKd0oOQqQf2UbZU7cJ4bbCzlQauTUCiyiNkfakfUPe3kPJAx7ipQgPNqhl0gF8/s1241/IMG_2455.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="1241" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva8n4QFi5ZCOQFahlxVLUFzJO9iUZA4Z300gW9UtCD25qjYE5IMsJlwwwpkBI_BbwZAxgs1WTH-lUTlr2iJh5DgBQHWIW0Wgs6AgTX9VVsRgi6_r81FRnHawa4YVBKJIKd0oOQqQf2UbZU7cJ4bbCzlQauTUCiyiNkfakfUPe3kPJAx7ipQgPNqhl0gF8/w640-h172/IMG_2455.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-13995852790315364172023-10-31T09:18:00.002-07:002023-10-31T10:04:09.859-07:00Antigonish, Nova Scotia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsl9vA7rYzxz0BhhDajR6F5OW5v0nga3QiKJH5nbkSVd15U4Ph06RWbLI6UvoqcahvpuRK44UqQaIe60U3iu10hMj29hQi14T8SpF3NVUSzHCWY_yjVxtkYsKHMMoDSIm8joTdmCuR4nxYt_8pendEjHlo8gQmH1EpfUKoKqInfz9JdmNdIDLOpfBjbFIw/s2121/IMG_2444.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1538" data-original-width="2121" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsl9vA7rYzxz0BhhDajR6F5OW5v0nga3QiKJH5nbkSVd15U4Ph06RWbLI6UvoqcahvpuRK44UqQaIe60U3iu10hMj29hQi14T8SpF3NVUSzHCWY_yjVxtkYsKHMMoDSIm8joTdmCuR4nxYt_8pendEjHlo8gQmH1EpfUKoKqInfz9JdmNdIDLOpfBjbFIw/w400-h290/IMG_2444.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div> <div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Finally, on Day Twenty-six of these travels, I availed myself of a motel. I held off as long as I could until I was beset by the twin demons of a temperature in the low forties and rain. The rain came right on schedule a little after noon and was forecast to continue into the night. I reached the motel I was targeting forty miles down the road just as the rain was commencing. It was barely a drizzle, not enough to normally derail me, but I wasn’t about to mistrust the prediction of how long it would last, as forecasters don’t much get it wrong these days.<br /><br />The day had started out with a patchy blue sky and no ominous clouds on the horizon, so I thought maybe the rain had diverted, but knowing the accuracy of the forecast, that was mere wishful thinking, though I did want to have an afternoon off to tend to a host of chores I’d been neglecting for days, including laying all my gear out and letting it thoroughly dry.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEhtyfAQbDKzxFqlRQB5V5rN-LkRWpddyFFqKtcKeN_H4npyOkCsVbVejweip4HurBm9AA3zgoR4SZlnkJchUvSlAmAXp7sFI-HYGGfhA_hGyvEtoWkJyIYRigqfNmpKxy5Ik28c1fzQoHqgeRI0P6M5kiGrjJSmg0HccDnSotUV1UkM-nMa_nwTRbw6eg/s2779/IMG_2464.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1894" data-original-width="2779" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEhtyfAQbDKzxFqlRQB5V5rN-LkRWpddyFFqKtcKeN_H4npyOkCsVbVejweip4HurBm9AA3zgoR4SZlnkJchUvSlAmAXp7sFI-HYGGfhA_hGyvEtoWkJyIYRigqfNmpKxy5Ik28c1fzQoHqgeRI0P6M5kiGrjJSmg0HccDnSotUV1UkM-nMa_nwTRbw6eg/w400-h272/IMG_2464.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The motel offered breakfast, but since I wished a dawn start the next day before breakfast was served, the Asian attendant let me have my breakfast early. She was most generous asking me how much of each item I wanted, so I got three hard-boiled eggs, two bagels, two cups filled with Raisin Bran, two packets of oatmeal, milk, orange juice, and several containers of peanut butter, cream cheese and jam. I could feast.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I had a bunch of wash to do and tended to that first so it would have a chance to dry. It will feel especially nice to put on clean tights in the morning. I was hoping dumping out my panniers would reveal some food I had forgotten about. I still had two emergency energy bars I had started with, but no more. It was hard to tell whether my various items were a bit damp or just cold.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">In the parking lot of the sprawling motel was a mini-U-Haul truck. I had seen many of them on Cape Breton, going in both directions. Evidently there is a high turnover of labor in Sydney. Someone asked me when I was headed in that direction if I was planning on spending the winter there, assuming I was another job-seeker drawn by an abundance of jobs.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7ce3mUS-zsl4t81J5jRMQtGWO4Rp9TUtCIIpIRS_2rFpc2uE7bs7CJwabxDV-7YHAeC6DGZ7L5eAchREcrSerO2EDJklT0_Wc3bPD5hi68wDVCB83SLxQfeTrGTz2rArh9cVqRAb05gZYymO7jNzC13m37Yl0cMQ1RG4BpQQMJ4mlf1l-TWoqUDEorBt/s3264/IMG_2441.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7ce3mUS-zsl4t81J5jRMQtGWO4Rp9TUtCIIpIRS_2rFpc2uE7bs7CJwabxDV-7YHAeC6DGZ7L5eAchREcrSerO2EDJklT0_Wc3bPD5hi68wDVCB83SLxQfeTrGTz2rArh9cVqRAb05gZYymO7jNzC13m37Yl0cMQ1RG4BpQQMJ4mlf1l-TWoqUDEorBt/w400-h300/IMG_2441.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I found a secondary road with virtually no traffic for fifty miles on my return from Sydney between the two main highways mostly along Grand Lake. I could truly soak in the pristine scenery. At the tip of the lake past the town of Grand Narrows I had the option of taking a ferry across Little Narrows or continuing along another lake. Taking the ferry would lead me to a town with a Tony Hortons, my only opportunity for Wi-Fi for the day, but there was so little traffic I wasn’t sure the ferry would be operating or how often. The decision was made for me when I came to the intersection where I had to make my choice, as a ragged sign reported the ferry was operating five kilometers up the road.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFT7Inn4UsEDFQq1Vxe8pefYXdatddQgw6nvnwcKS-gIC3UPepvIBMHgB1WJmCtQit9beITEVp7F1-tEvJ48dFhiJ4SFNP2rCTHsDaLHvMuCZvIHp3lqGC1pBfTKKSlAHAN5uD7i2SHslgJJ7EMlJnwAYrhpgQihvzs91js5_IVye6Qc7paU-0Pa9zxG6q/s2713/IMG_2445.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2713" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFT7Inn4UsEDFQq1Vxe8pefYXdatddQgw6nvnwcKS-gIC3UPepvIBMHgB1WJmCtQit9beITEVp7F1-tEvJ48dFhiJ4SFNP2rCTHsDaLHvMuCZvIHp3lqGC1pBfTKKSlAHAN5uD7i2SHslgJJ7EMlJnwAYrhpgQihvzs91js5_IVye6Qc7paU-0Pa9zxG6q/w400-h283/IMG_2445.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I had further confirmation when a couple of cars passed me. The narrows were so narrow the ferry zipped back and forth whenever a vehicle showed up. I had no wait, arriving just after two cars had boarded, and in a couple of minutes I was across and back riding.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx8yzjwWfVeKXdk7q1x0IwGbKsa-0egBAB9O035vMKDzUTldk4kH7ph1qLd3g57Kd4zYHrmUtxhHH1seTcuHvUdQJfE9gXnkEDX3ledgwDasxrAyPgdaFDDbmG2qOIbM0yqXEJDoPkJIEyxgvAa4tbs6FYDnnwRUYHsTwyT0Xcf9NY68OFBAaWdz6-HguU/s3026/IMG_2446.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2364" data-original-width="3026" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx8yzjwWfVeKXdk7q1x0IwGbKsa-0egBAB9O035vMKDzUTldk4kH7ph1qLd3g57Kd4zYHrmUtxhHH1seTcuHvUdQJfE9gXnkEDX3ledgwDasxrAyPgdaFDDbmG2qOIbM0yqXEJDoPkJIEyxgvAa4tbs6FYDnnwRUYHsTwyT0Xcf9NY68OFBAaWdz6-HguU/w400-h313/IMG_2446.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I wasn’t in dire need of charging at Tony Hortons, as I had stopped at a rural fire station that had an outside outlet. The station also had a Little Free Library version of a pantry of food. It was well stocked. No one stopped while I was there or even drove past. I was tempted to take a box of breakfast bars to let those maintaining it know that it was being used, but left them for someone else to make that gesture.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_ezynmBCqUS0HuPqA86unJbvsGqNGhwcdcO1PbQX6Qvnzmm1ZCWBEaA8rtkQcCjzijo7f49lhm3netRpX99u0ZHNb1f-LsRsuJGtt6-EG6bj2HuIIysopqlmzlUTetKLxt4jqQOqWbdPC6dVWhZHihZKWN_suyYathymzBnxxuyZoHqWiBgHSRm3ZUCd/s1691/IMG_2440.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1691" data-original-width="1599" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_ezynmBCqUS0HuPqA86unJbvsGqNGhwcdcO1PbQX6Qvnzmm1ZCWBEaA8rtkQcCjzijo7f49lhm3netRpX99u0ZHNb1f-LsRsuJGtt6-EG6bj2HuIIysopqlmzlUTetKLxt4jqQOqWbdPC6dVWhZHihZKWN_suyYathymzBnxxuyZoHqWiBgHSRm3ZUCd/w379-h400/IMG_2440.jpeg" width="379" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>While confined to the motel, as I did my wash and other chores, I listened to a tv station broadcasting the proceedings of the parliament in Ottawa. There were lots of complaints about the price of food. One representative said his constituents were crossing into the US for their groceries. I can attest food is more expensive here. Chocolate milk is double the price of what I pay back home and cereal too and that’s discounting the exchange rate of $1.39 for a US dollar. Bananas surprisingly are cheaper. Prime Minister Trudeau had summoned the CEOs of the five largest food chains to put on a show of dealing with the problem. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Another complaint was the price of heating oil for homes. The Maritime provinces had waived the considerable tax Trudeau had imposed on it in response </span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">to climate change and representatives of other provinces wanted the same benefit. One representative was reprimanded by calling Trudeau by name. Evidently there is a rule that one can make personal attacks. One can refer to others only by the title of their office. There wasn’t a single mention of Israel or Gaza or Palestinians. Among the dozens of channels at my disposal was one from Boston that was broadcasting Monday Night Football. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-7749285156067434182023-10-29T12:08:00.005-07:002023-10-30T11:05:28.903-07:00Sydney, Nova Scotia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj989oUXOSUbS4oEuB_IXXj6kiCOc6CD2YTIB8Z_9NbhWRvCJo7EBPhEl9dx9x81dN4fyPS5Vbh_Ej8Vk8PU9263UnZa5IPsaITl3qSu6YUn_dqZ0kGn_rB0LVHkqX49_jRoBa216LOAx40Az4o4MGtsgjpbQUbS3MdBCMPBad92AXXhMM5ElYCNw-JLFJX/s2604/IMG_2433.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2037" data-original-width="2604" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj989oUXOSUbS4oEuB_IXXj6kiCOc6CD2YTIB8Z_9NbhWRvCJo7EBPhEl9dx9x81dN4fyPS5Vbh_Ej8Vk8PU9263UnZa5IPsaITl3qSu6YUn_dqZ0kGn_rB0LVHkqX49_jRoBa216LOAx40Az4o4MGtsgjpbQUbS3MdBCMPBad92AXXhMM5ElYCNw-JLFJX/w400-h313/IMG_2433.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;">Wikipedia generally gives the addresses of Carnegie Libraries, which is very helpful, especially when they no longer serve as a library. It didn’t list the addresses thought of the two in Sydney, just the year the funds were granted, both in 1903, and the architects of each. Though both were color-coded as still serving as libraries, I wanted to be sure I reached Sydney during their hours when they were open in case there were any complications. I was set to arrive in Sydney on a Saturday, when smaller town libraries aren’t always open or have limited hours. Sydney being a sprawling port city with a population of 30,000 thankfully had Saturday hours of ten to four-thirty.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: start;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNL0P8wHXdnUg3KD-1AaaUYHT7VhDokZGqL7IuRqUiWrTxu6DHOAlysJtkAXhFSgITRtrL3s9exZJlXXsj-jClNhB7T8J4OIBXHuzUZCiz1GAXqmGBTUh5V9uhGXMc2QeMdlWlTyCK3wT2bbbfkXfp4ISCAVMt-SG-GpBucvKB8COufK3Z0my9ImHxMsz/s2735/IMG_2443.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2060" data-original-width="2735" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNL0P8wHXdnUg3KD-1AaaUYHT7VhDokZGqL7IuRqUiWrTxu6DHOAlysJtkAXhFSgITRtrL3s9exZJlXXsj-jClNhB7T8J4OIBXHuzUZCiz1GAXqmGBTUh5V9uhGXMc2QeMdlWlTyCK3wT2bbbfkXfp4ISCAVMt-SG-GpBucvKB8COufK3Z0my9ImHxMsz/w400-h301/IMG_2443.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I began the day sixty-two miles east of Sydney. I had been held under seventy miles the past two days by hilly terrain, which had the possibility of relenting as my route followed the shoreline of scenic Bras d’Or lake. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: start;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBw-oLIUQ__TVxZcyPLM3DUeQwD6o7POlMu6K6tvggzQAbshTNlmAKLwa_eBryvFNYpiWgHLVIiSYcF-eB_NaSIH20g4OgDNpOHx8YbnH6guc_wYLgcioR5KpwDEpUgxAF8d5YzX3RSNHFZSqpuBTmibmJyCLXZoIFVrIr0upA90ixHoo6xLMOnBd5ubE/s1404/IMG_2429.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1404" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBw-oLIUQ__TVxZcyPLM3DUeQwD6o7POlMu6K6tvggzQAbshTNlmAKLwa_eBryvFNYpiWgHLVIiSYcF-eB_NaSIH20g4OgDNpOHx8YbnH6guc_wYLgcioR5KpwDEpUgxAF8d5YzX3RSNHFZSqpuBTmibmJyCLXZoIFVrIr0upA90ixHoo6xLMOnBd5ubE/w389-h400/IMG_2429.jpeg" width="389" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>But it was still up and down terrain with several six per cent climbs of a mile over high humps gaining three hundred feet each, so I had to limit my breaks and keep plugging away. I made it to the library with an hour to spare. At first glance it looked like another Carnegie that had been disfigured/mutilated by multiple-additions as three of the four sides were of somewhat modern brick and glass. There didn’t seem to be a single feature that made it a historic building other than possibly a back wall of plain red brick that might have dated to 1903.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I asked the pair of librarians at the circulation desk if this library had been funded by Carnegie. It hadn’t, as it was built in 1960 and replaced a library that had been in the courthouse that had burned down in the ‘50s. They knew nothing of there having been a Carnegie Library in Sydney. That was deflating, but I was greatly relieved that I had arrived when the library was open to give me the opportunity to find the Carnegie.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I told them of what I knew from Wikipedia. The younger male librarian said he vaguely remembered reading a while ago that the city had been granted a Carnegie, but it had never been built. Meanwhile, both he and the older woman librarian went at their computers trying to solve this mystery. A third librarian joined in on the search on a third computer, all there at the circulation desk. They found it highly unlikely that there had been two libraries and speculated that since the two grants were two months apart that the second superseded the first. One of them found that the architect of the second grant listed his design of the library among his work, though there was no picture of it, the first confirmation that there had been a Carnegie.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">The woman librarian disappeared and returned with a manila folder full of yellowing newspaper clippings from the time when the present library was built. As I rummaged through them I came upon an article titled, “The library that was not built.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">At the same time the librarian who was on the trail of the architect of the library discovered a 1910 court case before the Nova Scotia Supreme Court of the City of Sydney versus Chappell Brothers and Company with the architect seeking to collect his fee for designing the library. The three-page judgement that the librarian printed out for me revealed that the city had reneged on its pledge to build the library.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">At last, we’d gotten to the bottom of the mystery of the library that wasn’t. It was almost as thrilling as actually finding the library. The thrill overcame any feeling that I had wasted a week biking to see something that wasn’t there, as it got me to Nova Scotia and a couple of license plates as souvenirs, including a battered bright yellow commercial one that I rarely saw. I could only chuckle that this long ride had seemingly been for naught, though no bike ride is ever for naught.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fkl_jufsD1ifzbx-5Sh0kn_tldy0RtZwNaRYBcmdH22R2j3eOSamcn5qca-aHg6wmYyrHHY1ZN2snreqyViT6s-8kUaMJT0qN0sIQ6ohnzHBiJSHOeMHVJH9Rhcwy4jqK1pmMCI011fF8kqeeCjb7QaDykoylTTXffB6-RPiu2-PkB_GpCOwQimnqsvV/s1841/IMG_2463.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1841" data-original-width="1837" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fkl_jufsD1ifzbx-5Sh0kn_tldy0RtZwNaRYBcmdH22R2j3eOSamcn5qca-aHg6wmYyrHHY1ZN2snreqyViT6s-8kUaMJT0qN0sIQ6ohnzHBiJSHOeMHVJH9Rhcwy4jqK1pmMCI011fF8kqeeCjb7QaDykoylTTXffB6-RPiu2-PkB_GpCOwQimnqsvV/w399-h400/IMG_2463.jpeg" width="399" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;">The writer began his story wondering how many citizens of Sydney knew that just after the turn of the century the town had been offered $15,000 by “none other than the late Andrew Carnegie, the famous American industrialist and philanthropist” to build a library in Sydney “long before the era of regional libraries.” It was a good question to ask, as none of these librarians, sixty some years after the article had been written, knew it.<br /><br />The article stated that the town council gave the go-ahead to purchase a plot of land for the library and pledged an annual sum of $1,500 maintain it. It went on to say, “Then the roof fell in…one is left in utter bewilderment as to why this splendid and advanced project went up into thin air. Equally bewildering is why the good town fathers of the day refused to pay for the plans and specifications which had been called for and approved and adopted by the library committee.”<br /><br />The article then explained that the town refused to pay the architect for his plans forcing him to take the town to court to recover his fee of $426.63. The court granted him $250. The town appealed to a higher court, which sided with the architect ordering the town to pay him the full $426.63 plus expenses. The article concluded, “The architect got his money, but the town didn’t get its library. Perhaps some student of Sydney’s history might be able to furnish us with the behind the scenes story of the building that was never built.”<br /><br />It had to have been a highly divisive issue at the time between the readers and non-readers of the community with the non-readers winning out not wishing to raise their taxes a modicum to support the library, no doubt infuriating the readers when they thought they had won the battle to have a temple of a library that would still be standing to this day. It had usually been women’s groups that spearheaded the drive for a library. One can well imagine their anger and fury when the male elected officials reneged on their initial promise of accepting Carnegie’s funds and the conditions that came with it of providing land for the library and an annual maintenance fund of ten per cent of his grant. Several times as we unraveled this story, all three librarians muttered it sounded like current times, as they could use further funding, which the community is disinclined to contribute.<br /><br />A further mystery is why Wikipedia bungled this issue and that no one has righted it. As we googled Canadian Carnegie libraries, of which there are 125, or rather 123, the several articles all referenced Wikipedia as having the definitive list of the libraries. I would have thought the person who wrote a book on the one hundred or so Carnegie Libraries in Ontario, might have had an interest in the handful of others scattered in Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Yukon and New Brunswick, though not Quebec, and righted Wikipedia’s mistake that the duplicate grants to Sydney never resulted in a library. Evidently whoever posted the list of Carnegies in Canada went by a list of grants Carnegie had given.<br /><br />I felt no fury towards Wikipedia, just thanked it for providing me a nice ride from one end of Nova Scotia to the other and back. It’s far from the first mistake I’ve discovered on its addresses and status of Carnegies, but easily the most extreme. Wikipedia isn’t the only one to make mistakes regarding Carnegies. Many of the plaques in front of them dispense faulty information. The Fort Fairfield plaque in Maine said it was one of seventeen Carnegies in the state, when there are actually eighteen plus two more on college campuses.<br /><br />I asked the senior woman librarian if she knew of a cheap motel. She said she did but she wouldn’t even send her worst enemy there, as just in the past week it had been in the news with several arrests made there. She conducted a search similar to the one I had already made and found nothing cheaper than $109 Canadian, about $80 US. She said she had just returned from a vacation in Perth over in Ontario and the hotel prices had nearly doubled since a year ago, so she wasn’t surprised at there being nothing under $100. I glanced at her computer screen and noticed one for $99. She said that was the one she had been telling me about.<br /><br />I was prepared to pay whatever the going rate was, but with a rare sunny day and a temperature of an unseasonably balmy seventy and two hours of light left I couldn’t resist riding in these ideal conditions. It would be like wasting a strong tail wind. Rain is in the forecast for the coming week, so I gladly pocketed my night in a motel for later. I headed out excited with the prospect of a night in my tent rather than in some cell or another.<br /><br />The librarian recommended the alternate route I had avoided thinking it would attract more trucks and would entail more climbing, but she said locals don’t prefer one over the other and that they are through similar terrain and have an equal amount of traffic. The last twenty miles of the road I had come in on was thick with civilization, which would make for difficult camping, so I was happy for the other, less developed route. Now it’s four hundred miles to the next Carnegie in St. John, New Brunswick, which Wikipedia provides an address to, then two hundred miles to the next in Maine, where a bunch await me and I don’t have to worry about a day without a Carnegie.<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><p></p>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-24805511609495664752023-10-28T05:09:00.002-07:002023-10-28T05:18:50.404-07:00St. Peter’s, Nova Scotia<p> </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNtxkoQlF5mQYd4VVGx7HaoUrQxKJNokwBjwgLqwqyBrln1LBy0vazU0wUL-aKENDpK4zopj_MXREl4yM2HFQ8M0SNVHXW6Q00seoUJIohwx4GBgOdk7rnYwQgBO5wqCoG7qsM-J11tS0mHeVb-j_x9rFVS5VyDRFaHijOD9B_4UsHNVQ84FBpbjhQw9X/s3264/IMG_2420.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNtxkoQlF5mQYd4VVGx7HaoUrQxKJNokwBjwgLqwqyBrln1LBy0vazU0wUL-aKENDpK4zopj_MXREl4yM2HFQ8M0SNVHXW6Q00seoUJIohwx4GBgOdk7rnYwQgBO5wqCoG7qsM-J11tS0mHeVb-j_x9rFVS5VyDRFaHijOD9B_4UsHNVQ84FBpbjhQw9X/w400-h300/IMG_2420.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The past two nights I was thwarted by very spongey, marshy turf at my first attempt at a camp site, forcing me to resume riding in the near dark. And both nights within a mile I came upon a dirt road that led to higher, more solid ground. The first night I stepped into swampy water, meaning I ended the day with one wet shoe and sock. Wet feet have been one of the themes of these travels.<br /><br />Now that I’m well out into the North Atlantic, precipitation never seems far away. Even when there is no rain predicted, that doesn’t mean a heavy mist of near rain won’t settle in. I’ve been fortunate in my six days in these Maritime Provinces to have suffered nothing worse and have never been soaked, just damp.<br /><br />I closed to within eighty-five miles of Sydney when I crossed the mile-long Causo Causeway, the lone link of western Nova Scotia with its far eastern island, Cape Breton, separated by the Northumberland Strait. It seems to be a popular tourist destination, as just across the causeway in Port Hawkesbury I came upon a cluster of motels, both high end and budget. It was late in the afternoon and though I am in need of a motel I planned to save that for Sydney, where I could celebrate reaching my distant destination. <br /><br />I have been making note of the occasional motel I have passed as i’ll be retracing the past 250 miles and could be in need of shelter for the night should the weather turn nasty. The only alternate route is the divided four-lane Trans Canadien highway. Bicycles are allowed but it’s not very amiable. I’ll return to Moncton then turn down to St. John in New Brunswick on the Bay of Fundy for its Carnegie. Someone corrected me when I referred to it as St. John’s, as there is a St. John’s in Newfoundland, while that of New Brunswick lacks the ending “s.” It will be interesting to see if I end up camping at any of the spots I camped on the way out. I am looking forward to returning to Pugwash as it had an area for a farmer’s market with lots of electrical outlets and water, though its rest room was locked. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYEibL7PfrY0ddUGc0WOwddVjRqTOXObY-L2A55LmGyoBemJLLJzzsnxOhdWQF0pPJLz8GSv4PnJVlf-ckwSXSXMMWhgRGd_D_7Wc1jyCTRny69sS1nzJ7m1eu2gXUcJkHAnKQpf9oCUv0w_bq1jR1N-YNzfoV1BavIzIzA91mrHvGip6VLdE4wopulV9/s2449/IMG_2413.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2087" data-original-width="2449" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYEibL7PfrY0ddUGc0WOwddVjRqTOXObY-L2A55LmGyoBemJLLJzzsnxOhdWQF0pPJLz8GSv4PnJVlf-ckwSXSXMMWhgRGd_D_7Wc1jyCTRny69sS1nzJ7m1eu2gXUcJkHAnKQpf9oCUv0w_bq1jR1N-YNzfoV1BavIzIzA91mrHvGip6VLdE4wopulV9/w400-h341/IMG_2413.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>I had the choice of two roads to Sydney when I crossed to Cape Breton Island, one to the north of a cluster of lakes and one south of it. The northern route was a more recent highway through mostly unsettled terrain. I was tempted to take it as there was a wind from the south that would have taken me up to it, but I opted for the older, original highway, as I have come to learn that the older roads tend to follow the contour of the land and require less climbing, while the new highways go in a direct line up and over the hills. The more straight, direct route of the newer roads always look more inviting, but they are more strenuous and take longer, while inflating the number of feet I climb for the day.<br /><br />Before crossing the causeway I stopped at a Tim Hortons for my daily muffin. It was the first Hortons that didn’t have Wi-Fi, forcing me to stop at the next one five miles away in Port Hawksbury. While I was eating, an older gentleman asked if I’d heard about the mass shooting in Maine. I said yes and that Canada was lucky not to have to worry so much about such things. He corrected me and said there’d been one over in New Brunswick a year ago and one never knew when the next might occur.<br /><br />I’ll be passing through Lewiston in a couple of weeks, as there is a Carnegie there, one of a dozen I didn’t get to in my passage of northern Maine. The town will no doubt still be in mourning. Though Canada has been most pleasant, I’m looking forward to returning to the States where I will have a Carnegie or two to look forward to every day. My daily goal in Canada has just been to get as far down the road as I can so I can all the sooner reach my goal of Sydney. <br /><br />Though the map would seem to indicate I am way off the beaten path, there are Walmarts and an occasional McDonald’s and Subway and KFC. I am just sorry that libraries are such a rarity. The only one I’ve encountered was part of a Community Center and not open. I was at least able to take advantage of its Wi-Fi and left a golf ball by the door in appreciation. I’d been carrying it since before Burlington when my Warmshowers host didn’t care to accept it as a gift, just a paint brush and heavy vest I’d picked up along the road. He said he refers to such items he scavenges along the road <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />as “roadkill.”<br /><br />It seems as if I’m way north, but I’m not as far north as I was last year when I sought out the Carnegie in Thunder Bay on Lake Superior. Other than the one night and morning when the temperature dropped to freezing, the cold hasn’t been as much of a factor as it was last fall. I’ve had no concerns of my iPad freezing or having to overly bundle up in the tent at night. The tent generally warms up comfortably from my breathing and whatever heat my body is radiating. But November is just around the corner, which is later than I cycled last year. <br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-27452935604999594292023-10-26T09:39:00.000-07:002023-10-26T09:39:08.212-07:00Tatamagouche, Nova Scotia<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGcjFTcI1T_xcF2EsUhW2TzdOxI8TIAW3LRObsIVWcSwau0Z3aySL6OdcWqmBeiGIvzkHFU-yWow8Ijx2V7vtwMg8b-AppPWvY2yykGV-RozUSspLGM-sZzsYlYQfaDXo5oJ7HglUewjyhDZOs2cjEnmAbTSNRdPzqFkocffvuQ6R-zfNzzozlamXd8pu/s2032/IMG_2401.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1311" data-original-width="2032" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGcjFTcI1T_xcF2EsUhW2TzdOxI8TIAW3LRObsIVWcSwau0Z3aySL6OdcWqmBeiGIvzkHFU-yWow8Ijx2V7vtwMg8b-AppPWvY2yykGV-RozUSspLGM-sZzsYlYQfaDXo5oJ7HglUewjyhDZOs2cjEnmAbTSNRdPzqFkocffvuQ6R-zfNzzozlamXd8pu/w400-h258/IMG_2401.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The wind persisted from the north for a second day dropping the temperature an additional ten degrees. It was forty-five degrees at day’s end when I retreated to my tent and just thirty-one the next morning. For the first time I had ice in the water bottles I left on my bike and the residue of water on my tent poles froze the segments together, requiring a lot of tugging and twisting to disconnect them. My derailleurs too had frozen in place. It was cold enough for horses to be garbed.<br /><br />I too donned garb I had heretofore not needed: heavier socks, heavier gloves, pants rather than tights, an extra layer on my torso, a wool cap and a neckerchief around my neck to pull up over my nose. That and my exertion warded off the cold until the sun rose above the trees and brought some warmth, finally nudging the temperature above freezing nearly an hour since I began riding.<br /><br />My heavier gloves weren’t quite enough. I had to wrap plastic bags around them to ward off the wind chill. At least the road was dry, so the only ice was on puddles alongside the road. As the day wore on the wind switched from the south and the west giving me a bit of a tailwind and raising the temperature back to where it had been for much of the travels into the fifties. It was still fifty-one when I ended my riding and didn’t drop much during the night with it a relatively balmy forty-eight when I resumed riding in the morning.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnG8tKLkAkaDfQNu1zhVhiYbjEIYcqdVZMoMqEwD7ojb5Xuz7daIkq6Kni190ulL9SZgzaZ10my6SdxkyHKKs1MyXbznp8xgz3I_6Y3U6gfYFeLMOsTvkvDFXj3B5z0cRqxFmbQUV1Sntn96VmmKKWExtzorbpOeS82gldpRHdqm9CHppdYKElWS0CRJTu/s2170/IMG_2402.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1673" data-original-width="2170" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnG8tKLkAkaDfQNu1zhVhiYbjEIYcqdVZMoMqEwD7ojb5Xuz7daIkq6Kni190ulL9SZgzaZ10my6SdxkyHKKs1MyXbznp8xgz3I_6Y3U6gfYFeLMOsTvkvDFXj3B5z0cRqxFmbQUV1Sntn96VmmKKWExtzorbpOeS82gldpRHdqm9CHppdYKElWS0CRJTu/w400-h309/IMG_2402.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>For several days now the towns have been few and far between. I have yet to be in a library since I crossed into Canada five days ago. I haven’t come across WI-FI more than once a day and usually thanks to Tim Hortons. My rest stops have been on the steps of isolated churches or besides abandoned homes or against fence posts or gates. I had one ten-minute break perched on a guardrail putting considerable effort into unscrewing four rusted screws with a wrench and a Leatherman tool trying to detach a heavy metal plate from a license plate. It was worth the effort to add a New Brunswick plate to my collection. It was the second I had come upon, so I have an extra to contribute to Dwight’s barn wall.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">When I rode the Ring Road around Iceland twenty years ago I’d ask locals if they ate puetrefied shark, an Icelandic delicacy that has a strong stench but it most pleasing to the tastebuds. My question here for locals is also food-related—how far it is to the next Tim Hortons? It can be fifty miles or more. One lady told me that it was a mystery to her that there wasn’t one in Tatamagouche, forty miles away, as it was the home town of Ron Joyce, one of the founders of Tim Hortons, along with the hockey player who it is named for and who played hockey in the NHL for twenty-four years and is on the list of the one hundred greatest players in league history. He opened his first restaurant in Hamilton in 1964 and just like McDonald's grew into a massive chain of thousands. There is no need to put up billboards advertising one is ahead, as all the bright red cups bearing the chain’s name along the road indicate one is near. It is about the only litter I’ve seen along the road side, as if it is sanctioned advertising. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcYT2tXLj5Xwq2gvvhPsfcrbpKfyHYTpxx2bpMzUtMQsDX-k3nHGiBBZqHKtVPm_px5Qf28eHYvLmaPVYvl4kF05AJWvw6TAKNYztOGXaC8O-ccH8qon67M3U7qnRclbOqtgjLWfyKc_IQdYH55FPwf0UZlB9fyotOiab6uy2y4LQA1ymqr1_SEQ1fHeC/s2217/IMG_2397.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2217" data-original-width="2035" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcYT2tXLj5Xwq2gvvhPsfcrbpKfyHYTpxx2bpMzUtMQsDX-k3nHGiBBZqHKtVPm_px5Qf28eHYvLmaPVYvl4kF05AJWvw6TAKNYztOGXaC8O-ccH8qon67M3U7qnRclbOqtgjLWfyKc_IQdYH55FPwf0UZlB9fyotOiab6uy2y4LQA1ymqr1_SEQ1fHeC/w368-h400/IMG_2397.jpeg" width="368" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>There isn’t much traffic, so not only do motorists need not worry about being seen littering, they aren’t always mindful of the speed limit, or else they mistake the speed limit signs of eighty and ninety of being for miles per hour rather than kilometers. No where else, other than Finland, where maniacal Russians like to test the limits of their cars on the long, flat, smooth roads along the border have I encountered such extreme speeding. At least it’s not meant to terrorize me, as they make full use of the opposite lane. And it’s never more than once or twice a day, even though each imparts a strong impression.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl_XFI2qDAMoYYsTYLQCSSi2WyflavWs0wzTlzaaTBo2eVoicVOaCgLwJU-CyC9no_sYyohla85Mq38Zlescj2oqO3DSnW3oDY9p2PchBIu47vTvwJD3Svcgb-uG8RzrQ6yV7q5uzuwB1j8LjDm2iC2rYDOGuVIzGph-b7Gp-XQt75g2iLXdBZj77b8ZV1/s2810/IMG_2398.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="2810" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl_XFI2qDAMoYYsTYLQCSSi2WyflavWs0wzTlzaaTBo2eVoicVOaCgLwJU-CyC9no_sYyohla85Mq38Zlescj2oqO3DSnW3oDY9p2PchBIu47vTvwJD3Svcgb-uG8RzrQ6yV7q5uzuwB1j8LjDm2iC2rYDOGuVIzGph-b7Gp-XQt75g2iLXdBZj77b8ZV1/w400-h275/IMG_2398.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I’ve been riding along the northern coast of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia with the province of Prince Edward Island just offshore reachable by a bridge. The road hasn’t hugged the coast, so I have to be content with distant glimpses of this huge Atlantic bay. I’m so far down the road by the time I get to Sydney I’ll be closer to Greenland than to Chicago. Signs along the road advertise lobster for sale. Commercial signs don’t have to be bilingual. Almost all those advertising businesses are strictly in English. The road sign for icy roads avoids having to be in English as well as French.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Ka3zcoj1dk-3nLq0EQXxsI09fEGSqSnX1uVm9aYsW-mcZRNWJGJxYDanbuNTP-X88E1ql3yzXW9XabvyAzx41GtkZLmbEP_jQQAw9_BtU8ZCT3Fwl-fMjSvzEiDj1_vOkLEgS4liPhpBcHCgVwQ9IHKQ5UKtTz713uPomYmqoV57p9VCkxSduPCiFuF3/s1504/IMG_2407.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="1504" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Ka3zcoj1dk-3nLq0EQXxsI09fEGSqSnX1uVm9aYsW-mcZRNWJGJxYDanbuNTP-X88E1ql3yzXW9XabvyAzx41GtkZLmbEP_jQQAw9_BtU8ZCT3Fwl-fMjSvzEiDj1_vOkLEgS4liPhpBcHCgVwQ9IHKQ5UKtTz713uPomYmqoV57p9VCkxSduPCiFuF3/w400-h364/IMG_2407.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I’m now within two hundred miles of Sydney at the eastern end of Nova Scotia. It will have been over a five hundred mile ride from Maine and the last Carnegie Library. It may seem like a long bike ride to a library, but it pales compared to the four thousand miles I rode from Uruguay across Brazil to the Carnegie in Georgetown of British Guiana. That was a most worthwhile ride, just as this is, though there I was contending with heat while here it is cold. Thankfully it’s still October, so winter and real cold is quite distant.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">With no Carnegies for days I have had to be mostly content with my podcast listening for “Wow” moments when something surprising is mentioned such as Buster Olney on his Baseball Tonight podcast going on a grand slam rant revealing Pete Rose and Derek Jeter only hit one each in their long careers, while the pitcher Madison Baumgarner had two in his very limited at bat appearances, or Amy Goodman on Democracy Now revealing that Ken Burns attended a Koch brothers gathering and had his picture taken with Clarence Thomas, or the Irish cyclist Dan Martin, who had a most illustrious career, telling Bobby Julich and Jens Voigt on their podcast that he always tried to model himself after his teammate Christian Vande Velde. Bradley Wiggins also paid Christian the ultimate of compliments saying he was his most favored team leader.</span></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-72929133015349303212023-10-24T08:33:00.002-07:002023-10-24T08:48:25.513-07:00Salisbury, New Brunswick<p> </p><p><br /></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVfC1eDh4bx4N2qn_7TZliTfMn_xu2E190qiyWAhTtj9Xc5HPI7VzZ4Z-LpO71YbY4RHLw7n3Z38ZujsDaAkKcZ8XF3LJu5OYTBzIr5NYQvhLgg9cPI3vr_0j83Z9nEjlEHN_vPxUj0MGFFaGx9R6v8BgUH2Knkg8CtvG94SaMTle5-s4CEplLnoRlpzh/s2346/IMG_2370.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1808" data-original-width="2346" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVfC1eDh4bx4N2qn_7TZliTfMn_xu2E190qiyWAhTtj9Xc5HPI7VzZ4Z-LpO71YbY4RHLw7n3Z38ZujsDaAkKcZ8XF3LJu5OYTBzIr5NYQvhLgg9cPI3vr_0j83Z9nEjlEHN_vPxUj0MGFFaGx9R6v8BgUH2Knkg8CtvG94SaMTle5-s4CEplLnoRlpzh/w400-h309/IMG_2370.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The wind from the north flushed out the thick cloud cover and for the first time in what seems like weeks I could bike under a bright blue sky of a deep hue with a minimum of pollution in the air with a minimum of industry and all the forest fires burned out. An added bonus of fhe clear sky was moonlight, which I needed as I set my tent up in the near dark. With no traffic on the road and thick forest to disappear into whenever I chose I could ride until the last drops of light lingered in the sky and get to eighty miles for the day for the second day in a row. The only danger was the occasional deer hopping across the road. <br /><br />I needed the sun as I began the day with two pairs of wet socks not including the pair I was wearing that I had to insert into wet shoes. I had hoped to stay in a motel the night before to dry out all my wet gear, knowing there were a handful to choose from in Frederickton, the capital of New Brunswick, if I could make it before dark. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjz57vsp8UgOwQQrEzr8lnaeKrtexaWwFg60ZK9dG5Rb1e9LHkMiLZlOedY_DvjN252w-LxKUZtLt3SvtoctzrfEQAD2lfip2LwINaFA5mj_fL-MZLdtqxYdk1-njTkGww2KHSsJYCI7vO4OvRgcpMgalfb9a2cJaTaCPrIZQ6hUlcigAPjvLiLCqS8fa/s3264/IMG_2346.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjz57vsp8UgOwQQrEzr8lnaeKrtexaWwFg60ZK9dG5Rb1e9LHkMiLZlOedY_DvjN252w-LxKUZtLt3SvtoctzrfEQAD2lfip2LwINaFA5mj_fL-MZLdtqxYdk1-njTkGww2KHSsJYCI7vO4OvRgcpMgalfb9a2cJaTaCPrIZQ6hUlcigAPjvLiLCqS8fa/w400-h300/IMG_2346.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I fell eleven miles short. I had the chance of a motel on its outskirts, but it was closed down, forcing me to camp in a nearby forest. If I were really desperate I could have pushed on five miles on a road with not much traffic and a wide shoulder, but since the day-long misty-drizzle had stopped, allowing my outer fear to dry a bit, I settled on the tent despite my day-long anticipation of the first motel of these travels and being able to empty my four panniers and dry all. A shower would have been welcome too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">The next day’s dry roads and sunny skies allowed me to thoroughly dry out. With a forecast bereft of rain for the rest of the week my riding won’t be limited and I ought to make it to the easternmost point of Nova Scotia and the pair of Carnegies in Sydney by the weekend and mission will be accomplished, other than getting back.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCok8fXDBS1hXGlR7IrlHLWZdScp6Omd9m7TioODOF4qQRwgA7AHA19guzWLOBXNNTEtn4nI8b8EPuhWN-pg7pQwfXdwXrQJNeyyds1xC2Jhcq8SJidTzTua37IRGwjWvAp9uBLX9xnhxAacqLZYYzJN-EHVhtEV96WcbaF8ZiSZEH0fcoBJGgVJovPE4X/s1922/IMG_2369.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1412" data-original-width="1922" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCok8fXDBS1hXGlR7IrlHLWZdScp6Omd9m7TioODOF4qQRwgA7AHA19guzWLOBXNNTEtn4nI8b8EPuhWN-pg7pQwfXdwXrQJNeyyds1xC2Jhcq8SJidTzTua37IRGwjWvAp9uBLX9xnhxAacqLZYYzJN-EHVhtEV96WcbaF8ZiSZEH0fcoBJGgVJovPE4X/w400-h294/IMG_2369.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I am far enough east to have passed into another time zone, now two hours ahead of Chicago. That means I can once again ride until past six-thirty, though sun rise isn’t until after 7:30. Besides the bi-lingual signs and speeds in kilometers, I know I’m in Canada when I go to weather.com and the temperatures are given in Celsius. I was alarmed at first when I saw the high for the next day was only going to be ten, but then realized why.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPZasPgM_xHwXpg7NLq6pedvoS5iOOACJanXAqGLLp5NEaHscc6XjVtQkFV4zNVRZV_mc5tPxQtOuQ0fKCDlR0EZPF3aqnGW9DZ-kz7dnpfyU_5j4BhVvOoOoylf-jQznkucDq7II7CUfMNYTQc6vjO8DiXGFLcv90jawenYoc5AB-OrBGhDTvbE6r_5Q/s1223/IMG_2368.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1138" data-original-width="1223" height="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPZasPgM_xHwXpg7NLq6pedvoS5iOOACJanXAqGLLp5NEaHscc6XjVtQkFV4zNVRZV_mc5tPxQtOuQ0fKCDlR0EZPF3aqnGW9DZ-kz7dnpfyU_5j4BhVvOoOoylf-jQznkucDq7II7CUfMNYTQc6vjO8DiXGFLcv90jawenYoc5AB-OrBGhDTvbE6r_5Q/w400-h373/IMG_2368.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The most Canadien cultural event I’ve experience so far is to eat at a Tim Hortons. In years past I’ve taken advantage of their bagels and cream cheese, but I opted for a muffin after just hearing Geraint Thomas mention on his podcast that he’d been out on a training ride after not riding much since the Vuelta d’Espagne and had to stop for a muffin and coke after ninety minutes because he was so done in. The muffin wasn’t a bad choice for me as it had a few more calories than the bagel according to Tim Hortons menu. It came to $2.29 and for the second time my change didn’t include the penny, evidently worth so little it is no longer used perhaps explaining why I have yet to spot any along the road.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">As I ate a white-haired lady came by and asked, “I think I’ve read about you on Facebook. Don’t you ride all over?” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">“I have ridden all over, so that might have been me,” I replied.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">“Well, welcome to the Maritimes. Are you riding for a cause?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I told her about my Carnegie-quest. As with most, she was unaware of Carnegie and his unparalleled contribution to the reading public. </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkQwM7m3bB3rFgIdO9GDd91uQdH5l1_0FrB7KEjsFSyx1aDvXkh_pUN3xNI4HQuNjf3qhuebKBeIlamT1-yXI55CtSzWEE2UKxmRjpsGoqxN5GLusiqCeA4iwkLGOLxRHI5mSw_Yxmjt65I1A80cGjyJ2xmh56JKOdRXEgEehKU6ksr3hm4gndn2cWGa6/s2504/IMG_2367.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1855" data-original-width="2504" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkQwM7m3bB3rFgIdO9GDd91uQdH5l1_0FrB7KEjsFSyx1aDvXkh_pUN3xNI4HQuNjf3qhuebKBeIlamT1-yXI55CtSzWEE2UKxmRjpsGoqxN5GLusiqCeA4iwkLGOLxRHI5mSw_Yxmjt65I1A80cGjyJ2xmh56JKOdRXEgEehKU6ksr3hm4gndn2cWGa6/w400-h296/IMG_2367.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">It was nearly one hundred miles from Frederickton to the next town of significance, but with it so cool my four bottles of water would be adequate if I didn’t come upon any services. I passed one service station when my secondary road intersected with the four-lane transcontinental highway, but didn’t bother to stop.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I’d actually ridden on the highway on Sunday for forty miles thinking there’d be less climbing than the nearby secondary road. The hills were better graded, but the amount of climbing might have been even more, as the secondary road followed the contours of the terrain, while the four-lane superhighway plowed straight through the ups and downs. I was hoping I could make better time on the four-lane divided highway so I could reach Frederickton before dark, but my average speed didn’t increase, so I returned to the tranquility and steeper climbs of the old, original highway.</span></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-82450215223704889822023-10-22T08:57:00.001-07:002023-10-22T08:57:21.122-07:00Woodstock, New Brunswick <p> <span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQSSa8zBpInBz-dmLnNAWa1wCXwCgAJAvORBUwIFaAWclf7RSn4Hgii-CL8GZDtaRmwISLZo6qee1yfovxROgfnznVnj4cRc6g9MKTw5hYJtA_uy7o0YRwsaerrwc0CzYogOXEcypqEIIMYhmjz_SpqyHacsBrELwqyvadlZKcI1i3UWhis6oOhMml_INE/s2404/IMG_2313.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1952" data-original-width="2404" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQSSa8zBpInBz-dmLnNAWa1wCXwCgAJAvORBUwIFaAWclf7RSn4Hgii-CL8GZDtaRmwISLZo6qee1yfovxROgfnznVnj4cRc6g9MKTw5hYJtA_uy7o0YRwsaerrwc0CzYogOXEcypqEIIMYhmjz_SpqyHacsBrELwqyvadlZKcI1i3UWhis6oOhMml_INE/w400-h325/IMG_2313.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I concluded my five days in Maine with a trio of Carnegies in the northeast corner of the state all within twelve miles of one another. The area also included a pair of launching sites for balloonists attempting to cross the Atlantic. I wouldn’t have known if there hadn’t been a road sign pointing towards one of them outside of Presque Isle, where I visited the first of the three Carnegies.<br /><br />With it raining I didn’t care to make a detour to it, and instead let the librarian tell me what he knew of it. He said the town has had an annual Ballon Festival the past twenty years celebrating the balloon crossings. The first successful one came in 1978 when a trio of balloonists piloted the Double Eagle II across the ocean, which was a big international media event at the time. Six years later someone made the first solo balloon crossing, departing from Caribou, twelve miles north, and home to another Carnegie.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePNwTbVcMMt3NavonIa4XoGFjlP-_jY0KCU70RLN6Mb9Yq-qpy5e_trihcHMeAPIuVdtF0P_8x-Dl1S7IHo0U5fhhBkuafR9y2sVh5uh9rD9j6om3Y4cD5kz6ZnQngQ8aUiYG19i_JWkTgLHbJAfgOu8gnXkduNqD2dMmKIOwP5ysXXna3A40V6dCoMVk/s3006/IMG_2332.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1887" data-original-width="3006" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePNwTbVcMMt3NavonIa4XoGFjlP-_jY0KCU70RLN6Mb9Yq-qpy5e_trihcHMeAPIuVdtF0P_8x-Dl1S7IHo0U5fhhBkuafR9y2sVh5uh9rD9j6om3Y4cD5kz6ZnQngQ8aUiYG19i_JWkTgLHbJAfgOu8gnXkduNqD2dMmKIOwP5ysXXna3A40V6dCoMVk/w400-h251/IMG_2332.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>The monument to that first crossing might have been more interesting than the Carnegie, as the original basic red brick building had been overwhelmed by two additions to its front side making it look more like a medical facility or retirement home than a library. At least a painting of the library in its former glory paid it homage.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpOuOooBIFqiWBUEM4Xb-G3Ohngts6t2pqhVZglVmjXZPS0rceuHTbtq-vXCZMnkWr9QL1QC47nPzNHFfeATg9nIxvfGaluW9Cgq_A3qBTXIlw43kUmiHo0UPI6Ku11R_hMxOaXi3fDnp7IbnA5N2jPCuHgO3qL4QOq1qDRceoOrvk0kJTW0bCIEDpBhF/s2352/IMG_2330.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1828" data-original-width="2352" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpOuOooBIFqiWBUEM4Xb-G3Ohngts6t2pqhVZglVmjXZPS0rceuHTbtq-vXCZMnkWr9QL1QC47nPzNHFfeATg9nIxvfGaluW9Cgq_A3qBTXIlw43kUmiHo0UPI6Ku11R_hMxOaXi3fDnp7IbnA5N2jPCuHgO3qL4QOq1qDRceoOrvk0kJTW0bCIEDpBhF/w400-h311/IMG_2330.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>It was a bit sad to see it’s forlorn backside jutting out from its addition<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjCBcVGYF9LSosQKDUYqpavDJN8HB3sEI_kYcYPKVDp3x0rSbtGhX5ILNf0UJBDi9OzYOGWWkDUfe9k8JeXnR1-AlRD5PT4wt3qn5j81fVbrPX1XBSKxaueqTGAr7yGUCTHK2JXQ-Dxuy4evL2isWNopqAwv4IS8l4VVaVhQBXt1tgqjbh-iCpMgbPZ7c/s2861/IMG_2325.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2198" data-original-width="2861" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjCBcVGYF9LSosQKDUYqpavDJN8HB3sEI_kYcYPKVDp3x0rSbtGhX5ILNf0UJBDi9OzYOGWWkDUfe9k8JeXnR1-AlRD5PT4wt3qn5j81fVbrPX1XBSKxaueqTGAr7yGUCTHK2JXQ-Dxuy4evL2isWNopqAwv4IS8l4VVaVhQBXt1tgqjbh-iCpMgbPZ7c/w400-h308/IMG_2325.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>The next two Carnegies made up for the desecration of Presque Isle. Their additions were to their backsides and weren’t detectable. The Caribou library didn’t have Saturday hours so I couldn’t inquire if I were far enough north for there to be caribou in the vicinity. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeleR7xL7m7OnYB8A7-q8Aag3O1AlZ7IJEFAhkbHqW4aaG4eKdGbpfUMcJGCKuK-nmOyOPCt_ZBdm8O6trRsbDhCElg-EzpSpVPksBqU2YI7r7aKFQfrXpIeL-nhv7r0rUqMvRM2cRyXbXRALsPXtlmHGlEvu07QVRj1A2EuX093R47hNkEJKE89pSFZLB/s2095/IMG_2333.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1408" data-original-width="2095" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeleR7xL7m7OnYB8A7-q8Aag3O1AlZ7IJEFAhkbHqW4aaG4eKdGbpfUMcJGCKuK-nmOyOPCt_ZBdm8O6trRsbDhCElg-EzpSpVPksBqU2YI7r7aKFQfrXpIeL-nhv7r0rUqMvRM2cRyXbXRALsPXtlmHGlEvu07QVRj1A2EuX093R47hNkEJKE89pSFZLB/w400-h269/IMG_2333.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>It had felt like Alaska at times when I was on a forty-mile stretch between towns the day before leading into Houlton as hardly more than a dozen vehicles passed, partially thanks to a nearby interstate. Wikipedia offered no answer to the caribou question other than that the town had originally been named Lyndon in 1869 with the residents going back and forth several times between the two names before settling on Caribou in 1877. Wikipedia acknowledged there was no explanation for why.<br /><br />The librarian in Fort Fairfield couldn’t tell me if caribou once roamed in these parts, just that someone had bison and a few had been on the loose a couple of years ago. She showed me a back room that was filled with old books on the Civil War donated by the son of the guy who had collected them decades ago. A plaque above the fireplace paid tribute to the battleship Maine sunk in the Spanish-American war in 1898.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzNj3_7rPHFrb2vay7AsvvFn0yirqV_nqVQ5C6UBO6jnzr1-MQhiJNoxhLOwJVBXEpMgrPXAFXBZ_hGoYaOylhiiQ_ocqD9Dck5bAMvNcfpx8X4WkY_raoCeHsaByHWHem241G4suDwm8DBYkSszfvAmt-WjDDziIZfybd1n5fR48mVMY-qzIPntohYgS/s2805/IMG_2337.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1769" data-original-width="2805" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzNj3_7rPHFrb2vay7AsvvFn0yirqV_nqVQ5C6UBO6jnzr1-MQhiJNoxhLOwJVBXEpMgrPXAFXBZ_hGoYaOylhiiQ_ocqD9Dck5bAMvNcfpx8X4WkY_raoCeHsaByHWHem241G4suDwm8DBYkSszfvAmt-WjDDziIZfybd1n5fR48mVMY-qzIPntohYgS/w400-h253/IMG_2337.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>It was just two miles to Canada. I asked the librarian if she had much occasion to venture over. She’d been just once since the border had been reopened a year ago to visit a botanical garden. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIS2HnToa6yL-xqGJFmvAMRyP4Txxyaz_IGEI0G1pVNtjAx8AqlfLts3qMmOrJgoTZMBNkLL-8jxXMjAYUBI-YLbk5bapkT8Cp3b-25_a73AOyaCGMqMs1HY4WUN-fxjnacJxHxtyJDgB_bpDUn21lGXJDOBlZhhiLENNA2fBhAkfjQX97JcsL8w-LAm87/s1007/IMG_2320.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1007" data-original-width="921" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIS2HnToa6yL-xqGJFmvAMRyP4Txxyaz_IGEI0G1pVNtjAx8AqlfLts3qMmOrJgoTZMBNkLL-8jxXMjAYUBI-YLbk5bapkT8Cp3b-25_a73AOyaCGMqMs1HY4WUN-fxjnacJxHxtyJDgB_bpDUn21lGXJDOBlZhhiLENNA2fBhAkfjQX97JcsL8w-LAm87/w366-h400/IMG_2320.jpeg" width="366" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I knew Canada was nearby as for the past seventy-five miles after I reached Houlton just across the border I had been seeing bright red Tim Horton cups of the nation’s most popular fast food franchise. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdd22WHn17iZJUixu47PKeZeGXgG8DEKy-A0gF0gUv1HVaGrl6w2RlTIqInGenlLHTPS7stgwPhEdxnoP24kOsm1f4mPjj6xWQQct52GzDjuOZM2iAu3QTaOO6F2jENRGSeRsYGnhjvGo24irFVOLOoDu5tR0tjUIhlgMJ6yM8m5SdZVIFcKsEWEw1emyq/s2216/IMG_2315.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1688" data-original-width="2216" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdd22WHn17iZJUixu47PKeZeGXgG8DEKy-A0gF0gUv1HVaGrl6w2RlTIqInGenlLHTPS7stgwPhEdxnoP24kOsm1f4mPjj6xWQQct52GzDjuOZM2iAu3QTaOO6F2jENRGSeRsYGnhjvGo24irFVOLOoDu5tR0tjUIhlgMJ6yM8m5SdZVIFcKsEWEw1emyq/w400-h305/IMG_2315.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>Houlton offered a Carnegie of native stone that sat at one end of a large park. Its addition to its backside did not mar one’s view of fhe frontside. The forty miles north to Presque Isle was through an agricultural corridor of potatoes, pumpkins and squash. There were still pumpkins to be harvested.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja26JDB0mgUNJ2E3_5ba25jKlutB2hnWwHz96p33CpztR2xPe8SKHZMG7gtRllzLLh_OWxopaW48d5kmFSOORftHFek2-kiSTzQqzKaoCEeDFdwMFcq-BLR01mS4R_w36jC0yk4zPY_01pWzg7t9FXvjvQFELeMiceQWhECxWPYCJwEIJQYk4I3nxbEiZc/s3264/IMG_2335.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja26JDB0mgUNJ2E3_5ba25jKlutB2hnWwHz96p33CpztR2xPe8SKHZMG7gtRllzLLh_OWxopaW48d5kmFSOORftHFek2-kiSTzQqzKaoCEeDFdwMFcq-BLR01mS4R_w36jC0yk4zPY_01pWzg7t9FXvjvQFELeMiceQWhECxWPYCJwEIJQYk4I3nxbEiZc/w400-h300/IMG_2335.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>Unlike a year ago when I crossed into Canada in Minnesota, I wasn’t summoned inside for an interrogation before being let in. I straddled my bike replying in the negative to all the questions of whether I was transporting alcohol or tobacco or cannabis or a firearm or if I had ever been convicted of a crime or if I was bringing anything into the country I intended to leave there. I was glad not to be asked if I was bringing in any food, as I would have hated to be denied my bananas and bread and nuts and dates and pretzels. Good too she didn’t care to peruse my panniers, as there’s no telling what she would have made of my license plate collection, now up to five after two more in Maine, one for me and one for Dwight. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The agent advised me to go south after crossing the border on the old trans-Canada road paralleling the new superhighway rather than heading east through the interior, as she said there were few towns and lots of logging trucks and the terrain was very hilly. It was to my advantage to be going south as a northerly was predicted for the next day, dropping the temperatures to the thirties for the first time this fall. She said it would be cold camping and fortunately didn’t object that I intended to camp and not at sanctioned campgrounds.<br /><br />The southern route followed the wide Saint John River with roads on either side and few bridges crossing it. I had the road on the west side pretty much to myself while I had occasional glimpses of 18-wheelers and other vehicles on the busy highway to my right. The road wasn’t as flat as I would have liked, but at least the climbs were gradual and gave me easy pedaling on their downsides.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-76973410565775278442023-10-20T10:23:00.008-07:002023-12-16T16:20:31.862-08:00Mattawamkeag, Maine<p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdr9Z_bni4gu3wAhoQhZPtuQE8bNCJt1-ymW8hnA5sP8r6ohhkKTYn55HbClz7sbHbWNiClPm7yKgusAsQupZENrzzRtMoSp5i6yr5M3RaioikyRTeFFS2mKw1bPLQMKmrPq4uS0Kvffuj1WFyGEHJyvQiDAMXQR3fjYjbj4t4A7EHUZrl2rnCO2L4zoT/s2856/IMG_2292.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2089" data-original-width="2856" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdr9Z_bni4gu3wAhoQhZPtuQE8bNCJt1-ymW8hnA5sP8r6ohhkKTYn55HbClz7sbHbWNiClPm7yKgusAsQupZENrzzRtMoSp5i6yr5M3RaioikyRTeFFS2mKw1bPLQMKmrPq4uS0Kvffuj1WFyGEHJyvQiDAMXQR3fjYjbj4t4A7EHUZrl2rnCO2L4zoT/w400-h293/IMG_2292.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"></span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The hilly terrain of central Maine dished up the most climbing of any day of the first fifteen of these travels—4,362 feet in seventy-one miles, just the third day of over four thousand feet. But the day after all the hills the terrain leveled somewhat and I managed the second eighty-mile day since I set out. Mileage is becoming important as I seek to reach Sydney before the weather gets too nasty, six hundred miles away, at the far tip of Nova Scotia, where two Carnegie Libraries await me, the only two in the province. There is another in New Brunswick that I’ll drop in on the way back to Maine.</span></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br />I may get my first rest day this weekend, as I’ve had warnings of a significant storm bearing down on the coast. I first learned of it from a checkout woman at a Dollar Store and then from Michael Lombardi’s football podcast, as he said rainy and windy conditions could keep the scoring down in games played on the east coast this Sunday. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br />So far wind hasn’t been a factor in my first thousand miles, just all the climbing and a few stretches of dirt. The cool, mostly dank weather has limited those cycling to just about me. I was very fortunate that Greg back in Vermont was out on his bike late in the day and could provide me directions to Ian Boswell’s remote homestead.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzxc3eC9-8tBWC_reROp35GRtVF4K8bVkNeiZ1be-4FcCh009pX5rQvMEj9u4vyx8vVocMEDbyWkINPCZRftiVfFxnnPLRuuR46PAzsPl9-QK8IxSXE4vtpNfBbxWa1k8LGF0H_lMmduurDjt0oNJhyfStIZaXfHLKfbdOTi6Jiol1izo5OVlh-7TyVIhE/s3264/IMG_2266.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzxc3eC9-8tBWC_reROp35GRtVF4K8bVkNeiZ1be-4FcCh009pX5rQvMEj9u4vyx8vVocMEDbyWkINPCZRftiVfFxnnPLRuuR46PAzsPl9-QK8IxSXE4vtpNfBbxWa1k8LGF0H_lMmduurDjt0oNJhyfStIZaXfHLKfbdOTi6Jiol1izo5OVlh-7TyVIhE/w400-h300/IMG_2266.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I did come upon a ghost bike shortly after I crossed into Maine, locked up to a guardrail. When I stopped to pay it my respects, a motorist pulled over and asked if I needed any help. I asked if he knew anything about the ghost bike. He did. It marked the site where an older cyclist had been hit and killed by a truck about five years ago during a big annual bike ride. A nearby post with the number 1945 on it was the year of his birth.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HVvyvyvYjT41r-i-w0RzMpn-F9C3zdoYWHEHUaawX_PhoqQHTszrv8R2vgCaISOrnavBgPYq61nIQFlJKEiI8oUrPI_CvtiHcHoOEws2PY3r_GM2GFw4IkvoBw5gedVJTdUssFL1icDXorgbCZsEY7OwTykXtckJOonbSLXuTnVzA_LO2JLzoX_xYa_r/s2161/IMG_2272.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1630" data-original-width="2161" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HVvyvyvYjT41r-i-w0RzMpn-F9C3zdoYWHEHUaawX_PhoqQHTszrv8R2vgCaISOrnavBgPYq61nIQFlJKEiI8oUrPI_CvtiHcHoOEws2PY3r_GM2GFw4IkvoBw5gedVJTdUssFL1icDXorgbCZsEY7OwTykXtckJOonbSLXuTnVzA_LO2JLzoX_xYa_r/w400-h301/IMG_2272.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The second of Maine’s twenty Carnegies on my agenda in Madison was the first stunner of the nineteen I have visited so far, a rare circular building crowned with a second floor that had an interior balcony looking down upon the circulation desk. It provided a most tranquil spot for a rest. It also had a spacious basement devoted to children’s books. A statue in front honored “our boys in blue 1861-1865.”</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhawjzfAAJmrDLOGeoNze_gx8feey7De8cnCYrdahDSdBU4S_Qijdyn0v_GTjvNG1sDt5JKmJ2-9zWIPXtu8vod4PDLkUJR8A74yQPQ811W-kWh22A0gyQHVSesqJs2xsEQPXJN3Uc3c8ikpeo3YrxrYrt5WZKWn0G_hUYVOgxetcG4mGw1OkjBoRFiR79/s2945/IMG_2285.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1808" data-original-width="2945" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhawjzfAAJmrDLOGeoNze_gx8feey7De8cnCYrdahDSdBU4S_Qijdyn0v_GTjvNG1sDt5JKmJ2-9zWIPXtu8vod4PDLkUJR8A74yQPQ811W-kWh22A0gyQHVSesqJs2xsEQPXJN3Uc3c8ikpeo3YrxrYrt5WZKWn0G_hUYVOgxetcG4mGw1OkjBoRFiR79/w400-h245/IMG_2285.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The next Carnegie in Guilford was built on a slight rise above the road. The addition to its side was more than just a few rooms tacked on, as so many are, but had some character of its own adding to the luster of the original. Unfortunately, as all too often on this ride through New England, my visit to a Carnegie did not coincide with its opening hours.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCnxvGSHg5h87M_USgu32c12NoJlYSRbvcDpCt45KPO-ctgyAt17M6CqmXtDwMOZirLXcHefRLLNzRFY84ph0ODmS1oMhqTASdk2LGc3dm-fO5D2JVjegbt_mb_BdegcI1XTXgZ3Qg6gTPseuvrAXf8rIoYfo0pJn4XO1SH8tZZMKqxgXKNULJOlbbPMw/s2123/IMG_2287.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1541" data-original-width="2123" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCnxvGSHg5h87M_USgu32c12NoJlYSRbvcDpCt45KPO-ctgyAt17M6CqmXtDwMOZirLXcHefRLLNzRFY84ph0ODmS1oMhqTASdk2LGc3dm-fO5D2JVjegbt_mb_BdegcI1XTXgZ3Qg6gTPseuvrAXf8rIoYfo0pJn4XO1SH8tZZMKqxgXKNULJOlbbPMw/w400-h290/IMG_2287.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>And so it was too in the small town of Milo, whose tiny Carnegie was only open four days a week and not on Thursdays. I was lucky though that a sewing circle was going on and one of the ladies was arriving as I was. She let me peek inside at its cozy confines made all the more cozy by its lushly textured wooden desks and shelves and circulation desk and railing up the steps with the usual portrait of Carnegie gazing upon his domain. The woman also gave me the password to the Wi-Fi so I could linger outside and do some catching up, but without charging, forcing me into a McDonald’s down the road.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">A plaque in front of the library celebrated the local volunteer fire department, which was based behind the library. With wooden buildings dominating the town and surrounding area, fires had been a concern since the town’s origin. One of its first communal expenditures was for hooks and buckets and ladders for its fire brigade in 1871. Twelve years later the town purchased a steam-powered pumping engine. They later excavated an huge hole for a tank to store water to pump. Even as its equipment improved over the years, the fire department remained staffed by volunteers, a great point of pride. The plaque concluded its tribute saying, “The volunteer fire department has remained a key element of public safety where the spirit of independence and self-reliance has led people to depend on their own resources.”</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJbaizOU7OnJ35pSTS2MMZmsuAIWUErInjk0snvcO-m41uC5vZjU4ay7E257mqvXtzCRNpih_y2cL7o3i9l3mFiLZGZIVYWi9E0YTQwCwyRv0TzU4KUnc6MJNWhksun3IML08MSFNKck-GLz-TkrCrV6patrE-QaFzjLlehtjiMXwPHPBDY0nsfqrV_6Y/s2097/IMG_2286.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1988" data-original-width="2097" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJbaizOU7OnJ35pSTS2MMZmsuAIWUErInjk0snvcO-m41uC5vZjU4ay7E257mqvXtzCRNpih_y2cL7o3i9l3mFiLZGZIVYWi9E0YTQwCwyRv0TzU4KUnc6MJNWhksun3IML08MSFNKck-GLz-TkrCrV6patrE-QaFzjLlehtjiMXwPHPBDY0nsfqrV_6Y/w400-h379/IMG_2286.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I was fortunate to have some sun as I sat outside the library. Rare patches of blue hovered overhead for the rest of the day allowing me for the first time to see the sun touch the horizon not long after 5:30. With so few habitations and so much forest and so little traffic I could ride until virtual dark knowing when it became too dark to ride I’d assuredly have a place to camp. The night before I turned off the road into a cemetery and continued to the forest behind it well from the road. This night I passed up logging roads every mile or so that would have led to first-rate camping until near absolute dark when I had reached eighty miles for the day and turned off on a side road into the forest, which I had all to myself.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aQm5TDehQlYmxTFhAXiL8YUL_v_kbOp-sZ6h91Q0cP2GRQyv9jcy6Dw7JG-wyRhMU_Gl2X8soWMgEci4xYDARTRgHwASkraO2QbPQnVQT-lW5f9k7tF_xT8JIUH7Stgf2-6xZ7_2y_bnjBxcVmI_Zoa2VnXcN3zjxYAYfhAyhAyPuDUBfYsH3-Uia1Yg/s3264/IMG_2312.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aQm5TDehQlYmxTFhAXiL8YUL_v_kbOp-sZ6h91Q0cP2GRQyv9jcy6Dw7JG-wyRhMU_Gl2X8soWMgEci4xYDARTRgHwASkraO2QbPQnVQT-lW5f9k7tF_xT8JIUH7Stgf2-6xZ7_2y_bnjBxcVmI_Zoa2VnXcN3zjxYAYfhAyhAyPuDUBfYsH3-Uia1Yg/w400-h300/IMG_2312.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Earlier in the day I came upon a stash of coins strewn along the road, including six quarters, doubling the number I’ve found so far. When I first spotted the coins I figured they had to be slugs, but no they were all coins, including nine dimes, five nickels and eleven pennies. I didn’t count them at the time, looking forward to totaling up my haul in the tent. I also stopped for a bright orange wash cloth tangled in the weeds, which I could use to sop up moisture in my tent left over from a morning dew or rain and also to strap on the back of my bike to make me more visible. It took a full day for it to dry though after I washed it, even dangling in the wind from the crossbar of my bike.</div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-66799034189904061832023-10-18T10:28:00.000-07:002023-10-18T10:28:07.238-07:00Rumford, Maine<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLkbtNC61KZbb7GhgnhMsd2P3HLaYa89tens782y1RBOEvNZzOyh_tL7WxyWePxh1ZRUp4jD1tD8eFIfkViEfaSMOR5xTUAZisGfSM0USy23VoMii3KPfqQh8LFiN3roqLVBAlLeBL73NUk3mE3RtQk6NFneEE_WwEE5zCK8BQ_BO5Rmb4JGqxWFJDWNZ/s3264/IMG_2252.jpeg" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLkbtNC61KZbb7GhgnhMsd2P3HLaYa89tens782y1RBOEvNZzOyh_tL7WxyWePxh1ZRUp4jD1tD8eFIfkViEfaSMOR5xTUAZisGfSM0USy23VoMii3KPfqQh8LFiN3roqLVBAlLeBL73NUk3mE3RtQk6NFneEE_WwEE5zCK8BQ_BO5Rmb4JGqxWFJDWNZ/w400-h300/IMG_2252.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I spent little more than twenty-four hours in New Hampshire cutting across the northern neck of the state, long enough to gather three Carnegies, but not long enough to encounter any presidential hopefuls, though it may be a little early for them. There were campaign signs to be seen, but all for local elections.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-QIBiYcgpad56wJtHOQ9dW-W0AqjE6JZeNNqSqKpuZPJCFcaO2IgJBjzTS6nn5hwymr7tDxmY6KGWVlEbWVxwdRXFHkKrxgvLB1iM0upjKWJpDaVU3t6VfNa6MA-Ge1QEITpACDYJ6CtXIGeyN9_-H1rlS3mRm8Zrl2ceZ1Iua8HL_U3T3rfAz4CD9xq/s2860/IMG_2238.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1980" data-original-width="2860" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-QIBiYcgpad56wJtHOQ9dW-W0AqjE6JZeNNqSqKpuZPJCFcaO2IgJBjzTS6nn5hwymr7tDxmY6KGWVlEbWVxwdRXFHkKrxgvLB1iM0upjKWJpDaVU3t6VfNa6MA-Ge1QEITpACDYJ6CtXIGeyN9_-H1rlS3mRm8Zrl2ceZ1Iua8HL_U3T3rfAz4CD9xq/w400-h278/IMG_2238.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>Someone did point out an opera house in Littleton that had been the site of many a debate between those on the presidential trail. Littleton was the first town on my trail of Carnegies. It was a quite lively town that had made a recent list of the twelve most quintessential towns in New England. There were two movie theaters on its Main Street, one of which was playing the Taylor Swift movie. A church on the street had a full-fledged, help-yourself food pantry.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnJtA4CwAPfbrYXLK6ty7eLfRPcpw8ytnprYic7MGJpKIeUi_6yPTzDaHM3TCTFZmc-nKra9nLaCJJscu1CWJn1cnlsJj10WPper1Yg9wfQRLjqzc6xGgy0uBwpwS1TXmKyqqrGHebVrUrxWLXenlQZmSCYOFlYlTHR4dIVNl1KEl9uQpJRnbWkrFhVbj/s3264/IMG_2237.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnJtA4CwAPfbrYXLK6ty7eLfRPcpw8ytnprYic7MGJpKIeUi_6yPTzDaHM3TCTFZmc-nKra9nLaCJJscu1CWJn1cnlsJj10WPper1Yg9wfQRLjqzc6xGgy0uBwpwS1TXmKyqqrGHebVrUrxWLXenlQZmSCYOFlYlTHR4dIVNl1KEl9uQpJRnbWkrFhVbj/w400-h300/IMG_2237.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>The Carnegie was also on the Main Street on a slight rise. A plaque out front described it as “an eclectic blend of Georgian and neoclassical styles with decoration of a richness rare for a structure of its size.” There was no entry as it was closed for the week to replace its carpeting. While I gazed upon it a fifty-year old guy stopped to ask about my travels and added he’d had a few long tours himself. “Coast-to-coast?” I asked.<br /><br />“Yes, seven times,” he replied. “I used to work for a touring company out of Indianapolis and led rides. On one it rained twice, once for twenty-three days and the other for sixteen.”<br /><br />Another of his long rides was in Russia in 1991, when it had yet to be westernized with McDonald’s and all. The roads were bad and the food and accommodations left a lot to be desired. His group camped as well as stayed in hotels. When they returned to the US they made the mistake to check the box on their custom forms that they had stayed on farms on occasion and had their bikes impounded for thirty days.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnPCVOM5Wa7OIAJ8lAlQw3UrhFVYdYRAmcY0KitSKVWOn9vKFPy-un5RYtfq1Vyjtkcz6ChCICCZyWz0DTE0-eAXSHx11JDc22h-h9VcFr3g-CgYUNTMNEXECNw9-WMIhKz2pqt6aCeGBAzzC_-WUt8P_zWZbv48XgMttCrHAQDiJ_fZsExTxl6ePa20c/s2929/IMG_2241.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1675" data-original-width="2929" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnPCVOM5Wa7OIAJ8lAlQw3UrhFVYdYRAmcY0KitSKVWOn9vKFPy-un5RYtfq1Vyjtkcz6ChCICCZyWz0DTE0-eAXSHx11JDc22h-h9VcFr3g-CgYUNTMNEXECNw9-WMIhKz2pqt6aCeGBAzzC_-WUt8P_zWZbv48XgMttCrHAQDiJ_fZsExTxl6ePa20c/w400-h229/IMG_2241.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>I could only look upon the next Carnegie in Whitefield too, as it wasn’t open on Mondays. That was extra bad news as I was in need of an electrical outlet to charge. I had gone all of Sunday without charging, only spending a handful of minutes inside, first at a Dollar Store and then at Ian Boswell’s house. I was counting on plopping down an hour or so at either the Littleton or Whitefield libraries to catch up. Whitefield was much smaller and quieter than Littleton and didn’t offer a cafe, so I had to push on hoping what charge I was gaining from my generator hub could keep my iPad alive.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnoqmHdWAKMSKzlx5X4lME-DK32dNNXQWDSr_E6zuM21RmrCoiZBniWlsOuUmEB5mTpFlsjndBxZ-KBCATH_bmOhCFDGZPdhWqKSOAEFBz_L4OP8RRmPCX97IUv7_L4irsJakPIJyMUMy1nqngWEaFXhATfTVwAcgyORsqBJPRgMm2wu0eZsUY_cuBBmW/s2960/IMG_2250.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2178" data-original-width="2960" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnoqmHdWAKMSKzlx5X4lME-DK32dNNXQWDSr_E6zuM21RmrCoiZBniWlsOuUmEB5mTpFlsjndBxZ-KBCATH_bmOhCFDGZPdhWqKSOAEFBz_L4OP8RRmPCX97IUv7_L4irsJakPIJyMUMy1nqngWEaFXhATfTVwAcgyORsqBJPRgMm2wu0eZsUY_cuBBmW/w400-h294/IMG_2250.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>The terrain was hillier than Vermont and the foliage more colorful, but a lot less touristy. Maybe the threat of moose kept them away. A sign warned of the many fatalities of those who had plowed into one. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwL2XlYVFxncrnTPRQN22C4HiNHvQhqX5tXv6OyAnCaj1FlN_lvhHQ67FhrxPhfiRll6i4VjWKWQmvs_SgI5a7eNkvh-_R2QY2a8obES_sCjGvAaOcvfHql7xsxosaffqZiikp5EnhrS5NZFV9CAydzy88Tay6vyheGUXdGE6fc4gqT8MPR1NXxjX5fOm/s2548/IMG_2248.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1878" data-original-width="2548" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwL2XlYVFxncrnTPRQN22C4HiNHvQhqX5tXv6OyAnCaj1FlN_lvhHQ67FhrxPhfiRll6i4VjWKWQmvs_SgI5a7eNkvh-_R2QY2a8obES_sCjGvAaOcvfHql7xsxosaffqZiikp5EnhrS5NZFV9CAydzy88Tay6vyheGUXdGE6fc4gqT8MPR1NXxjX5fOm/w400-h295/IMG_2248.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">When it became clear I wasn’t going to make it to the next Carnegie in Berlin in time for some charging I hoped a motel might turn up, as I also had wet shoes and socks that needed drying. None did so I kept alive my streak of every night in my tent. I was at least able to take advantage of an outlet at a rest area to gain enough juice to use my iPad without worries of draining in the tent that night. The rest room was the only time I set foot inside all day, a not unworthy accomplishment.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9xsMXOoubUURaY8CLkmQVQGVG3KRUVdrXgjdWWDuzYFp_FKzGDAMMxGqBx5jXpV00E99BVBVQQcX11dJuHLVg5NX1-ckyM-EmeflsU_NizTX_PCOz9v98wDk-YNzDCGitH0upckG8rZbgpFchUDvwjvTvX5U5Izp7kCwcZYLPCtDV-GU8dXyqZalXtqf/s3260/IMG_2254.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1913" data-original-width="3260" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9xsMXOoubUURaY8CLkmQVQGVG3KRUVdrXgjdWWDuzYFp_FKzGDAMMxGqBx5jXpV00E99BVBVQQcX11dJuHLVg5NX1-ckyM-EmeflsU_NizTX_PCOz9v98wDk-YNzDCGitH0upckG8rZbgpFchUDvwjvTvX5U5Izp7kCwcZYLPCtDV-GU8dXyqZalXtqf/w400-h235/IMG_2254.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>I arrived at the Berlin Carnegie too early to end my fast of not settimg foot inside a building. Its exterior had some extra adornments, so its interior could have been special too. The exterior was accompanied by an Oldenburg-inspired over-sized book giving the library’s hours. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIWqtMOjz7q158InrADv7HC8XuI8E1D71EyfIHp-R-59FlEXTYqdfw5ytgfl66pC8Z_HEB9tSqZqshKnk9yfEj7PI0pLxC3JoeikVyax8olT4ixwQSaHpyqbfBH7XSeCCKu-mfaMY-O53o13OwKe2cc79pdnTJCdJIJcosC3cHk8JRn96IHerGwNIFhI5/s2828/IMG_2255.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2255" data-original-width="2828" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIWqtMOjz7q158InrADv7HC8XuI8E1D71EyfIHp-R-59FlEXTYqdfw5ytgfl66pC8Z_HEB9tSqZqshKnk9yfEj7PI0pLxC3JoeikVyax8olT4ixwQSaHpyqbfBH7XSeCCKu-mfaMY-O53o13OwKe2cc79pdnTJCdJIJcosC3cHk8JRn96IHerGwNIFhI5/w400-h319/IMG_2255.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br />The terrain flattened considerably when I entered Maine, some of it along rivers. The first Carnegie came in Rumford on the Androssgoggan River. An addition to its rear had large windows looking down upon the river. A large sign on the door prohibited food and drink and there were similar signs on all the tables. I had to be discreet taking an occasional handful of gorp, as I couldn’t sit without fueling.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFw23p9yls3tyCiLuIEk_5kp19cmfrXI1R7YLFZciwEcgxL4OYTVBho0x-kk8KGZM9r0B6yzw0N3EhQNIK3CPKi95_rQC4U7s8t3mLvRfnjQ9Kh7OyOA3CKS72OeKV3TY25SoaBzWuY0YbMiknRe-Ll9JEIAdgwhk3fkhV_u06C38siLO9NefuYcRXxDoU/s3264/IMG_2267.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFw23p9yls3tyCiLuIEk_5kp19cmfrXI1R7YLFZciwEcgxL4OYTVBho0x-kk8KGZM9r0B6yzw0N3EhQNIK3CPKi95_rQC4U7s8t3mLvRfnjQ9Kh7OyOA3CKS72OeKV3TY25SoaBzWuY0YbMiknRe-Ll9JEIAdgwhk3fkhV_u06C38siLO9NefuYcRXxDoU/w400-h300/IMG_2267.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>I keep checking the weather in Nova Scotia. It’s been very similar to what I’ve been experiencing so far, daily highs in the fifties and night time lows in the forties. I’ve had rain nearly every day, so what rain awaits me there isn’t too daunting so long as it’s no more than the drizzles I’ve mostly been inflicted with.<br /><br />I won’t reach Canada for five days, as Maine is much larger than Vermont and New Hampshire, and I have seven more Carnegies to get to with one stretch of 155 miles between two of them. The rain puts a dent into my riding time and also the shortening days. Heading east adds to the shortness at the end of the day. I’d been able to ride until nearly seven at the start of these travels. Now dark is closing in by six. At least it’s not as cold as last year’s fall ride, when I encountered snow in Canada north of Minnesota. It’s been no colder than the low forties so far here.<br /><br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-23980834202859241102023-10-16T10:27:00.003-07:002023-10-16T10:36:52.156-07:00Peachem, Vermont<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iP-_tjBAuqlbpyljOmGtj_3AFI__V97W1irew_CiYKFo26dYh97vhsEDZgjQ1vldhG-UpFA-oUq2C4m3sk4zHOJ-mF6ZhmeuI8PG5BmUtAW6wMynZs7FyaVvlbbdKZDYCrw9AOCjV85VHT3hruYCAbF0kgbT7IT1L3T0AmMK7qHcsekI-2_hw2F5a_Iq/s2892/IMG_2218.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2134" data-original-width="2892" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iP-_tjBAuqlbpyljOmGtj_3AFI__V97W1irew_CiYKFo26dYh97vhsEDZgjQ1vldhG-UpFA-oUq2C4m3sk4zHOJ-mF6ZhmeuI8PG5BmUtAW6wMynZs7FyaVvlbbdKZDYCrw9AOCjV85VHT3hruYCAbF0kgbT7IT1L3T0AmMK7qHcsekI-2_hw2F5a_Iq/w400-h295/IMG_2218.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I was delighted that my exit route from Vermont took me through the small town of Peachem, less than ten miles from New Hampshire, as it is the present home of Ian Boswell, former Tour de France rider and now one of the premier gravel riders in the world having won Unbound in Emporia, Kansas last year. He also hosts a podcast, Breakfast with Bos, that I haven’t missed since he launched it during the 2018 Tour with his friend Marshall, who was following The Tour in his car. <br /><br />The two of them would record a chat every morning before each stage, recounting their previous day, Ian in the thick of the race and Marshall trying to follow it. Ian is also a regular on the British podcast The Cycling Podcast and has joined the podcast crew the past two years in France to cover The Tour. Though I’d never met Ian, I knew him well enough to consider him a friend. I was hoping I could track him down in Peachem and thank him for the many hours of listening pleasure he had brought me. Getting to meet him could well be one of the highlights of these travels.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2t1y9VYSfzTK1Kzq0upE75vVyfgnINwugRoFtEExGlsoOWhPlt3w_XwlJky607XltpxfF65u7BU_FBYnLhIpc5WVqyP1eqCRbrZi8d89XDyMzY5y3bbT4-zhecMd7NMtCQ7lKjuUAa0ZjSJtGsZ8Z6LUTgx7LUDEqZ2-z1OOk1qbm1IvS1LADQz7LKlY/s3264/IMG_2232.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2t1y9VYSfzTK1Kzq0upE75vVyfgnINwugRoFtEExGlsoOWhPlt3w_XwlJky607XltpxfF65u7BU_FBYnLhIpc5WVqyP1eqCRbrZi8d89XDyMzY5y3bbT4-zhecMd7NMtCQ7lKjuUAa0ZjSJtGsZ8Z6LUTgx7LUDEqZ2-z1OOk1qbm1IvS1LADQz7LKlY/w400-h300/IMG_2232.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I was on target to arrive in Peachem in the middle of the afternoon, but an excessive amount of climbing, some on dirt roads, delayed my arrival until 5:30, less than an hour before dark. I felt reluctant to intrude on him at the dinner hour and was resigned to just gaining acquaintance with his out-of-the-way small town. When I arrived at the main intersection across from its library and by a small inn, I paused at a stop sign wondering if I’d see anyone out and about. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in this quiet town of 700 residents. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUPAWkJortKU7rNfpHCgKDyTc1mNyXrc0HQFuC_B4Xzd9cq4OROOCaWpgfn5n4WtBZy2pen8JqzoLfKElOZrQZiDZVmALbNa7nmEBMC2Ikuln7mgxsJAkrhvXAQyoHxvkOiu52WE0iyQd-34wHoWOb498DhTa4KgcNkZHaRPF-TyUzmRtOOzvEhxTTHEV/s966/IMG_2240.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="966" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUPAWkJortKU7rNfpHCgKDyTc1mNyXrc0HQFuC_B4Xzd9cq4OROOCaWpgfn5n4WtBZy2pen8JqzoLfKElOZrQZiDZVmALbNa7nmEBMC2Ikuln7mgxsJAkrhvXAQyoHxvkOiu52WE0iyQd-34wHoWOb498DhTa4KgcNkZHaRPF-TyUzmRtOOzvEhxTTHEV/w400-h334/IMG_2240.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Before I could even consider ducking into the inn to ask if Ian might live nearby an older guy on a mountain bike wearing a bright orange Arc’Teryx jacket appeared beside me as if he had been sent by a higher authority and asked where I was headed. I told him Nova Scotia, then asked if he might know Ian. He said he knew him well, and that he lived just down the road. It was a little more complicated than that, as he needed to show me on my GPS his precise location two miles away on dirt roads in farm country. He affirmed that Ian was as nice a guy as he comes across on his podcast, and it would be no imposition to drop in on him. “Just say Greg sent you,” he said.<br /><br />His isolated house with accompanying barn was just where Greg said it would be. There was no indication that it was the residence of a world-class cyclist other than a bicycle wheel with a garland of flowers hanging on a wall to the left of the porch. Ian’s wife Gretchen, who turns up on his podcast from time to time describing their breakfast that day, answered the door. I apologized for coming by but said I just happened to be biking through and their friend Greg encouraged me to stop by to say hello and tell Ian how much I enjoyed his podcast. She said he was in office and would get him. A skinny, much taller, guy than I expected emerged, greeting me with his distinctive gentle voice and offered his hand. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQCgPQz1q6GfcNJ5sdFj6GQHUztT8t8nMAcJvAIKnGuvoagHNQrN5vvkJYPGST6iOmm_9sraeCMyFQiOBKWYB9yYsHeia7ITsDjiNjYItDyZok81XfXRzJJ0V1de2K5T8euKfuGrHwcYKEEEcWYv2yhBc5jHSPsf9VVSWhNXGmF4h1_E2B50LARwZJqCh/s2613/IMG_2234.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2613" data-original-width="2163" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQCgPQz1q6GfcNJ5sdFj6GQHUztT8t8nMAcJvAIKnGuvoagHNQrN5vvkJYPGST6iOmm_9sraeCMyFQiOBKWYB9yYsHeia7ITsDjiNjYItDyZok81XfXRzJJ0V1de2K5T8euKfuGrHwcYKEEEcWYv2yhBc5jHSPsf9VVSWhNXGmF4h1_E2B50LARwZJqCh/w331-h400/IMG_2234.jpeg" width="331" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I told him I hadn’t missed a podcast and wondered if he had ever snagged a Tour course marker in the past two years when he’d been covering it as a journalist. He said he hadn’t, as he was always ahead of the race, and it was, of course, taboo to grab one until the peloton had passed. I told him I’d followed The Tour a few times as a touring cyclist and always brought home a few markers that I shared with friends and that I’d even given Greg LeMond one a year ago. Ian said he’d love to have one and that I knew where to send it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I told him I was from Chicago and had become friends with Christian Vande Velde and had given him a few markers over the years. I added that I enjoyed his interview of Christian on his podcast this past year. Ian immediately replied that he made a faux pas when he introduced Christian as having ridden The Tour “five or seven times,” as Christian corrected him to say he’d ridden it eleven times and had been back ten more times covering the race for NBC. I was actually going to ask Ian about that, and was impressed that it had made such an impression on him, as it was a nagging embarrassment, that he brought it up himself. Ian only rode it once, as his road career was curtailed due to concussion issues. Few riders have done it in double figures, not even Eddie Merckx.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Ian had once used the term “Frenched” on one of his podcasts, the only time I’d heard it. I knew all too well what it meant, as I feel as if I’m Frenched by over-zealous gendarmes prematurely ordering me off The Tour course. Ian said it is a common term among American racers living in France coming up against the French bureaucracy and restaurants closing early and other inconveniences. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">His latest podcast was with Lucy Charles-Barclay and her husband. She is one of the premier female triathletes in the world, finishing second four times at the premier event in Hawaii. Her husband is a former triathlete who now devotes himself to his wife’s career. They live in London and have to do a lot of training indoors in what they call their “pain cave.” With the two of them sweating away in there for hours at a time day after day Ian asked the pertinent question that only a fellow athlete with a “pain cave” of his own would ask—what kind of smell did it have. They said they have wooden floors and their “pain cave” has no detectable odor. I congratulated Ian on the imaginative question. He replied that Lucy had just won the triathlon in Hawaii this weekend, which she said would be the highlight of her career.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I could have talked and talked as I once did when I visited Christian at his house delivering a couple of course markers, but I didn’t want Ian to feel obligated to invite me for dinner or to pitch my tent on his property, so I said I needed to get going as I was hoping to make it to New Hampshire before dark. As he led me back to my bike I asked if he flew in and out of Burlington for his extensive travels. Usually he does, as it’s just an hour and fifteen minutes away, but he resorts to Boston from time to time as well. As he bid me farewell, he said he’d be looking for me at The Tour next year. He’s as anxious as I am to see its route, which will be announced in a week or so. We know it will start in Italy and end in Nice, not in Paris for the first time ever, so as not to conflict with the Olympics. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Greg, who provided me the directions to Ian, wasn’t the only person to come to my assistance this day. A couple hours earlier a white-haired lady was awaiting me at the top of a climb with a bottle of water and an orange. She wanted to tell me about a rails-to-trails path up ahead and query me about my travels. She was aghast that I had bicycled from Rochester, seven hundred miles away and that I was headed to Nova Scotia. I told her nothing of my previous travels, just that I was seeking out Carnegie libraries and the last one I had visited was in Northfield at Norwich College, though it was now Chaplin Hall housing the art and architecture department. It faced a large quad surrounded by red brick buildings with none of the ornamentation of the Carnegie.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22Meaut-_bJlerNKeiu9GJTxcRfaAA6BOfRYDLL-dptpsRpMrQojUOXHZNoVjM4ikMg0BoIGoTVFjC9zzmV_092UsjNgabv87M6yKkHcscGEm7O4_o3v0ZlPMuLt0clY0GonRfzIDahiIqNKS_vWDd059-LoA-cUFHlqJ0c4G63FyffPwDvJpu6onvTvC/s3071/IMG_2221.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1878" data-original-width="3071" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22Meaut-_bJlerNKeiu9GJTxcRfaAA6BOfRYDLL-dptpsRpMrQojUOXHZNoVjM4ikMg0BoIGoTVFjC9zzmV_092UsjNgabv87M6yKkHcscGEm7O4_o3v0ZlPMuLt0clY0GonRfzIDahiIqNKS_vWDd059-LoA-cUFHlqJ0c4G63FyffPwDvJpu6onvTvC/w400-h245/IMG_2221.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>After a few minutes the woman introduced herself as George and asked my name. After a few more minutes of conversation beside her car she excused herself and said she wanted to give me something more. She ducked into the front seat and returned with another tangerine and a banana and several pieces of chocolate and $3.50 for a slice of pizza or something she said, while apologizing that was all she had to offer. I didn’t know it at the time, but it is money I can earmark for the course marker I’ll be sending Ian. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Vermont was living up to its reputation for friendliness. It was no wonder that the roads on Saturday and Sunday were clogged with motorists from neighboring states. Traffic was backed up for two miles just inching along into Stowe. More than half the license plates were from out-of-state, one from as far as California and another from Utah, a Backroads van of the bicycle touring company with three bikes atop it. Fortunately there was a wide shoulder so I could fly by them all. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9owYwyTGMtWuuH3u6MXRgyLvHDaJ84u3H4Nh9lcdQeFNXFOz9zApnq3FIijPaIAECzQ3WV3l2-1tG3WMs2INxgvr69gxB_Z6vQqAM4hgYjkgZgMBLT_uJvAdjzl6zJcb4G2U-s-3dNfJ-cwwdT3x1zM7OZCHpDVUn-TxFU4RqzhUpIMaLImiZVvrrB8UG/s2622/IMG_2214.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1998" data-original-width="2622" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9owYwyTGMtWuuH3u6MXRgyLvHDaJ84u3H4Nh9lcdQeFNXFOz9zApnq3FIijPaIAECzQ3WV3l2-1tG3WMs2INxgvr69gxB_Z6vQqAM4hgYjkgZgMBLT_uJvAdjzl6zJcb4G2U-s-3dNfJ-cwwdT3x1zM7OZCHpDVUn-TxFU4RqzhUpIMaLImiZVvrrB8UG/w400-h305/IMG_2214.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>Traffic had been equally thick for miles between Burlington and Morristown, where I ventured for its classic Carnegie, complete with a plaque describing its architecture in detail. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiGnXykoJ-g8N33d74xo_4twpv3tWKPwroiXWbuml7ljCyj8ZCr10ucswfibQMxdsaA8appyij_BOMpVSmK9QI9trgE9GmhW7jONC_-S9crkUO3_fCzhag4R26p1AHXlJClp_MJO7K1V0w3cWJ6wWYwom11G_BPOxfYRRU2B6p1UCOQXvC0JvPHlgoXrP/s2132/IMG_2213.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1665" data-original-width="2132" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiGnXykoJ-g8N33d74xo_4twpv3tWKPwroiXWbuml7ljCyj8ZCr10ucswfibQMxdsaA8appyij_BOMpVSmK9QI9trgE9GmhW7jONC_-S9crkUO3_fCzhag4R26p1AHXlJClp_MJO7K1V0w3cWJ6wWYwom11G_BPOxfYRRU2B6p1UCOQXvC0JvPHlgoXrP/w400-h313/IMG_2213.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The small town, like most I’d passed through, had small shops catering to tourists. Besides the signs advertising maple syrup, shops were packed with knickknacks of all sorts.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW7K9Oa0UfEkxV1AD9J18jTJKy8ru_qYilpb_myi3zR8F-GirP2TxdgJnE5ioIuhIi39XuGnwuD_1cFInxXGcwbCNE5XCAl93ROdA0yvw1ydphAkIJqMZge9-puJ8N6Dt31BuhNxswF9Dpnw4S5vxMxK9aJFoJZYXWNuQ8EZaQxjZ5QoZZZIeWuTbIJAit/s1142/IMG_2211.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="916" data-original-width="1142" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW7K9Oa0UfEkxV1AD9J18jTJKy8ru_qYilpb_myi3zR8F-GirP2TxdgJnE5ioIuhIi39XuGnwuD_1cFInxXGcwbCNE5XCAl93ROdA0yvw1ydphAkIJqMZge9-puJ8N6Dt31BuhNxswF9Dpnw4S5vxMxK9aJFoJZYXWNuQ8EZaQxjZ5QoZZZIeWuTbIJAit/w400-h321/IMG_2211.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>An Art Park (myearthwork.com) was among the attractions in the area on the road from the north into Stowe, a ski town that was the epicenter of it all. The Art Park was full of Andy Goldsworthy inspired constructions of rocks.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthfjvJc6EI2ijv-FHIQ88NASseUQPrvg7JajeFES198Kf4TOuYPBe7sgk6y1ev8O7tnDJU4ReU8TLoeoNl5g3V3dlUzXUIK77iLupnzZTNsvNYvZZhwcbqMiCHxRuPFW-YDDU5aeLnd4ovpEI5GDBUSsFmCuxXTI8lmdvh0ZNhvuoKu-FjBD2rKtLL1HZ/s2329/IMG_2216.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1667" data-original-width="2329" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthfjvJc6EI2ijv-FHIQ88NASseUQPrvg7JajeFES198Kf4TOuYPBe7sgk6y1ev8O7tnDJU4ReU8TLoeoNl5g3V3dlUzXUIK77iLupnzZTNsvNYvZZhwcbqMiCHxRuPFW-YDDU5aeLnd4ovpEI5GDBUSsFmCuxXTI8lmdvh0ZNhvuoKu-FjBD2rKtLL1HZ/w400-h286/IMG_2216.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The town was bulging with people, including a wedding party, despite the cold, dank weather. A little sunlight would have enhanced the fall foliage, but it was still a pleasure to behold.</span><br /><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-61482443218906397482023-10-14T11:04:00.005-07:002023-12-16T15:21:01.561-08:00Burlington, Vermont<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9ZaLSvap1tTI3SxaEpTBPCnH2y3DR3TL9FcRmdwnVLav5b3xiqT-owDcG_Vd9sxOj2HklVd398XjcHCMG-hNcbeUV8KAMAjPUJ_b7lOpHcq_8dm_82uTgkrqY1dM3neNcp2YkCj1GvcRt2ni3rJK2EkMffHrO9fa-tJ7P6J1DbVjFWhvrthY0uUKV4aK/s2911/IMG_2212.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2911" data-original-width="2222" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9ZaLSvap1tTI3SxaEpTBPCnH2y3DR3TL9FcRmdwnVLav5b3xiqT-owDcG_Vd9sxOj2HklVd398XjcHCMG-hNcbeUV8KAMAjPUJ_b7lOpHcq_8dm_82uTgkrqY1dM3neNcp2YkCj1GvcRt2ni3rJK2EkMffHrO9fa-tJ7P6J1DbVjFWhvrthY0uUKV4aK/w305-h400/IMG_2212.jpeg" width="305" /></a></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The cycling gods must pay attention to my blog. Less than an hour after my last post lamenting I’d passed through New York once again without finding a license plate along the road they provided me with one and then another when I opted to return to the state and bike up the west side of Lake George to Ticonderoga for its Carnegie rather than sticking to the Vermont side and then taking a ferry across the lake. Five miles after the first came another, and then a few miles later a New Jersey plate as well. It was my biggest license plate bonanza ever. That brings my total of states to twenty-seven. The gods will truly be benevolent if they provide me with a green beauty from Vermont in the relatively few miles I’ll be biking across the state and the same for New Hampshire.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-AB68NiUNpNCi9AsW1g6ODjJvYxK9HD8qP4yOSXPDBZNjCSJp6ibjTZLTvUo86kVv0bV4YYKdolURdb3aHAmFjSdSyHYI_25hJ4hUBVyqYj-6lwXw0H37mj9KaeJJoGSWjwEASnPB-o0y14V59oHNPOXbVtow5jqny6PLK_9e1ommswvm6579vUyFZHj/s3067/IMG_2192.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2066" data-original-width="3067" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-AB68NiUNpNCi9AsW1g6ODjJvYxK9HD8qP4yOSXPDBZNjCSJp6ibjTZLTvUo86kVv0bV4YYKdolURdb3aHAmFjSdSyHYI_25hJ4hUBVyqYj-6lwXw0H37mj9KaeJJoGSWjwEASnPB-o0y14V59oHNPOXbVtow5jqny6PLK_9e1ommswvm6579vUyFZHj/w400-h270/IMG_2192.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The gods were looking after me too when I left Ticonderoga at sunset, providing me with a campsite a mile out of this town that attracts recreational tourists, big enough to have a Walmart. With dark coming on I had a debate with myself whether to sacrifice a few precious minutes of daylight to stop at the Walmart, the first I had come upon in these travels, for a jug of chocolate milk. I knew it would be a risk to spend several minutes venturing around its labyrinth of aisles, but I couldn’t help myself so strong was my hankering for chocolate milk. The gods didn’t take kindly to my decision, as the only chocolate milk on the shelves was in gallon containers, which I didn’t have space for.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I had the option of camping behind an abandoned store next to the Walmart or take my chances and head out of town. There hadn’t been much sprawl entering Ticonderoga, a town of 5,000, nor was there much on the way out, so I was rewarded with another fine campsite in a small forest besides a field under cultivation. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">It left me fifty miles south of Burlington, where a Warmshowers host awaited me. I decided to avail myself of this service since I had to take the time to search out supplies—a tire and an improvement on my sleeping bag. It was rated to 25 degrees, but had barely been keeping me warm when the temperature dipped below fifty, as had been the case since the first two days of these travels. I’d needed a sweater and sometimes a vest and leggings to stay warm. Evidently the loft of my bag had degenerated and no longer retained so much warmth.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Burlington had an REI, so I knew I could find an adequate upgrade. My Warmshowers hosts, however, recommended the Outdoor Gear Exchange that dealt in used as well as new gear and was just a mile from their home and a couple blocks from the Carnegie Library. It was a huge store packed with customers and incredible deals. I left with a new Marmot bag for $130 rated to twenty degrees and a tire for $20. Inflation seemed to have yet come to Burlington, as a motel on the outskirts advertised a rate of $48.50.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQZQxqTFIQwF2zTHJKnkkRjfaz2Krz8EduuVX-XNYFO8MV9D3r4IZgiVn9OJSBtNwlpBmtaoy4vX1IHsAlLU0LFO4GGcGq68NZ5iTpkcINNROgHV7Nei_2ClNEKWtVcKKI5oEoYAYzac-9W6u9JxX4_jrUVPPCfU696efcV0wQHu1NGmUdecz2-xT_sQ5R/s3264/IMG_2203.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQZQxqTFIQwF2zTHJKnkkRjfaz2Krz8EduuVX-XNYFO8MV9D3r4IZgiVn9OJSBtNwlpBmtaoy4vX1IHsAlLU0LFO4GGcGq68NZ5iTpkcINNROgHV7Nei_2ClNEKWtVcKKI5oEoYAYzac-9W6u9JxX4_jrUVPPCfU696efcV0wQHu1NGmUdecz2-xT_sQ5R/w400-h300/IMG_2203.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The store was in a several block long pedestrian mall in the heart of the city that was a hive of activity, contributing to the appeal of this city of 44,000 people, the largest in Vermont and the smallest largest city in the fifty states. The store was in a former Woolworth’s, commemorated with a plaque. It was the largest Woolworth’s in New England and had been in fixture in Burlington at this downtown location for one hundred years until Woolworth’s closed down in 1997. Its lunch counter is fondly remembered by many.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Learning of the store was just one of many of the great benefits of availing myself of Warmshowers, the first time I’ve done so in the US, after superlative experiences in Abu Dhabi and Brazil and Turkey and Madagascar. It was thanks to a Warmshowers host in Madagascar that I still have my present touring bike, as he rescued it from the airport when Turkish Air wouldn’t let me fly home with it and sent it later. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40CCI_U1FK_UjKcUqLsPkRnRCpE42R6Kl7trmD67ebSnkumUF0XIUu3eSFylX-9JqgKIK4mUXwVQK1CLWVF5JvjfG5bbxALkFzF3TBzJnNqEw-dl7H8zAyg9lp3X3kLsyOGj0Jr4IZlJc3VxrGnN6E7zuiyyQH0vlYETtVigwx4nOqmg-n41SA34ewEQf/s1838/IMG_2200.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1385" data-original-width="1838" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40CCI_U1FK_UjKcUqLsPkRnRCpE42R6Kl7trmD67ebSnkumUF0XIUu3eSFylX-9JqgKIK4mUXwVQK1CLWVF5JvjfG5bbxALkFzF3TBzJnNqEw-dl7H8zAyg9lp3X3kLsyOGj0Jr4IZlJc3VxrGnN6E7zuiyyQH0vlYETtVigwx4nOqmg-n41SA34ewEQf/w400-h301/IMG_2200.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>Carmen and Dave were as wonderful as any of my hosts. Dave had been touring longer than me, getting his start in 1975 when he lived in Cincinnati. Carmen was a native Vermonter and could remember when Bernie Sanders was elected mayor of Burlington in 1991. She was a youth and couldn’t understand why an uncle was so upset, not knowing what it meant to be a socialist. Dave is an ardent sailor as well as cyclist. He hauls his sailboat to nearby Lake Champlain on a trailer he attaches to his bike. And they are avid salsa dancers, driving ninety-five miles regularly to Montreal to dance.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">They warned me to keep a close eye on my bike, as there had been a glut of bicycle thievery from a growing homeless population. Ever since a hotel near their home had started housing the homeless, cars left on the street in their neighborhood had been broken into. There was a cluster of homeless outside the Carnegie. I was relieved I had stripped my bike of all its gear when I ventured over to it.</div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XMuIFmROcBKgGyF9nnRbGLE37NBAk01jGU0adt9QKfAMpHt5q7FfE5A1WimtgBuPaOsdZjU4aiO0KDY85114kTqJ1vCC-9SfCSVCiERpepOpZoHbZ7wVGt3d6VqcRUQdJ6rB0PpyltNDVk5DCxo9NINoZbyysZj_mKEbNg93SIuY7x-Recy6LYUOh69x/s3264/IMG_2202.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XMuIFmROcBKgGyF9nnRbGLE37NBAk01jGU0adt9QKfAMpHt5q7FfE5A1WimtgBuPaOsdZjU4aiO0KDY85114kTqJ1vCC-9SfCSVCiERpepOpZoHbZ7wVGt3d6VqcRUQdJ6rB0PpyltNDVk5DCxo9NINoZbyysZj_mKEbNg93SIuY7x-Recy6LYUOh69x/w400-h300/IMG_2202.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">The library had had a large addition to its side. The Carnegie portion was now the children’s section. Carmen mentioned they’d had a guest a few years ago who had also come to see the Carnegie, but it was so long ago and they have had so many guests, she couldn’t remember who it was or how to contact him. They’d had many fine guests over the years, but some clunkers as well, including one guy who spent all day sitting on their couch drinking beer while he awaited a package he’d had mailed to their address. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupneejDfkXbVYFfBdtVm2ZkD1Zk0P7cViwI_k0bc4Je1KOoeldISJ7yE6WR7CgJ6-TiqVPEak_hMNJiNIKuuir5VmTk2ktunRRIp5_gylFcTZjoNOF6EfYXFFZHPyaryrKFhzr4zpnWgFqMaF-4AdQkyvkf0tGdYzYbFchC6ftikmQRjQyT3FihKuK9xL/s3264/IMG_2199.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupneejDfkXbVYFfBdtVm2ZkD1Zk0P7cViwI_k0bc4Je1KOoeldISJ7yE6WR7CgJ6-TiqVPEak_hMNJiNIKuuir5VmTk2ktunRRIp5_gylFcTZjoNOF6EfYXFFZHPyaryrKFhzr4zpnWgFqMaF-4AdQkyvkf0tGdYzYbFchC6ftikmQRjQyT3FihKuK9xL/w400-h300/IMG_2199.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">We sat around the dining room table well into the night reminiscing about our travels and discussing life in Vermont. Dave and I both had early-day TC panniers and still have a pair in our archives. I’d read on a plaque that Vermont was the first state admitted to the union after the first thirteen. Carmen said that is something all Vermonters know. It came in 1791, fifteen years after the initial thirteen. The flag with fourteen stars lasted only a year, as Kentucky followed in 1792. New Hampshire was one of the original thirteen. Vermont had been part of New York, then broke off to become a republic of its own, before seeking statehood. </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgkSEM6t8xCoM11z6FyVaauPlCBmjPPqsXS9DpR0D0RyWWaCFhIUb0S4ENK_EJS4h7QtVPbFhXUZo2roJgpo89dpI0mS3GRp42aF_v-P-FIEsoQ2pB9dj1NB6ZaJY5n3tvsXWAibMv9213CVIowoQXuuAyvQ021jwOY3efd42opix1CcU-7hMe70AvNEZ/s3264/IMG_2205.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgkSEM6t8xCoM11z6FyVaauPlCBmjPPqsXS9DpR0D0RyWWaCFhIUb0S4ENK_EJS4h7QtVPbFhXUZo2roJgpo89dpI0mS3GRp42aF_v-P-FIEsoQ2pB9dj1NB6ZaJY5n3tvsXWAibMv9213CVIowoQXuuAyvQ021jwOY3efd42opix1CcU-7hMe70AvNEZ/w400-h300/IMG_2205.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I was eager to put my new sleeping bag to use as I slept in their backyard not far from a huge cluster of rhubarb. I could immediately feel the warmth it retained of my body. I dared not zip it up. No worries now of needing extra layers as I sleep. I left my old bag with Carmen and Dave who may save it for other guests in need. They have occasional guests from New York City who arrive by train late in the evening and are short of gear. They have a regular guest from Germany who leaves a bike with them. As many guests as they have had, they have never stayed with another Warmshowers host in their travels, preferring their independence as I generally do, not wanting to make arrangements ahead of time. But I will certainly be happy to take advantage of this great network again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-69685618839703606312023-10-12T10:38:00.002-07:002023-10-13T08:29:39.045-07:00Fair Haven, Vermont<p> </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSNGjUkcW04U5nspbfflb77CChwa7vPMmtqiZGvM-4DEsNsrpwrs3LFCek_tgqyrgr4kc7ReXF_CVB1q7Gtk_M2BaLprYpLCC-32trTwFPO_9g4mnWQ2NGNMRPoG1pppQ0nBpmdRwZ_1y0sXCtrx3QdXDl3terZvuqWz_yjfbvUBHUpX0nYwdpPszP-hi/s3264/IMG_2174.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSNGjUkcW04U5nspbfflb77CChwa7vPMmtqiZGvM-4DEsNsrpwrs3LFCek_tgqyrgr4kc7ReXF_CVB1q7Gtk_M2BaLprYpLCC-32trTwFPO_9g4mnWQ2NGNMRPoG1pppQ0nBpmdRwZ_1y0sXCtrx3QdXDl3terZvuqWz_yjfbvUBHUpX0nYwdpPszP-hi/w400-h300/IMG_2174.jpeg" width="400" /></a><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">It’s been one idyllic campsite in the forest after another this past week, though none more Idyllic than two nights ago in the heart of the Adirondacks in a veritable wilderness. Though the vast park contains quite a few towns and villages containing 132,000 residents, including the town of Lake George with a couple dozen motels including one with a marquee of “Stay Here, Hike There,” there are vast patches of nothing but trees and lakes and rivers. There are some ten thousand lakes and over thirty thousand miles of rivers and streams. I could have been in the UP or northern Minnesota or Wisconsin, except this at times felt even more isolated.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTAP9maA5gQ0GbgZsOT7FcZ_wsHIDbu87gkWml-e9Da3_UVjv_JRj2XGNK50IAeQ3FZvEyN9b1sCjGjfG6FLXTdfnHaY5LuXyYBOUM14clxXFIZO0CanIi7HtnPacsMFWzj_zWUN2JVopaNsgw34VA12yE9CQEP80v73LXxnGfmrjRDzbDXXCcY79zflU/s3264/IMG_2172.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTAP9maA5gQ0GbgZsOT7FcZ_wsHIDbu87gkWml-e9Da3_UVjv_JRj2XGNK50IAeQ3FZvEyN9b1sCjGjfG6FLXTdfnHaY5LuXyYBOUM14clxXFIZO0CanIi7HtnPacsMFWzj_zWUN2JVopaNsgw34VA12yE9CQEP80v73LXxnGfmrjRDzbDXXCcY79zflU/w400-h300/IMG_2172.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>For better than three hours I had a twenty mile stretch on a dirt road virtually to myself. It was slow going, as the road was mostly climbing and descending. I didn’t climb much over two thousand feet though there were four thousand foot peaks here and there, forty-six in all scattered about the park. Climb all of them and one can claim memberships in the 46ers. Colorado has a similar clan for those who climb all fifty-eight of its fourteen thousand foot peaks, known as the 14ers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Signs of “hidden driveways” warned of pockets of habitations. And “no trespassing signs” gave indication of private holdings. Carved bears were a common site as well, as bears are among the fifty-three species of mammals in the park along with moose and coyotes and bobcats. All I encountered were deer and the occasional carcass of a possum.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rMbzEMxiSkBZJ9ZezKXdUwhQ95htLXqP-Ed-nmMlfP869_2BO44EyQavxPbaF9Ee6WEhmdPwJXDF0zpOdjXGq31vvvihvoweEGTvE1v4I_g9Otj5LbywplJRuwOwqgUFEMriXNCDWP0SiDqngSj3UJO2mVeMPFEk8y63AfemFCXGNUorwmIBLPuJYOdy/s2487/IMG_2171.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2028" data-original-width="2487" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rMbzEMxiSkBZJ9ZezKXdUwhQ95htLXqP-Ed-nmMlfP869_2BO44EyQavxPbaF9Ee6WEhmdPwJXDF0zpOdjXGq31vvvihvoweEGTvE1v4I_g9Otj5LbywplJRuwOwqgUFEMriXNCDWP0SiDqngSj3UJO2mVeMPFEk8y63AfemFCXGNUorwmIBLPuJYOdy/w400-h326/IMG_2171.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>My best roadside find through the park, and of my first week on the road, was a heavy-duty vest that may come in handy in the days to come. I begin every day with the thought “What am I going to find today?” as the road invariably offers up something. Much of what I find I disperse, such as golf balls and tools and bungee chords. I was able to leave two golf balls on the lost-and-found table of a library.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I’d been hoping for a license plate to add to my collection of close to half of the states and several countries. I’d been shutout three years ago when I biked some four hundred miles in the western end of New York. And I had no better luck this time. I thought I was certain to find one when I saw a trailer along the road with an array of plates, a sure-fire promise of one ahead. But no. I’ll just hope to find one in the days to come as I cross Vermont and New Hampshire and Maine on my way to Nova Scotia, as I often find plates from states other than the state I’m biking in.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">No neckerchiefs yet either, though I’ve certainly no need. My biggest bounty has been quarters, five of them in eight days. Usually I’m lucky to find one a week. Could be another indication of inflation—quarters are no longer worth the bother to stoop to pick up. Two of the five came at a McDonald’s pay-window, truly indicating that a customer couldn’t be bothered to open their car door and reach down for a botched handover of change. I usually just spot pennies and an occasional nickel or dime at fast food pay-windows. Quarters are a significant step up and reflection of these times where wealth is measured now in billions rather than millions.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">What could have been my greatest find along the road was a bicycle leaning against a post with a sign of “Free.” It was a high quality Jamis. It is a sad, sad reflection on these times that it wasn’t immediately grabbed. But no great surprise as I’ve seen more stray quarters on the ground than people on bikes. I can count just four—two young boys on BMX bikes carrying fishing poles and two separate teens in the large town of Watertown. People just can’t give up their cars as they continue to commit ecocide.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Though my campsites have generally been far enough from the road to be undisturbed by traffic, I was awoken one morning by the hurried clopping of hooves of a horse in a region where signs warned of horse-drawn carriages. I had an even odder wake-up when I camped across the road from Fort Drum—a bugler sounding reveille.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I’ve had deer rustling near my tent on several occasions and have been on alert for otherworldly beings, since it was north of the Finger Lakes that the angel Moroni communed with Joseph Smith. I actually passed a church with a message board reading “There are angels among us.” I thought it might be Mormon, but it was of another denomination. It did remind me to be on alert.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdL9NdsnFKf9e1jGi_GnUCTkHUApXcMgrhlNMPLFBfevDwtFBR4a-eGENWZgOsldcGqD5-4itipVltUyi-KpWtXWIXwy9CGBtN0gcGpJ_Tygk5jkQW_U892EjF72kWcZml344Am6BWQR0FB0g6Mhf2zj_6aBlzcy0ErG6wJUVEBi2eF8q0jC0t3rIfs1_O/s1246/IMG_2166.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1246" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdL9NdsnFKf9e1jGi_GnUCTkHUApXcMgrhlNMPLFBfevDwtFBR4a-eGENWZgOsldcGqD5-4itipVltUyi-KpWtXWIXwy9CGBtN0gcGpJ_Tygk5jkQW_U892EjF72kWcZml344Am6BWQR0FB0g6Mhf2zj_6aBlzcy0ErG6wJUVEBi2eF8q0jC0t3rIfs1_O/w400-h344/IMG_2166.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>I see ghosts here and there among all the Halloween decorations, though the vast majority feature skeletons, some gigantic and others just heaps of bones.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGve4PRu9KoXw2nN-OUchcN90vWeG3srcBeYzV6pR06DGWhicsgsooIzyY6akAt9AeMib1lzEez-9bNgaxKwek7DcxygWErSNzS303MAKt89Q2lTbED0AkROpPClAr7wZ1EJOAlrn2QzNDgBoV2j4CJGb99ZQWVTyvizW9bYG6QaH4TRdpeHhvw4Xfn6R/s3264/IMG_2187.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGve4PRu9KoXw2nN-OUchcN90vWeG3srcBeYzV6pR06DGWhicsgsooIzyY6akAt9AeMib1lzEez-9bNgaxKwek7DcxygWErSNzS303MAKt89Q2lTbED0AkROpPClAr7wZ1EJOAlrn2QzNDgBoV2j4CJGb99ZQWVTyvizW9bYG6QaH4TRdpeHhvw4Xfn6R/w400-h300/IMG_2187.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>October is certainly the time of pumpkins and skeletons. Some people put quite a bit of effort into their decorations. They are more entertaining than those of Christmas.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExLeh83YF273SgU76vBr5KwrclcQ_FRmaVY8IAkial-qUARuwFf9PoAZ_i5J-rn2OQPt8uYF4mdBPdbeQx-L0h4h_4Xza8WwAduW18UjcclTRkXT7ifib_ILSBZkQZpHgEg1wablY_x8U9sSjqJuwM8TWmy3zcM60cEa4-AOjzQfriGf1YIrthNoVy_Tt/s2412/IMG_2183.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1827" data-original-width="2412" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExLeh83YF273SgU76vBr5KwrclcQ_FRmaVY8IAkial-qUARuwFf9PoAZ_i5J-rn2OQPt8uYF4mdBPdbeQx-L0h4h_4Xza8WwAduW18UjcclTRkXT7ifib_ILSBZkQZpHgEg1wablY_x8U9sSjqJuwM8TWmy3zcM60cEa4-AOjzQfriGf1YIrthNoVy_Tt/w400-h303/IMG_2183.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>It’s always nice to cross into another state, so I could feel all the excitement and anticipation of Vermont from fifty miles away. The border wasn’t a waterway or mountain ridge. It came just before Fair Haven, where the first of the state’s five Carnegies awaited me. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9P7gTd7f_KF8r5NoAEiGjMwMmBmhVo-X5wLdAn9cm3s7kbREs2EqASWHXb_EExVxeCWH77YhYOEhB8_RObLENXVRjBob9PJqIOSvlvjn4jT0-BTLvg1NZlTREiPUI2DNI5mz6Unj9R4Q5N82oTlRr7Tr4fHNN61at6X_auKM_OVgNHyvmWmEIIz9pLpWb/s2112/IMG_2188.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1485" data-original-width="2112" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9P7gTd7f_KF8r5NoAEiGjMwMmBmhVo-X5wLdAn9cm3s7kbREs2EqASWHXb_EExVxeCWH77YhYOEhB8_RObLENXVRjBob9PJqIOSvlvjn4jT0-BTLvg1NZlTREiPUI2DNI5mz6Unj9R4Q5N82oTlRr7Tr4fHNN61at6X_auKM_OVgNHyvmWmEIIz9pLpWb/w400-h281/IMG_2188.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">With its front door boarded up I feared it might be closed down, but it was just to ensure patrons entered in the addition to the back. It shared a parking lot with a Dollar General. I can’t report on its interior as its limited hours didn’t include any on Thursdays. I was forced to go to a McDonald’s a mile away for the internet. It was the first of these travels where someone stopped by for a chat, not unexpected as the first billboard I came upon in Vermont advertised a service station saying “Gas stations are friendly in Vermont too.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkYjfbiH5EftPT_QUXlemmH-wCUdD-HanamYO_B_2ekGsf1yBhXBmtZ6GMRKglIEeXwLpv-QH-uw4rxe25LQrcjDR7o4ylCrIBzbh5xHIelvickk47oU-3rfMqrO-2EEob9B74WoRNX3RdBICHC7Enkf2nKDlC6zdrLRUntVp-A0pdC_m9uhcPDxhNF9I/s3264/IMG_2185.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkYjfbiH5EftPT_QUXlemmH-wCUdD-HanamYO_B_2ekGsf1yBhXBmtZ6GMRKglIEeXwLpv-QH-uw4rxe25LQrcjDR7o4ylCrIBzbh5xHIelvickk47oU-3rfMqrO-2EEob9B74WoRNX3RdBICHC7Enkf2nKDlC6zdrLRUntVp-A0pdC_m9uhcPDxhNF9I/w400-h300/IMG_2185.jpeg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-89252866758763315802023-10-10T09:37:00.005-07:002023-10-10T09:37:45.510-07:00Theresa, New York<p> </p><p><br /></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjib_h2RpXP6RVwRgWP4C5aEMqEVuamP-zs9u7EZOQVdeX3lPzQ4p9GJkERv_FKdYlCOjadKZJtCmpaLAQ1w1Lw2mNZlv2jh_BKzqAH3sH2iXiw3n_M_GHIa6UncOQXa1tkP2bJWwPu_BZ1DJrzTtBdl9LeaKyVKIl2mrzBQsTDLvvLzKyA6GKIiuhZGBnv/s3264/IMG_2165.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjib_h2RpXP6RVwRgWP4C5aEMqEVuamP-zs9u7EZOQVdeX3lPzQ4p9GJkERv_FKdYlCOjadKZJtCmpaLAQ1w1Lw2mNZlv2jh_BKzqAH3sH2iXiw3n_M_GHIa6UncOQXa1tkP2bJWwPu_BZ1DJrzTtBdl9LeaKyVKIl2mrzBQsTDLvvLzKyA6GKIiuhZGBnv/w400-h300/IMG_2165.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">If I were relying on mini-solar panels, as I have done in the past, to keep my iPad charged I’d be out of luck, as I’ve had virtually no sun the past four days with a heavy overcast and lots of rain. With no sun to dry my gear I had to rely on a slight breeze to dry my tent yesterday afternoon, allowing me to slip into a somewhat dry tent for the first time in four days. <br /><br />It was only by a stroke of good fortune that I didn’t have to resort to solar once again on this trip, as I inadvertently left home without my generator hub, neglecting to swap the non-generator hub front wheel I had used on my Surly when in Telluride. Luckily I discovered this gross oversight when I stopped at a post office four miles from home to send off a package and realized I didn’t have to disconnect the wire to my hub as I ordinarily have to do when I detach my handlebar bar with all my valuables when I leave my bike. At least I was still conditioned to do that. <br /><br />If I hadn’t discovered my oversight until I got to the train station I would have been quite disappointed, as I wouldn’t have had the time to return the eighteen miles to retrieve it. My solar panels are nowhere near as effective as the generator hub. It would have meant a lot more time finding and sitting by electrical outlets charging, rather than riding as I’d prefer to be doing.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHNSNg3DWMSV8BPbtyqW_Wut2g_lI-cV8hoB1D9XUxgn4HUJH9GOdhyrNZ4_ji15c65YCAm7rHsCMUc0pKz9YJKWrAhW0XocQut1VXrgN5zBrXpXNyE55U6pZ5hxJ-k8ha_CalPkZVfWNjM9QetYACmbssq281yDsEELf7pP-EupBqQCTZzMQLQUZ3SFbq/s2461/IMG_2153.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1804" data-original-width="2461" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHNSNg3DWMSV8BPbtyqW_Wut2g_lI-cV8hoB1D9XUxgn4HUJH9GOdhyrNZ4_ji15c65YCAm7rHsCMUc0pKz9YJKWrAhW0XocQut1VXrgN5zBrXpXNyE55U6pZ5hxJ-k8ha_CalPkZVfWNjM9QetYACmbssq281yDsEELf7pP-EupBqQCTZzMQLQUZ3SFbq/w400-h294/IMG_2153.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I feared I may have jinxed myself, as I had been reading Nicolas Bouvier’s seminal travel book “The Way of the World” published in 1963 before I left. During his time in Iran he mentioned that Persian caravan drivers had a saying, “First stage, short stage,” because invariably those setting out on a long caravan through the deserts would remember shortly after they had set out that they forget something important and would have to turn back to get it, usually no further than a farsang, four miles, the exact distance I had gone when I realized I had forgotten my wheel with the generator hub. When I read that I felt happy that I had never forgotten something of importance before setting out on any of my many journeys and couldn’t really imagine doing so as I have so much experience in packing, even having a short “don’t forget” list.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Bouvier’s memoir was a most literate rendering of his eighteen months driving from Europe to India through Turkey, Iran and Afghanistan with a friend departing in June of 1953, lingering in places to write and lecture. He stirred many memories of my time biking through Turkey and India and elsewhere. His frequent mentions of smoking, his own, and of those he encountered, revived smoking-related memories that somewhat defined my travels in various countries. In Morocco I was regularly besieged by shepherds spotting me in the distance, who would run to the road shouting “un cigarette, un cigarette,” taking me to be French. China was just the opposite. I was there just as a large proportion of the population was emerging from poverty. Men were regularly offering me a cigarette, as a sign of welcome and generosity.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">In Chile a cigarette may have saved my life, or at least injury. I was biking in the dark while deep into Patagonia closing in on the Straits of Magellan when the days were very short with winter coming on. A full moon was imminent and I was slowly gliding along following a white line on the edge of the road in the pitch dark awaiting the bright illumination that would come with the moon. All of a sudden a tiny orange glow appeared a few feet in front of me from the drag on a cigarette of someone else trudging towards me in the dark. If not for that cigarette I would have plowed into him and who knows what would have become of us.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Bouvier also wrote a book on traveling in Japan. Surprisingly he doesn’t once mention Mount Fuji nor the snow monkeys in a nearby national park that were the two highlights of my time in Japan. Among my strongest memories of Japan is all the girly magazines I’d see along the road. Road side scavenging has been on my mind with Israel at the top of the news. I was warned when I cycled there not to pick up any debris along the road as there was the possibility it could be booby-trapped. The Israelis were always on guard. I biked along the Gaza border and through the towns that were recently attacked, knowing that at any time a bomb might be lobbed over from Gaza.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">One such memory leads to another as I cycle along when not tuned in to a podcast. It is nice to have such a wealth. I never know what will be triggered or what memory will follow the one presently possessing me. I could spend several minutes reliving my time in Iceland or pay it just a quick visit before moving on to Madagascar or Oman. I never know. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">As always, it is nice to be collecting more. After three Carnegies on Saturday I have gathered just one a day the following two days, both in small towns and both maintaining an outward appearance not much changed from when they were built over a century ago. Each was a small gem that I was happy to add to my bank of memories.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHLM3lCrUAj87M-UYudxUWtVeTP3axjFa5BS3LW97v8jS1qY2fteO_QboOQ-Ear_3iHdjdGZJzVxpI3W9HNxZbSXhYBuAvp-fvmyG3pCVy3YYVTTYq3ITCJqcy0OWMD95jmGL5jAmX-yvCPy0Sp5x0SNaU2LfXku2NzSXbiKsYZf1nQ9LLwoozLAq2Mr5/s2881/IMG_2150.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2004" data-original-width="2881" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHLM3lCrUAj87M-UYudxUWtVeTP3axjFa5BS3LW97v8jS1qY2fteO_QboOQ-Ear_3iHdjdGZJzVxpI3W9HNxZbSXhYBuAvp-fvmyG3pCVy3YYVTTYq3ITCJqcy0OWMD95jmGL5jAmX-yvCPy0Sp5x0SNaU2LfXku2NzSXbiKsYZf1nQ9LLwoozLAq2Mr5/w400-h279/IMG_2150.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>Fulton’s Carnegie had a scenic location along the Oswego River reminding me of others that had a similar privilege. It was graced with the usual unostentatious adornments that are frequent distinguishing features of these libraries.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi50XIjNVbMCy80uGoMA4t6gA_QOf8winw0KlCSxi24Hbg30uzzKkZOIEcLzR0cx2kpPAAdrhITRrcUC5q8tIqYYdTKodwL0a6bnJPXamFrmRYjHmDuiuIb8btdyjHBSSbPIhhvhugrQH2Bw_9ux6cjLRY6PLMPJqvJWdmRCtFMr4x2haAuJFoKVelQCncy/s2811/IMG_2164.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1820" data-original-width="2811" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi50XIjNVbMCy80uGoMA4t6gA_QOf8winw0KlCSxi24Hbg30uzzKkZOIEcLzR0cx2kpPAAdrhITRrcUC5q8tIqYYdTKodwL0a6bnJPXamFrmRYjHmDuiuIb8btdyjHBSSbPIhhvhugrQH2Bw_9ux6cjLRY6PLMPJqvJWdmRCtFMr4x2haAuJFoKVelQCncy/w400-h259/IMG_2164.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">It was seventy miles north to the seventh and final of the New York Carnegies on this leg of these travels. It came in the tiny town of Theresa not far from Canada and the St. Lawrence Seaway. It was a basic square brick building without adornment, but in its simplicity as dignified as any Carnegie.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">If I hadn't been delayed by three weeks in setting out on these travels I would have ventured over to Canada from Theresa for five nearby Carnegies to the west and south of Ottawa, but with the days getting colder and shorter I must forego that loop and head east to Vermont one hundred and fifty miles away over the northern hump of New York and the Adirondacks. No Carnegies for three days until I reach Fair Haven then head north to Burlington for another.</span><br /><span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCMDIM2dkFS_WBvQGDShDXXkG0fnGI1jtFlQU0lWuWXmYEQTpZ4ThfePaxysYHFqr4P10-5m6PEALlVkPiWNykADZA7RrRBZwhnmpDxPPpmmk488C_eQyqPq3dnfKJP397dhjITbpjprbQD3gJSuNy-Zdv9JDYdgmBz6pE5ZhXwdV-sAv8BfHjRvra8zuE/s3264/IMG_2151.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCMDIM2dkFS_WBvQGDShDXXkG0fnGI1jtFlQU0lWuWXmYEQTpZ4ThfePaxysYHFqr4P10-5m6PEALlVkPiWNykADZA7RrRBZwhnmpDxPPpmmk488C_eQyqPq3dnfKJP397dhjITbpjprbQD3gJSuNy-Zdv9JDYdgmBz6pE5ZhXwdV-sAv8BfHjRvra8zuE/w400-h300/IMG_2151.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-2656647073804800482023-10-08T10:17:00.001-07:002023-12-16T15:00:03.528-08:00Canastota, New York<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXcWfBm3Yv7mjLMRp7BmLW1TJOUihGQC0z7FkAua9CbAtzn9wn-fsMp-9ACsFSZoQimyAjSsRsQ3nm8_UOwLC79Ba-_dVHbaGNSpWRXdOK-zPn3Uv08YW7Eyz6xnrjfi043_XJMwjj4hu8rUZLz_tRy_nhYMKBK3C5vFl0Rwbqm7oFWjK2hcXxBy5Y_HZE/s2162/IMG_2141.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1631" data-original-width="2162" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXcWfBm3Yv7mjLMRp7BmLW1TJOUihGQC0z7FkAua9CbAtzn9wn-fsMp-9ACsFSZoQimyAjSsRsQ3nm8_UOwLC79Ba-_dVHbaGNSpWRXdOK-zPn3Uv08YW7Eyz6xnrjfi043_XJMwjj4hu8rUZLz_tRy_nhYMKBK3C5vFl0Rwbqm7oFWjK2hcXxBy5Y_HZE/w400-h301/IMG_2141.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I was soaking wet from two hours of drizzle at the end of the day and with the rain not relenting I was reconciled to a motel even though it was just Day Two of these travels. GPS showed the Sleepy Hollow Motel a few miles past Auburn which I was passing through as sunset closed in. I made it before the sun reached the horizon, but I feared the motel might be closed down with but two run-down cars at either end of its parking lot. No, there was a non-neon sign in the office window stating “Open.” <br /><br />There were only two cars because of the inclement weather, as the motel catered to tourists visiting the Finger Lakes, and charged accordingly—$150. Itinerant travelers such as me wouldn’t be attracted to such a place with a rate twice what I was willing to pay. I may have been wet, but at least I wasn’t overly chilled, as it was still seventy degrees from an autumn heat-wave that had had the temperature in the eighties before the rain moved in. I felt I’d been given a reprieve and could spend the night in my tent rather than some sterile domicile.<br /><br />Within two miles I came upon a dirt road into a state forest. I didn’t have to go far before I found a bit of a clearing under a patch of trees that provided a semblance of a canopy blunting the rain, allowing me to erect my abode for the night before many raindrops had penetrated. Once inside I quickly shed my wet shorts and jacket and shoes and socks and could feel myself instantly warming. My gear wasn’t going to dry much, but it didn’t matter, as the forecast called for a morning rain. Even if I’d been in a motel and got everything dry, it would all soon be wet all over again.<br /><br />The rain recommenced shortly after I began riding. The rain signaled a weather system that brought the temperatures closer to normal for this time of year, just fifty-nine degrees, which turned out to be the high for the day. The rain was supposed to stop around noon, so when I came to a library at ten, five miles before the big city of Syracuse, I seized the opportunity to dry out a bit and make my entry into the urban sprawl on dry roads. Unfortunately, weather.com got it wrong, as the rain refused to move on. The website kept revising the forecast, pushing back the end of the rain until one, then two. I didn’t care to wait, knowing that I’d have the chance to dry as I rode along when the rain passed. <br /><br />Plus I was eager to see the pair of Carnegies awaiting me in Syracuse. The first was at the University. I’ve always associated Syracuse with its university, as its football and basketball teams have frequently distinguished themselves. Nearby Cornell at the bottom of one of the Finger Lakes doesn’t take its name from the city where it resides, Ithaca. Dartmouth is the same. So it felt a little strange entering Syracuse the city before reaching Syracuse the university.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtweznPY8FwsYgtB1f8i3OCVddiOH7LkNGLoY4eoEJTkGtIMdaujR2YbMnZQFkgRKRzxXX_tiCeyp7FkWKYv5YEXi9URXuzp8AJzwjBhbHS9PRXFgmPb0W7nqO7dZJMwK9XIqCPhpc3m4mQZpXstBi2rIakOVBXGfge0yOhxRsa3ELikXUqiQ1ETwSLRSl/s2639/IMG_2132.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1794" data-original-width="2639" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtweznPY8FwsYgtB1f8i3OCVddiOH7LkNGLoY4eoEJTkGtIMdaujR2YbMnZQFkgRKRzxXX_tiCeyp7FkWKYv5YEXi9URXuzp8AJzwjBhbHS9PRXFgmPb0W7nqO7dZJMwK9XIqCPhpc3m4mQZpXstBi2rIakOVBXGfge0yOhxRsa3ELikXUqiQ1ETwSLRSl/w400-h272/IMG_2132.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The Carnegie was just past the basketball arena. It looked out upon the wide expanse of a quad and was easily the most dignified building on campus. It is just one of two of the better than one hundred academic libraries that Carnegie funded that still serves as a library. There is a new general library, as the Carnegie now serves as the mathematics, technology and sciences library. The day before I had been to the former Carnegie Library at Wells College in Aurora on Lake Cayuga that now is Cleveland Hall serving as classrooms for the language department. It blended in with all the other buildings on the campus on a hill overlooking the lake.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpURizHuiTP9lKM5jBgxwYfPofAwgp3_ycp0X053rohwtpIugV0anr0CupSBIdlNEU56wQeQMOpOckb6BFcGTqttwf4XFNy1PfOq0ieZLc9qOV6VCwzEdKBaIVqx-M210O-AU4TDSzewBNsLep-a8HtU_XvWMQaFTSgbq3MaSpMSA7J_GTwairb7PKHxJ9/s3264/IMG_2123.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpURizHuiTP9lKM5jBgxwYfPofAwgp3_ycp0X053rohwtpIugV0anr0CupSBIdlNEU56wQeQMOpOckb6BFcGTqttwf4XFNy1PfOq0ieZLc9qOV6VCwzEdKBaIVqx-M210O-AU4TDSzewBNsLep-a8HtU_XvWMQaFTSgbq3MaSpMSA7J_GTwairb7PKHxJ9/w400-h300/IMG_2123.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>The trees around the lake were offering a variety of colors with their leaves changing, but the show was dampened with a heavy overcast that leaked an occasional shower. I sought refuge for a couple of hours earlier in the day in the non-Carnegie Geneva Library that had a lot of character, beginning with signs out front asking “To Read or Not to Read. What a silly question.” </div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzEuQhjMMah3RBPpL8zNHDL2a5-ic_0RzVMvmknA4Hqo6NK31czq-Rn_6DjgeFBN2B_ckLQ9FIeJBQNb8sH3PQYdcLzZGjXQUX9YCu-OR0U8FmVR2mqIrKEA9vQBMgELyvwKhyb4zHicBrTlgZhY3XPKMgorMycaPuUc6oJHd0Fd2gKUZKRNaONY4rHcj/s2763/IMG_2117.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2763" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzEuQhjMMah3RBPpL8zNHDL2a5-ic_0RzVMvmknA4Hqo6NK31czq-Rn_6DjgeFBN2B_ckLQ9FIeJBQNb8sH3PQYdcLzZGjXQUX9YCu-OR0U8FmVR2mqIrKEA9vQBMgELyvwKhyb4zHicBrTlgZhY3XPKMgorMycaPuUc6oJHd0Fd2gKUZKRNaONY4rHcj/w355-h400/IMG_2117.jpeg" width="355" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Inside was a Little Free Library type of box offering canned goods. I’ve already come across quite a bit of sharing of food going on in these parts from food pantries and churches offering free lunches and so forth. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MXVnvhTGOUrAM_tT-wZNWaBQL3L69sKL6kK07FMZfeHFjvcdye48jRJ9B7oVnytHCjaUaNiBYpULRiMkLHRtlzFxOrbu5rqLfERWRrexFBqHkQ5RJKtbkgI1C-lfNxEnB0LO_olpkUSGIox85q9NcDoNC2vOhBgr1Kljn9Tnh3DlR1qhUl-egkZTanpL/s2654/IMG_2135.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1938" data-original-width="2654" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MXVnvhTGOUrAM_tT-wZNWaBQL3L69sKL6kK07FMZfeHFjvcdye48jRJ9B7oVnytHCjaUaNiBYpULRiMkLHRtlzFxOrbu5rqLfERWRrexFBqHkQ5RJKtbkgI1C-lfNxEnB0LO_olpkUSGIox85q9NcDoNC2vOhBgr1Kljn9Tnh3DlR1qhUl-egkZTanpL/w400-h293/IMG_2135.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>As with the Syracuse University Library, the public library Carnegie funded for the city of Syracuse stands out from all the other buildings around, including the cathedral and the city hall across from it. It still retains that aura that beckons and promises treasures within even though it no longer serves as a library. It now provides office space for several county agencies.<br /><br />With it still raining I had no desire to meander around the nearby campus or urban center or even venture to an Apple Store in a mall four miles away to figure out why my iPad has rejected Safari forcing me to switch to Chrome to access the internet. I didn’t care to do any extra miles in the cold rain and needed to exert myself at a hearty pace on the open road to ward off the cold. If there had been a football game this Saturday I would have been drawn to the stadium, where Charlie Eckhardt once played and I might find statues of Jim Brown and Ernie Davis, two stalwarts of its football team from over sixty years ago, one considered the greatest player ever and the other the first Black to win the Heisman Trophy in 1961.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"></div>It was past two now and the rain showed no signs of relenting. It was fifteen miles to the next Carnegie in Canastota. If a cheap motel offered itself, it would be hard to resist. About half way there I suffered a flat tire. The sole consolation was that it occurred in front of a house with a porch where I could seek refuge. No one was home so I wasn’t invited in to warm up. My hands were so cold I could barely pry the bungee chords off my rear load and struggled to unbuckle my pannier to access my tire irons and spare tubes. I had to stick my hands under my shirt against my skin for a minute or so before my fingers could function. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HcMl1RK7GnMnaU3o7ykE1kyHlH-dk19cV9vkR4Ye69NwRv0ZBz_wj0K0ZuLnMs_9pm6pny0tIobirsWiC86XoYTiY97NPnaZUic6yI7cF3G5n2xwvCOejlPFPadbUc0KRv-QbKolbcB3dZ8MZ904zm1KHS6g7YnoC39aSX3bGSm5cIk3dREcJkoczNeZ/s3081/IMG_2137.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1954" data-original-width="3081" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HcMl1RK7GnMnaU3o7ykE1kyHlH-dk19cV9vkR4Ye69NwRv0ZBz_wj0K0ZuLnMs_9pm6pny0tIobirsWiC86XoYTiY97NPnaZUic6yI7cF3G5n2xwvCOejlPFPadbUc0KRv-QbKolbcB3dZ8MZ904zm1KHS6g7YnoC39aSX3bGSm5cIk3dREcJkoczNeZ/w400-h254/IMG_2137.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div>The Carnegie in Canastota was a dandy, and unmarred by an addition. There was no going inside as it’s Saturday hours were just eleven until two. It wasn’t until 4:30 that the rain stopped, two hours before sunset, enough time for me to somewhat dry other than my shoes and socks. It was my third night in a row in a forest down a dirt road that didn’t require forcing myself through brush, which is somewhat of a concern here as this region is a hotbed of ticks, where Lyme disease first presented itself. The all-day rain made it somewhat of a survival day but the forecast called for clear, but cold, sailing the next few days. I looked forward to dry roads and dry shoes as I dined on ramen enhanced by sweet yams from a dented can compliments of Aldi along with some sour cream. Dessert of apple donuts was also provided by Aldi.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBw7sBU1YfPhpd2HpFfiCv965PzlIpXn3sDVM4hVczB63I7cxvM3a3B3CZLJL9kjOqj1780hX-HhaXicGbjwdyKc448pWD6DY6kFAa7X9gIZy2f9iMh0HT_ZbwOjIXM6VK7orHdX6ioBW0N0gnaEUhTDMXMQzRleqVKbMOo3eJnO4VaT2mhsrSO6t9xFyl/s3264/IMG_2140.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBw7sBU1YfPhpd2HpFfiCv965PzlIpXn3sDVM4hVczB63I7cxvM3a3B3CZLJL9kjOqj1780hX-HhaXicGbjwdyKc448pWD6DY6kFAa7X9gIZy2f9iMh0HT_ZbwOjIXM6VK7orHdX6ioBW0N0gnaEUhTDMXMQzRleqVKbMOo3eJnO4VaT2mhsrSO6t9xFyl/w400-h300/IMG_2140.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-84254049915997856822023-10-06T08:23:00.005-07:002023-10-19T13:10:42.779-07:00Finger Lakes, New York<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxU_8RPQ-iPiB-QgrmnjecWNM_HLecjol3pi2JBwhOVy7m1rdxz6Pf5bFJ64XOJLnWEOwRvghoODyuh5DCA2lch5vCOBoraXK57XK_QSpEchppZxYcn4bzl49xUdS4J86W5ktoYwYneE-1wiKQA_ZLtBiVxmb4VHQmlicASdKSPf-Xr6s4k4jBcEpORwV0/s2043/IMG_2108.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1340" data-original-width="2043" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxU_8RPQ-iPiB-QgrmnjecWNM_HLecjol3pi2JBwhOVy7m1rdxz6Pf5bFJ64XOJLnWEOwRvghoODyuh5DCA2lch5vCOBoraXK57XK_QSpEchppZxYcn4bzl49xUdS4J86W5ktoYwYneE-1wiKQA_ZLtBiVxmb4VHQmlicASdKSPf-Xr6s4k4jBcEpORwV0/w400-h263/IMG_2108.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">My fall bike tour last year
took me through Rochester, Minnesota. This year’s commenced in
Rochester, New York, a city with a strong bicycle connection, as it is
the home town of Susan B. Anthony, an ardent proponent of the bicycle
along with being a suffragette. A mural two blocks from her home, now a
museum, features her proclamation that the bicycle did more to
emancipate women than anything else. <br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">She
fully recognized its power to give freedom and self-reliance, two of
its prime qualities that apply to all and that have made it my
religion. Every tour I take, whether in Africa or France or the States,
is a testament to freedom and self-reliance. I have traveled all over
the world not needing hotels or any other means of transportation other
than the flight or train that may have delivered me to my starting
point. <br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">I am always
happy for the opportunity to travel by Amtrak, especially when it’s on a
line that doesn’t require one to box their bike and just lets cyclists
hand it up to the baggage car after having stripped it of its panniers.
I was given priority treatment at Chicago’s Union Station, allowed to
be the first to board the 9:30 p.m. train to New York, wheeling my bike
to the head of the line led by an attentive attendant. I took a seat in
the back of the car in front of a space where I hoped to put down my
sleeping bag, but unfortunately it filled with luggage, so I didn’t have
the best of sleep, sharing a seat with a hefty young guy who couldn’t
pronounce the name of the city he was going to. He had to spell it out
when the conductor asked him his destination. “S-c-h…”. <br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">“Oh,
Schenectady,” the conductor said. “It took me several trips before I
could pronounce it too. I used the trick of ‘connect-with-me’ to
remember how to say it.”<br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">An
older lady sitting in front of us was upset there wouldn’t be a smoke
stop all night, and, in fact, not until Schenectady, an hour-and-a-half
after Rochester. “That’s an outrage,” she said. “I’m the widow of a
Vietnam vet and I need to smoke. Sorry. I’m from Brooklyn and I have a
bit of an attitude.”<br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr">The
conductor explained there’s usually a smoke stop in Buffalo, but the
platform was under construction and the train had to make three short
stops there for the coach and the sleeping and baggage cars, none long
enough for smokers to fulfill their habit.<br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9ZUWVyGeWskm34tL1BBzP7sNT29bdqxZ86htrHwsCAjW4j1RTS-JZchTedwvbOM7pfMF0ZMTHimkb4m_uvq2hxoBwQ956mkoOwMriO9FDk7IrO_DQtK2N14yo_yiAzxIQacBsQ7BgYDDd1RT4qwuZfBTwh4DNPAnyZvKTVwvOnixUCtgzahLpyUEcGk9/s2424/IMG_2107.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2424" data-original-width="2210" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9ZUWVyGeWskm34tL1BBzP7sNT29bdqxZ86htrHwsCAjW4j1RTS-JZchTedwvbOM7pfMF0ZMTHimkb4m_uvq2hxoBwQ956mkoOwMriO9FDk7IrO_DQtK2N14yo_yiAzxIQacBsQ7BgYDDd1RT4qwuZfBTwh4DNPAnyZvKTVwvOnixUCtgzahLpyUEcGk9/s320/IMG_2107.HEIC" width="292" /></a><br /><br />I
was as disappointed as the smoker that the Anthony museum in Rochester
didn’t have her bike, unlike the Women’s Christian Temperance Union
museum in Evanston that honors Francis Willard, another suffragette and
cyclist who wrote a book in 1895 titled “How I Learned to Ride the
Bicycle.” Her bicycle from the 1890s is on prominent display. She was
born in a small town outside of Rochester in 1839, nineteen years after
Anthony, before moving to Evanston in 1858 with her family.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsBggLYiHuQxHKHRQmtZafJKZaNnvcO6awoc8GcaxigBAJxfhPtmX9ct6b7yHseRvhxBKqA7uVPQyFnd9K6JMRjR7fRLQbvxz_J0ayJPLyI8h4Sar44fTe721Rs3FIZPkgRa8e-V-FqyX2rnE3fEL6VTy44cgG9GA-p22EkSKgDoXHaGuhWdV1c8D4BCW/s2837/IMG_2106.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2091" data-original-width="2837" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsBggLYiHuQxHKHRQmtZafJKZaNnvcO6awoc8GcaxigBAJxfhPtmX9ct6b7yHseRvhxBKqA7uVPQyFnd9K6JMRjR7fRLQbvxz_J0ayJPLyI8h4Sar44fTe721Rs3FIZPkgRa8e-V-FqyX2rnE3fEL6VTy44cgG9GA-p22EkSKgDoXHaGuhWdV1c8D4BCW/w400-h295/IMG_2106.HEIC" width="400" /></a><br /><br />The
Anthony Museum, a mile from the train station, didn’t open until
eleven. My overnight train arrived at ten, so I dropped by the library
first. It wasn’t a Carnegie, though It was inspired by his largess,
funded by a local industrialist in 1911. It was a huge hulk of a
building thanks to a $400,000 grant, but lacked the grace and majesty of
a Carnegie. An addition was built across the street seventy years
later funded by Bausch and Lombe, one of three prominent companies that
got their starts in Rochester along with Kodak and Xerox. Among the
inspiring phrases chiseled into the facade of the new concrete and
glassy library was “Failure is Impossible,” one of Anthony’s famous
sayings.<br /><br />It came in one of her later speeches before her death in
1906, fourteen years before women gained the right to vote in the US.
She did vote once in 1872 when she and fourteen other women forced the
issue claiming the recently passed 14th Amendment gave them the right.
The Supreme Court later ruled against her interpretation. Utah had
actually given women the right to vote, but had to rescind the right to
become a state. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEss1qX27MdMlqBue6jNUbrtMUyGRyMLLt4QdRlpaAvvyn3VPuYT2qgtndfPAJ1PfX6799-RZ30lORYJu7CuyWWDHaWE4F76PrhaICiNmMArWaN_-6hVSBjzOHM-xngvlC4fmtxZhENRfdfO6lmsAZ65ZFSYl0E2uxa4wph26keiMiWtxSr6KRsNJwblv/s1984/IMG_2110.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1984" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEss1qX27MdMlqBue6jNUbrtMUyGRyMLLt4QdRlpaAvvyn3VPuYT2qgtndfPAJ1PfX6799-RZ30lORYJu7CuyWWDHaWE4F76PrhaICiNmMArWaN_-6hVSBjzOHM-xngvlC4fmtxZhENRfdfO6lmsAZ65ZFSYl0E2uxa4wph26keiMiWtxSr6KRsNJwblv/w400-h303/IMG_2110.HEIC" width="400" /></a><br /><br />I also stopped by the sprawling George
Eastman museum in the film pioneer’s mansion. It contains one of the
largest collection of photographs in the world along with an archive of
28,000 films. One is immediately greeted in the parking by a stunning
replica of an eighteen-by-sixty foot photograph of llamas grazing at
Machu Picchu that had once graced New York’s Grand Central Station. It
was one of 574 such photographs in a series entitled Colorama that ran
from 1950 to 1990 with a different one mounted every four weeks by Kodak
promoting color photography and travel.<br /><br />Adjoining the museum is a
movie theater that has a continual retrospective showing a different
film five times a week, Tuesdays through Saturdays. “Wanda” from 1970
had played the night before. The Film Center in Chicago just included
it in a series of “One and Dones” of great films that were the sole work
of a director. <br /><br />The first Carnegie of these travels was
fifty-miles southeast in Penn Yan, nestled among the Finger Lakes.
Traffic was heavier than I would have liked it, only thinning out the
final ten miles when agriculture began to take over from all the
residences and businesses. New York is one of six states with more
than one hundred Carnegie Libraries, but sixty-six of them are branch
libraries in the Five Boroughs. There were only forty-four constructed
outside of the city. Four have been razed. <br /><br />I visited thirteen
in June of 2016, most with Chris, who joined me for a spell on his ride
somewhat tracing the circumference of the US during Covid. I’m not sure
if I’ll get to all twenty-seven of the others scattered around the
state on this trip, as I’m sticking to the northern portion of the state
before heading over to New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine and Nova
Scotia. I could finish off the state afterwards unless I stick to the
Atlantic seaboard and seek warmer temperatures.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8d5_wUYOdMIR2TUMAFAz_atRlnaqJ9cTmqXUcQfZ4g1uZtCJ-QiUDbebmS20lvuOmVFE0AhizGa1ruHdnvVFZ1Vzg2qkA8CiWRlFbYgz_FSvKsI39ehT2b6-ZfsfYkry28qb0xhvUEBWYPggKuNJ1UJQv2-IrbC9UsXYGPwyxwYhrrB8NSfQJIwwCkGs/s2903/IMG_2114.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2169" data-original-width="2903" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8d5_wUYOdMIR2TUMAFAz_atRlnaqJ9cTmqXUcQfZ4g1uZtCJ-QiUDbebmS20lvuOmVFE0AhizGa1ruHdnvVFZ1Vzg2qkA8CiWRlFbYgz_FSvKsI39ehT2b6-ZfsfYkry28qb0xhvUEBWYPggKuNJ1UJQv2-IrbC9UsXYGPwyxwYhrrB8NSfQJIwwCkGs/w400-h299/IMG_2114.HEIC" width="400" /></a><br /><br />The Penn
Yan Carnegie has a large addition greatly dwarfing the original modest
two-columned library, whose entrance is no longer used and largely
overlooked. A plaque inside honored the town’s first librarian, who
assumed the position in 1895 before the Carnegie. The town took its name from its earliest settlers who were largely from Pennsylvania and Yankees from New England. The library required a
password for its WI-FI. It was “vineyard” as there are quite a few in
the region. The road along Canastota Lake, one of the eleven long narrow finger-like lakes of the region, was called the “Seneca Wine
Trail.” I first read it as "Scenic Wine Trail,” which I took as a bit
of an exaggeration, as the homes and vineyards along the lake weren’t
particularly scenic. I was hoping for forests. I had to make do with a
forest a couple miles before the lake for my first campsite.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzub6MHzbaDG0umYoTicP2HDFTPBjx3dAR2qFGllvDXhQVLmzNf3j_KuZseUQhOzQNSxxVR0Uclcj-_hTZCVez36o_mfnGo-IhOiLurL39KOWjsaXBUC6DxBxMI7nmWaPDCfTfd8y79CyTX9gWZP1uwgYOyEA1VwLehCOvkelOhDBCwx2X1_22eTTXzn_1/s3264/IMG_2116.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzub6MHzbaDG0umYoTicP2HDFTPBjx3dAR2qFGllvDXhQVLmzNf3j_KuZseUQhOzQNSxxVR0Uclcj-_hTZCVez36o_mfnGo-IhOiLurL39KOWjsaXBUC6DxBxMI7nmWaPDCfTfd8y79CyTX9gWZP1uwgYOyEA1VwLehCOvkelOhDBCwx2X1_22eTTXzn_1/w400-h300/IMG_2116.HEIC" width="400" /></a></p><p></p>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-49254102998432985322023-07-28T01:16:00.013-07:002023-07-30T20:40:15.926-07:00Charles de Gaulle Airport <p> </p><p><br /></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQh9huL7mv9K9ZzvBD2NIeFWKRNgdFora-zVcAD64akaQgDB2AuLjlpbQTUs0f_QRu-yaDLtMm4y5T5nIm_RMXxlU8vVHYMjXOKCOhDoAsA-e85XQtf4QCHrAQQveu4pYS89f1yZJj3cLr1TFAE3I7jcrOTZIIbMswTgzDYm-XCZrfoF9v8HtNU5PAeu-/s3264/IMG_1830.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQh9huL7mv9K9ZzvBD2NIeFWKRNgdFora-zVcAD64akaQgDB2AuLjlpbQTUs0f_QRu-yaDLtMm4y5T5nIm_RMXxlU8vVHYMjXOKCOhDoAsA-e85XQtf4QCHrAQQveu4pYS89f1yZJj3cLr1TFAE3I7jcrOTZIIbMswTgzDYm-XCZrfoF9v8HtNU5PAeu-/w400-h300/IMG_1830.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Rain and headwinds on my final three hundred miles in France from the Vosges to Paris derailed my hopes of getting to the velodrome to the west of Paris that was the Départ for the final stage of The Tour. My slackened pace allowed me to dwell instead on the many features of France that make it a touring cyclist’s paradise.<br /><br />The pastoral scenery could not have been better designed to offer an ever pleasing backdrop. The roads are ever twisting and undulating constantly offering a new vantage of forests and pastures and fields of grains. The towns are as picturesque as the countryside, all maintained in a pristine state with meticulous care. There is no litter to speak of and rare is it to come upon a decrepit, deteriorating building. <br /><br />The outdoors is ever inviting. Picnic tables at rest areas are a regular feature. Camping is a fact of life. Nowhere else is it so easy to come by, whether at designated sites or those one can improvise. One has no concern of being run-off, as traveling by bike is a respectable enterprise. Camping is almost as popular as picnicking. <br /><br />In addition to municipal and private campgrounds, farms offer camping as well. Needing a shower before my flight I took advantage of a “Camping á la farme” outside of Chenoise. The shower didn’t provide hot water and there was only one electrical outlet to be had, but it met my meager needs. A rooster awoke me at dawn, but fortunately didn’t persist in his crowing, allowing me to return to sleep. I had a patch of trees all to myself other than the nearby ducks and chickens and cows and horses of a legitimate working farm. <br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5cjjKCs_ULag3MMppW-fRtazseGG5tvf1Ft05043-4qcPxZmqmCVCsSdZzEglFTVJJ4idwU07zyOWcW9YkOUmCmBCF6C21-RcWoREmbTxzF_AoQZ13T0oXySS1EXtuaxVWIZBuEiL-buxfqfDwyfG0X93aQ61EXcNvywBqesQQrWv_PbjjPTp9tNRYmv/s3264/IMG_1829.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5cjjKCs_ULag3MMppW-fRtazseGG5tvf1Ft05043-4qcPxZmqmCVCsSdZzEglFTVJJ4idwU07zyOWcW9YkOUmCmBCF6C21-RcWoREmbTxzF_AoQZ13T0oXySS1EXtuaxVWIZBuEiL-buxfqfDwyfG0X93aQ61EXcNvywBqesQQrWv_PbjjPTp9tNRYmv/w400-h300/IMG_1829.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>My route took me past Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises, the home of Charles de Gaulle. A museum and large cross were erected on a hill outside of the town. I had previously visited it so didn’t need to stop. A legendary stage of the Tour de France in 1960 passed through the town after de Gaulle had retired and was living there. The peloton paused to greet him, but one rider took advantage of the lull to speed ahead taking the stage to the chagrin of all. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fBh6BBiJpmU6qor5QSqhVud7-FiTXkWA57hcn0ptSpgI2P94TwCgx8HOCDbM_mVwgRfS_HOa2dNZ9gn256dBfB--BSiSb2nQn02VNT3UaYE_jxaHNTd9bIEslrQMKvx7TCQT34rP2AJvLkTJ5OZ_OncR_gdV727Y5XzjqfvXZGby6m9t7gZTM2loP1Gk/s1540/IMG_1812.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1540" data-original-width="1423" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fBh6BBiJpmU6qor5QSqhVud7-FiTXkWA57hcn0ptSpgI2P94TwCgx8HOCDbM_mVwgRfS_HOa2dNZ9gn256dBfB--BSiSb2nQn02VNT3UaYE_jxaHNTd9bIEslrQMKvx7TCQT34rP2AJvLkTJ5OZ_OncR_gdV727Y5XzjqfvXZGby6m9t7gZTM2loP1Gk/w370-h400/IMG_1812.jpeg" width="370" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>My route also took me through the medieval city of Provins. It was teeming with tourists walking around the fortified old city, many taking advantage of a train chugging around town to its many sites.</span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYcGlbHKm4de0LeSTikC462TWLX_1NgLX2uYnr_xLezP6flEwiMEooaSs8eiBxmctxjasdCfK0KHgTj14-Co3lxyGLfoaool23fnOjcpgklvbes_yk62wk0LtsOr5iQEFzY1fIMFJE85yn5SujiUsBF9sjIP1ci9huKPP8jAblMOhogDuPifg4dvcmOPq/s3264/IMG_1827.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYcGlbHKm4de0LeSTikC462TWLX_1NgLX2uYnr_xLezP6flEwiMEooaSs8eiBxmctxjasdCfK0KHgTj14-Co3lxyGLfoaool23fnOjcpgklvbes_yk62wk0LtsOr5iQEFzY1fIMFJE85yn5SujiUsBF9sjIP1ci9huKPP8jAblMOhogDuPifg4dvcmOPq/w400-h300/IMG_1827.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>My final campsite was five miles from the airport in a patch of woods. Ordinarily I camp right by the airport along one of the runways. This was distant enough that I wasn’t subjected to the roar of jets landing and taking off. My flight wasn’t until one but I wanted to get to the airport as early as possible to get my bike box and avoid the traffic. I was on the bike at 6:15 right at dawn. There was more traffic than I anticipated, but I was still able to make a quick dash on a mile segment prohibited to bikes, arriving at the terminals just as another drizzle resumed. </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdeg-7ZwKJ_vZU0kgLvg-aRAhkbXAm50CfPx2vMwHT5sgPf6dm5yLsLerMUE8QEHXa3jWVtja622ttajrLyAETRQ0_EdH9wHR31PDdcj4X7Djvd1HImVMRiH-WdnXvi9pxQKDQIS3jbpzMhX6cH6zP-VwWG5xF6vAaPIXFfZjJw-34eBjoMSN2YygxhO4f/s3264/IMG_1845.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdeg-7ZwKJ_vZU0kgLvg-aRAhkbXAm50CfPx2vMwHT5sgPf6dm5yLsLerMUE8QEHXa3jWVtja622ttajrLyAETRQ0_EdH9wHR31PDdcj4X7Djvd1HImVMRiH-WdnXvi9pxQKDQIS3jbpzMhX6cH6zP-VwWG5xF6vAaPIXFfZjJw-34eBjoMSN2YygxhO4f/w400-h300/IMG_1845.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">The terminal was already packed with people at 6:45, but I only had a short wait to speak to an agent for the bike box. I’m always a little nervous that I might be told they had run out, so was relieved that she didn’t flinch at my request nor feel bad about having to pay twenty-three euros for it, twice as much as two years ago. It was a fifteen minute wait though for someone to bring me the box, which had me a tad nervous again that I’d be told there were none to be had. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">In the past the box is accompanied by a roll of tape. I was told this time I’d be provided tape at the check-in counter. I had some for an emergency, but probably not enough. The agent couldn’t find any in her cabinet, but calmly went to get some, another slightly nervous, but shorter interlude than that of waiting for the box to appear. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">The Air France box is big enough that I don’t need to remove my front wheel or front rack, just the pedals along with lowering the seat and turning the handlebars and letting air out of the tires. The box was also large enough to leave the front panniers on compressed with nothing in them. And the final bonus was only being charged sixty euros for the bike. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">All was well and I was ready to board with four hours to spare, time for a final dispatch with a few madeleines and couscous to munch on before my Air France fare. And as can be found everywhere in France there were small amenities making it most bearable. There were electrical outlets flanking every seat in the waiting area and a room for a smoke, which was packed. There was actually air conditioning in the distant terminal requiring my sweater that I’d only had need of the past few days. I was cold enough one day, thanks to the rain, I almost needed the puff jacket I’ve been lugging all this time.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb04l1WN6-Rfgns-xO1fTgMkbQaqx5YG1dF5DczJsZtMgf97hSZXxFLdtcckGhTQU7M2K_A1rTNQiXtmnVnKsVj50kTGTMeCTMEJZOUmnqCYKR-hlDfg11AgyLrQaPwR2ukJ1r629YIV9vkdm2CmM8cINcZKTjUfzxOBzzzVf0YfJwf9wOwhKoQneAwhcw/s3264/IMG_1846.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb04l1WN6-Rfgns-xO1fTgMkbQaqx5YG1dF5DczJsZtMgf97hSZXxFLdtcckGhTQU7M2K_A1rTNQiXtmnVnKsVj50kTGTMeCTMEJZOUmnqCYKR-hlDfg11AgyLrQaPwR2ukJ1r629YIV9vkdm2CmM8cINcZKTjUfzxOBzzzVf0YfJwf9wOwhKoQneAwhcw/w400-h300/IMG_1846.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">And thus another grand time in France comes to an end, nearly 2,500 miles from Paris to Spain and back past the Pyrenees and into the Alps, riding all or bits of fifteen of the stages of The Tour. </span><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I’ll have a blast of humidity awaiting me in Chicago for my ride home from O’Hare, but it will be a glorious ride as well looking forward to reuniting with Janina and seeing the state of the yard after the tornado of two weeks ago.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2711781369107924586.post-56261235380691665522023-07-24T08:53:00.004-07:002023-07-25T02:18:27.632-07:00Stage Twenty-One<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFg14U6vZNAI8u8rNukg4mGeSGJtLSehwUfg8ulcwZQ2udVBFqdM1qalo_TXgWdcG5mGuHrfrm5cVsLOCS2xduXt3mNab0Ec18SORmOvb94CGwAMzzkM9dRVwoOGS27utGvQf1Lx4sJudrR01xdaT72L0imjNuT4Nf3_UyOrs2IgPlcW-CkZuSNB2YANtu/s1770/IMG_1797.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1770" data-original-width="1625" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFg14U6vZNAI8u8rNukg4mGeSGJtLSehwUfg8ulcwZQ2udVBFqdM1qalo_TXgWdcG5mGuHrfrm5cVsLOCS2xduXt3mNab0Ec18SORmOvb94CGwAMzzkM9dRVwoOGS27utGvQf1Lx4sJudrR01xdaT72L0imjNuT4Nf3_UyOrs2IgPlcW-CkZuSNB2YANtu/w368-h400/IMG_1797.jpeg" width="368" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">I was pushing it one final time trying to reach Darby and its municipal campground hopefully with a television and Wi-Fi for the peloton’s finale on the Champs Elysees at 7:30. I made it by seven in time to see the last few laps. I had to pass through the town to the campground and was prepared to dart into a bar, but there wasn’t one to be seen. </span><p></p><div dir="ltr" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDk3cG9jlRZOTCedPYAyFobEaCHyqWu9nbW_dq082Newp5zrONiIE5Jv99xRy-ixKwstB6Sagv34C0jcmznvMhZFDmjjD-XlMVxkQP11sG7DpPsZ7GesNUqpLAPMnAPitEJdOMwEbStsjxHFOTyDbzzsTx8H_TKtNeEw8OKwgc9m1bqpaN4aSVJaMM2Uk/s2050/IMG_1803.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1981" data-original-width="2050" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDk3cG9jlRZOTCedPYAyFobEaCHyqWu9nbW_dq082Newp5zrONiIE5Jv99xRy-ixKwstB6Sagv34C0jcmznvMhZFDmjjD-XlMVxkQP11sG7DpPsZ7GesNUqpLAPMnAPitEJdOMwEbStsjxHFOTyDbzzsTx8H_TKtNeEw8OKwgc9m1bqpaN4aSVJaMM2Uk/w400-h386/IMG_1803.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">I was concerned as I passed through the town not to see the usual signs to either the cemetery, at the turn shortly before the campground, or for the campground. The cemetery was there but still no sign for the campground, which are as ubiquitous as signs for libraries in the US. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnptHjJvm5ajcUtnKwaUo91erkgPZq_n1Gf6SMsXd7BpvvseKAFbqzP1CMc-j8zO04CSOvagHl0VH2chEF4vkEqPUUfa8XwaPcMSIGt4Wb-in8bJZIIqeUBE_pWjURQ3MSxZ1mTKk79mMATphcGdq_Df_wgwy95T-abGxmdIcFQhEb7UTqDN3YHteGKalk/s3264/IMG_1801.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnptHjJvm5ajcUtnKwaUo91erkgPZq_n1Gf6SMsXd7BpvvseKAFbqzP1CMc-j8zO04CSOvagHl0VH2chEF4vkEqPUUfa8XwaPcMSIGt4Wb-in8bJZIIqeUBE_pWjURQ3MSxZ1mTKk79mMATphcGdq_Df_wgwy95T-abGxmdIcFQhEb7UTqDN3YHteGKalk/w400-h300/IMG_1801.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>When I came to where the campground was supposed to be there was a barrier across the entrance and I could see it was closed down. Oh well. I could still slip in and pitch my tent but would have to be content with the results transmitted to my iPad. I waited until I had set up my tent to see what had happened, a little disappointed in missing out on those magnificent images of the Champs and the Arc de Triomphe. The racers all speak of the tingles they feel upon arriving on that renowned boulevard and I vicariously share it hundreds of miles away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">The expected sprint came down to another photo finish and Philipson, the overwhelming favorite, was denied with Jordi Meeus of Bora the surprise winner one Belgian beating another. If I’d gotten to a television I would have seen the ever-frisky Pogaçar flexing his muscles once again taking the spotlight when the peloton reached the Champs for the first of its eight laps trying to break away and then later being the first to charge to the front to lead out the sprint. </span><br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPAw9mjcBBuZc77FqV1VtCJRMg01efscxSRQaLaPBRvXM8LKnznwKSR5IRZN_rCu9-pO7jEFWzWEPuhW26YNE3HekX1qGAd3M6E0Jy3SoGOEwyDAL51gIH6zFDAvhsnGTaCBRKPB3cE6GuEB2lkZlVnOQRQjurqxUeTQSHx9RHDWIOhlexukJkTjG5RIf/s2672/IMG_1798.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2004" data-original-width="2672" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPAw9mjcBBuZc77FqV1VtCJRMg01efscxSRQaLaPBRvXM8LKnznwKSR5IRZN_rCu9-pO7jEFWzWEPuhW26YNE3HekX1qGAd3M6E0Jy3SoGOEwyDAL51gIH6zFDAvhsnGTaCBRKPB3cE6GuEB2lkZlVnOQRQjurqxUeTQSHx9RHDWIOhlexukJkTjG5RIf/w400-h300/IMG_1798.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><div dir="ltr" style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;"><br /></span></div>The guy just can’t help himself, he loves to ride all-out even when it doesn’t matter and is a hopeless cause. And the fans love it. He will have the support of the majority next year when he and Vingegaard will have another go at it to see who will be the first to three as they both now have two Tour victories. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">Vingegaard is not adverse to racing either, as he just made the surprise announcement that he will race the Vuelta next month alongside his teammate Primo Roglic, who won the Giro earlier this year, as Jumbo Visma makes a bid to win all three Grand Tours. It will be an exciting race with Geraint Thomas, who finished second in the Giro, leading Ineos and Remco Evenpoel, last year’s winner, contesting it as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">As I was cycling out of the Vosges and into less demanding terrain I heard Stuart O’Grady, an Aussie with seventeen Tour appearances, tell Bobbie and Jens on their podcast that each time he arrived on the Champs he felt a great sense of accomplishment, just as much the last time as the first. He arrived tired but also in a state of superior fitness that he wished he could maintain, but couldn’t as he needed to recover. I too felt extra strength in my legs, putting in longer stretches than usual between pauses to rest, as I rode hard to Darby. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">As I push on to Paris I’d like to arrive a day ahead of my flight home on Friday to venture to the start of today’s stage to the west of Paris on the opposite side of the city from the Charles de Gaulle airport. It was at the velodrome that will be used at the Olympics next summer. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">With so many story lines at this year’s Tour little attention was paid to the Lantern Rouge, always a go-to topic when not much is going on. It was another Dane of the eleven in the race, allowing Denmark to claim the top and the bottom of the standings. And a Dane who used to get lots of attention as Cavendish’s lead out man—Michael Morkov, still riding for Quick Step, the team that let Cavendish go after last year. He finished 150th with twenty-six of the starters not making it. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody;">One of the last to bow out was Vingegaard‘s stalwart teammate Van Aert after Pogaçar fell seven minutes behind, his services no longer needed, leaving to be with his wife for the birth of their second child, arriving home the day before. Gaudu won the battle for the best French rider, finishing ninth, just ahead of Gaudu and Pinot at tenth and eleventh. Three countries landed two riders in the top ten—Great Britain, Spain and France.</span></div>george christensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205532562020160107noreply@blogger.com0